the indiscreet letter by eleanor hallowell abbott author of _molly make believe_, _the sick-a-bed lady_, etc., etc. new york the century co. the indiscreet letter the railroad journey was very long and slow. the traveling salesman was rather short and quick. and the young electrician who lolled across the car aisle was neither one length nor another, but most inordinately flexible, like a suit of chain armor. more than being short and quick, the traveling salesman was distinctly fat and unmistakably dressy in an ostentatiously new and pure-looking buff-colored suit, and across the top of the shiny black sample-case that spanned his knees he sorted and re-sorted with infinite earnestness a large and varied consignment of "ladies' pink and blue ribbed undervests." surely no other man in the whole southward-bound canadian train could have been at once so ingenuous and so nonchalant. there was nothing dressy, however, about the young electrician. from his huge cowhide boots to the lead smouch that ran from his rough, square chin to the very edge of his astonishingly blond curls, he was one delicious mess of toil and old clothes and smiling, blue-eyed indifference. and every time that he shrugged his shoulders or crossed his knees he jingled and jangled incongruously among his coil-boxes and insulators, like some splendid young viking of old, half blacked up for a modern minstrel show. more than being absurdly blond and absurdly messy, the young electrician had one of those extraordinarily sweet, extraordinarily vital, strangely mysterious, utterly unexplainable masculine faces that fill your senses with an odd, impersonal disquietude, an itching unrest, like the hazy, teasing reminder of some previous existence in a prehistoric cave, or, more tormenting still, with the tingling, psychic prophecy of some amazing emotional experience yet to come. the sort of face, in fact, that almost inevitably flares up into a woman's startled vision at the one crucial moment in her life when she is not supposed to be considering alien features. out from the servient shoulders of some smooth-tongued waiter it stares, into the scared dilating pupils of the white satin bride with her pledged hand clutching her bridegroom's sleeve. up from the gravelly, pick-and-shovel labor of the new-made grave it lifts its weirdly magnetic eyes to the widow's tears. down from some petted princeling's silver-trimmed saddle horse it smiles its electrifying, wistful smile into the peasant's sodden weariness. across the slender white rail of an always _out-going_ steamer it stings back into your gray, land-locked consciousness like the tang of a scarlet spray. and the secret of the face, of course, is "lure"; but to save your soul you could not decide in any specific case whether the lure is the lure of personality, or the lure of physiognomy--a mere accidental, coincidental, haphazard harmony of forehead and cheek-bone and twittering facial muscles. something, indeed, in the peculiar set of the young electrician's jaw warned you quite definitely that if you should ever even so much as hint the small, sentimental word "lure" to him he would most certainly "swat" you on first impulse for a maniac, and on second impulse for a liar--smiling at you all the while in the strange little wrinkly tissue round his eyes. the voice of the railroad journey was a dull, vague, conglomerate, cinder-scented babble of grinding wheels and shuddering window frames; but the voices of the traveling salesman and the young electrician were shrill, gruff, poignant, inert, eternally variant, after the manner of human voices which are discussing the affairs of the universe. "every man," affirmed the traveling salesman sententiously--"every man has written one indiscreet letter during his lifetime!" "only one?" scoffed the young electrician with startling distinctness above even the loudest roar and rumble of the train. with a rather faint, rather gaspy chuckle of amusement the youngish girl in the seat just behind the traveling salesman reached forward then and touched him very gently on the shoulder. "oh, please, may i listen?" she asked quite frankly. with a smile as benevolent as it was surprised, the traveling salesman turned half-way around in his seat and eyed her quizzically across the gold rim of his spectacles. "why, sure you can listen!" he said. the traveling salesman was no fool. people as well as lisle thread were a specialty of his. even in his very first smiling estimate of the youngish girl's face, neither vivid blond hair nor luxuriantly ornate furs misled him for an instant. just as a preacher's high waistcoat passes him, like an official badge of dignity and honor, into any conceivable kind of a situation, so also does a woman's high forehead usher her with delicious impunity into many conversational experiences that would hardly be wise for her lower-browed sister. with an extra touch of manners the salesman took off his neat brown derby hat and placed it carefully on the vacant seat in front of him. then, shifting his sample-case adroitly to suit his new twisted position, he began to stick cruel little prickly price marks through alternate meshes of pink and blue lisle. "why, sure you can listen!" he repeated benignly. "traveling alone's awful stupid, ain't it? i reckon you were glad when the busted heating apparatus in the sleeper gave you a chance to come in here and size up a few new faces. sure you can listen! though, bless your heart, we weren't talking about anything so very specially interesting," he explained conscientiously. "you see, i was merely arguing with my young friend here that if a woman really loves you, she'll follow you through any kind of blame or disgrace--follow you anywheres, i said--anywheres!" "not anywheres," protested the young electrician with a grin. "'not up a telegraph pole!'" he requoted sheepishly. "y-e-s--i heard that," acknowledged the youngish girl with blithe shamelessness. "follow you '_anywheres_,' was what i said," persisted the traveling salesman almost irritably. "follow you '_anywheres_'! run! walk! crawl on her hands and knees if it's really necessary. and yet--" like a shaggy brown line drawn across the bottom of a column of figures, his eyebrows narrowed to their final calculation. "and yet--" he estimated cautiously, "and yet--there's times when i ain't so almighty sure that her following you is any more specially flattering to you than if you was a burglar. she don't follow you so much, i reckon, because you _are_ her love as because you've _got_ her love. god knows it ain't just you, yourself, she's afraid of losing. it's what she's already invested in you that's worrying her! all her pinky-posy, cunning kid-dreams about loving and marrying, maybe; and the pretty-much grown-up winter she fought out the whisky question with you, perhaps; and the summer you had the typhoid, likelier than not; and the spring the youngster was born--oh, sure, the spring the youngster was born! gee! if by swallowing just one more yarn you tell her, she can only keep on holding down all the old yarns you ever told her--if, by forgiving you just one more forgive-you, she can only hang on, as it were, to the original worth-whileness of the whole darned business--if by--" "oh, that's what you meant by the 'whole darned business,' was it?" cried the youngish girl suddenly, edging away out to the front of her seat. along the curve of her cheeks an almost mischievous smile began to quicken. "oh, yes! i heard that, too!" she confessed cheerfully. "but what was the beginning of it all? the very beginning? what was the first thing you said? what started you talking about it? oh, please, excuse me for hearing anything at all," she finished abruptly; "but i've been traveling alone now for five dreadful days, all the way down from british columbia, and--if--you--will--persist--in--saying interesting things--in trains--you must take the consequences!" there was no possible tinge of patronage or condescension in her voice, but rather, instead, a bumpy, naive sort of friendliness, as lonesome royalty sliding temporarily down from its throne might reasonably contend with each bump, "a king may look at a cat! he may! he may!" along the edge of the young electrician's cheek-bones the red began to flush furiously. he seemed to have a funny little way of blushing just before he spoke, and the physical mannerism gave an absurdly italicized sort of emphasis to even the most trivial thing that he said. "i guess you'll have to go ahead and tell her about 'rosie,'" he suggested grinningly to the traveling salesman. "yes! oh, do tell me about 'rosie,'" begged the youngish girl with whimsical eagerness. "who in creation was 'rosie'?" she persisted laughingly. "i've been utterly mad about 'rosie' for the last half-hour!" "why, 'rosie' is nobody at all--probably," said the traveling salesman a trifle wryly. "oh, pshaw!" flushed the young electrician, crinkling up all the little smile-tissue around his blue eyes. "oh, pshaw! go ahead and tell her about 'rosie.'" "why, i tell you it wasn't anything so specially interesting," protested the traveling salesman diffidently. "we simply got jollying a bit in the first place about the amount of perfectly senseless, no-account truck that'll collect in a fellow's pockets; and then some sort of a scorched piece of paper he had, or something, got him telling me about a nasty, sizzling close call he had to-day with a live wire; and then i got telling him here about a friend of mine--and a mighty good fellow, too--who dropped dead on the street one day last summer with an unaddressed, typewritten letter in his pocket that began 'dearest little rosie,' called her a 'honey' and a 'dolly girl' and a 'pink-fingered precious,' made a rather foolish dinner appointment for thursday in new haven, and was signed--in the lord's own time--at the end of four pages, 'yours forever, and then some. tom.'--now the wife of the deceased was named--martha." quite against all intention, the youngish girl's laughter rippled out explosively and caught up the latent amusement in the young electrician's face. then, just as unexpectedly, she wilted back a little into her seat. "i don't call that an 'indiscreet letter'!" she protested almost resentfully. "you might call it a knavish letter. or a foolish letter. because either a knave or a fool surely wrote it! but 'indiscreet'? u-m-m, no!" "well, for heaven's sake!" said the traveling salesman. "if--you--don't--call--that--an--indiscreet letter, what would you call one?" "yes, sure," gasped the young electrician, "what would you call one?" the way his lips mouthed the question gave an almost tragical purport to it. "what would i call an 'indiscreet letter'?" mused the youngish girl slowly. "why--why--i think i'd call an 'indiscreet letter' a letter that was pretty much--of a gamble perhaps, but a letter that was perfectly, absolutely legitimate for you to send, because it would be your own interests and your own life that you were gambling with, not the happiness of your wife or the honor of your husband. a letter, perhaps, that might be a trifle risky--but a letter, i mean, that is absolutely on the square!" "but if it's absolutely 'on the square,'" protested the traveling salesman, worriedly, "then where in creation does the 'indiscreet' come in?" the youngish girl's jaw dropped. "why, the 'indiscreet' part comes in," she argued, "because you're not able to prove in advance, you know, that the stakes you're gambling for are absolutely 'on the square.' i don't know exactly how to express it, but it seems somehow as though only the very little things of life are offered in open packages--that all the big things come sealed very tight. you can poke them a little and make a guess at the shape, and you can rattle them a little and make a guess at the size, but you can't ever open them and prove them--until the money is paid down and gone forever from your hands. but goodness me!" she cried, brightening perceptibly; "if you were to put an advertisement in the biggest newspaper in the biggest city in the world, saying: 'every person who has ever written an indiscreet letter in his life is hereby invited to attend a mass-meeting'--and if people would really go--you'd see the most distinguished public gathering that you ever saw in your life! bishops and judges and statesmen and beautiful society women and little old white-haired mothers--everybody, in fact, who had ever had red blood enough at least once in his life to write down in cold black and white the one vital, quivering, questioning fact that happened to mean the most to him at that moment! but your 'honey' and your 'dolly girl' and your 'pink-fingered precious' nonsense! why, it isn't real! why, it doesn't even _make sense_!" again the youngish girl's laughter rang out in light, joyous, utterly superficial appreciation. even the serious traveling salesman succumbed at last. "oh, yes, i know it sounds comic," he acknowledged wryly. "sounds like something out of a summer vaudeville show or a cheap sunday supplement. but i don't suppose it sounded so specially blamed comic to the widow. i reckon she found it plenty-heap indiscreet enough to suit her. oh, of course," he added hastily, "i know, and martha knows that thomkins wasn't at all that kind of a fool. and yet, after all--when you really settle right down to think about it, thomkins' name was easily 'tommy,' and thursday sure enough was his day in new haven, and it was a yard of red flannel that martha had asked him to bring home to her--not the scarlet automobile veil that they found in his pocket. but 'martha,' i says, of course, 'martha, it sure does beat all how we fellows that travel round so much in cars and trains are always and forever picking up automobile veils--dozens of them, _dozens_--red, blue, pink, yellow--why, i wouldn't wonder if my wife had as many as thirty-four tucked away in her top bureau drawer!'--'i wouldn't wonder,' says martha, stooping lower and lower over thomkins's blue cotton shirt that she's trying to cut down into rompers for the baby. 'and, martha,' i says, 'that letter is just a joke. one of the boys sure put it up on him!'--'why, of course,' says martha, with her mouth all puckered up crooked, as though a kid had stitched it on the machine. 'why, of course! how dared you think--'" forking one bushy eyebrow, the salesman turned and stared quizzically off into space. "but all the samey, just between you and i," he continued judicially, "all the samey, i'll wager you anything you name that it ain't just death that's pulling martha down day by day, and night by night, limper and lanker and clumsier-footed. martha's got a sore thought. that's what ails her. and god help the crittur with a sore thought! god help anybody who's got any one single, solitary sick idea that keeps thinking on top of itself, over and over and over, boring into the past, bumping into the future, fussing, fretting, eternally festering. gee! compared to it, a tight shoe is easy slippers, and water dropping on your head is perfect peace!--look close at martha, i say. every night when the blowsy old moon shines like courting time, every day when the butcher's bill comes home as big as a swollen elephant, when the crippled stepson tries to cut his throat again, when the youngest kid sneezes funny like his father--'who was rosie? who was rosie?'" "well, who was rosie?" persisted the youngish girl absent-mindedly. "why, rosie was _nothing_!" snapped the traveling salesman; "nothing at all--probably." altogether in spite of himself, his voice trailed off into a suspiciously minor key. "but all the same," he continued more vehemently, "all the same--it's just that little darned word 'probably' that's making all the mess and bother of it--because, as far as i can reckon, a woman can stand absolutely anything under god's heaven that she knows; but she just up and can't stand the littlest, teeniest, no-account sort of thing that she ain't sure of. answers may kill 'em dead enough, but it's questions that eats 'em alive." for a long, speculative moment the salesman's gold-rimmed eyes went frowning off across the snow-covered landscape. then he ripped off his glasses and fogged them very gently with his breath. "now--i--ain't--any--saint," mused the traveling salesman meditatively, "and i--ain't very much to look at, and being on the road ain't a business that would exactly enhance my valuation in the eyes of a lady who was actually looking out for some safe place to bank her affections; but i've never yet reckoned on running with any firm that didn't keep up to its advertising promises, and if a man's courtship ain't his own particular, personal advertising proposition--then i don't know anything about--_anything_! so if i should croak sudden any time in a railroad accident or a hotel fire or a scrap in a saloon, i ain't calculating on leaving my wife any very large amount of 'sore thoughts.' when a man wants his memory kept green, he don't mean--gangrene! "oh, of course," the salesman continued more cheerfully, "a sudden croaking leaves any fellow's affairs at pretty raw ends--lots of queer, bitter-tasting things that would probably have been all right enough if they'd only had time to get ripe. lots of things, i haven't a doubt, that would make my wife kind of mad, but nothing, i'm calculating, that she wouldn't understand. there'd be no questions coming in from the office, i mean, and no fresh talk from the road that she ain't got the information on hand to meet. life insurance ain't by any means, in my mind, the only kind of protection that a man owes his widow. provide for her future--if you can!--that's my motto!--but a man's just a plain bum who don't provide for his own past! she may have plenty of trouble in the years to come settling her own bills, but she ain't going to have any worry settling any of mine. i tell you, there'll be no ladies swelling round in crape at my funeral that my wife don't know by their first names!" with a sudden startling guffaw the traveling salesman's mirth rang joyously out above the roar of the car. "tell me about your wife," said the youngish girl a little wistfully. around the traveling salesman's generous mouth the loud laugh flickered down to a schoolboy's bashful grin. "my wife?" he repeated. "tell you about my wife? why, there isn't much to tell. she's little. and young. and was a school-teacher. and i married her four years ago." "and were happy--ever--after," mused the youngish girl teasingly. "no!" contradicted the traveling salesman quite frankly. "no! we didn't find out how to be happy at all until the last three years!" again his laughter rang out through the car. "heavens! look at me!" he said at last. "and then think of her!--little, young, a school-teacher, too, and taking poetry to read on the train same as you or i would take a newspaper! gee! what would you expect?" again his mouth began to twitch a little. "and i thought it was her fault--'most all of the first year," he confessed delightedly. "and then, all of a sudden," he continued eagerly, "all of a sudden, one day, more mischievous-spiteful than anything else, i says to her, 'we don't seem to be getting on so very well, do we?' and she shakes her head kind of slow. 'no, we don't!' she says.--'maybe you think i don't treat you quite right?' i quizzed, just a bit mad.--'no, you don't! that is, not--exactly right,' she says, and came burrowing her head in my shoulder as cozy as could be.--'maybe you could show me how to treat you--righter,' i says, a little bit pleasanter.--'i'm perfectly sure i could!' she says, half laughing and half crying. 'all you'll have to do,' she says, 'is just to watch me!'--'just watch what _you_ do?' i said, bristling just a bit again.--'no,' she says, all pretty and soft-like; 'all i want you to do is to watch what i _don't_ do!'" with slightly nervous fingers the traveling salesman reached up and tugged at his necktie as though his collar were choking him suddenly. "so that's how i learned my table manners," he grinned, "and that's how i learned to quit cussing when i was mad round the house, and that's how i learned--oh, a great many things--and that's how i learned--" grinning broader and broader--"that's how i learned not to come home and talk all the time about the 'peach' whom i saw on the train or the street. my wife, you see, she's got a little scar on her face--it don't show any, but she's awful sensitive about it, and 'johnny,' she says, 'don't you never notice that i don't ever rush home and tell _you_ about the wonderful _slim_ fellow who sat next to me at the theater, or the simply elegant _grammar_ that i heard at the lecture? i can recognize a slim fellow when i see him, johnny,' she says, 'and i like nice grammar as well as the next one, but praising 'em to you, dear, don't seem to me so awfully polite. bragging about handsome women to a plain wife, johnny,' she says, 'is just about as raw as bragging about rich men to a husband who's broke.' "oh, i tell you a fellow's a fool," mused the traveling salesman judicially, "a fellow's a fool when he marries who don't go to work deliberately to study and understand his wife. women are awfully understandable if you only go at it right. why, the only thing that riles them in the whole wide world is the fear that the man they've married ain't quite bright. why, when i was first married i used to think that my wife was awful snippety about other women. but, lord! when you point a girl out in the car and say, 'well, ain't that girl got the most gorgeous head of hair you ever saw in your life?' and your wife says: 'yes--jordan is selling them puffs six for a dollar seventy-five this winter,' she ain't intending to be snippety at all. no!--it's only, i tell you, that it makes a woman feel just plain silly to think that her husband don't even know as much as she does. why, lord! she don't care how much you praise the grocer's daughter's style, or your stenographer's spelling, as long as you'll only show that you're _equally wise_ to the fact that the grocer's daughter sure has a nasty temper, and that the stenographer's spelling is mighty near the best thing about her. "why, a man will go out and pay every cent he's got for a good hunting dog--and then snub his wife for being the finest untrained retriever in the world. yes, sir, that's what she is--a retriever; faithful, clever, absolutely unscarable, with no other object in life except to track down and fetch to her husband every possible interesting fact in the world that he don't already know. and then she's so excited and pleased with what she's got in her mouth that it 'most breaks her heart if her man don't seem to care about it. now, the secret of training her lies in the fact that she won't never trouble to hunt out and fetch you any news that she sees you already know. and just as soon as a man once appreciates all this--then joy is come to the home! "now there's ella, for instance," continued the traveling salesman thoughtfully. "ella's a traveling man, too. sells shotguns up through the aroostook. yes, shotguns! funny, ain't it, and me selling undervests? ella's an awful smart girl. good as gold. but cheeky? oh, my!--well, once i would have brought her down to the house for sunday, and advertised her as a 'peach,' and a 'dandy good fellow,' and praised her eyes, and bragged about her cleverness, and generally done my best to smooth over all her little deficiencies with as much palaver as i could. and that little retriever of mine would have gone straight to work and ferreted out every single, solitary, uncomplimentary thing about ella that she could find, and 'a' fetched 'em to me as pleased and proud as a puppy, expecting, for all the world, to be petted and patted for her astonishing shrewdness. and there would sure have been gloom in the sabbath. "but now--now--what i say now is: 'wife, i'm going to bring ella down for sunday. you've never seen her, and you sure will hate her. she's big, and showy, and just a little bit rough sometimes, and she rouges her cheeks too much, and she's likelier than not to chuck me under the chin. but it would help your old man a lot in a business way if you'd be pretty nice to her. and i'm going to send her down here friday, a day ahead of me.'--and oh, gee!--i ain't any more than jumped off the car saturday night when there's my little wife out on the street corner with her sweater tied over her head, prancing up and down first on one foot and then on the other--she's so excited, to slip her hand in mine and tell me all about it. 'and johnny,' she says--even before i've got my glove off--'johnny,' she says, 'really, do you know, i think you've done ella an injustice. yes, truly i do. why, she's _just as kind_! and she's shown me how to cut my last year's coat over into the nicest sort of a little spring jacket! and she's made us a chocolate cake as big as a dish-pan. yes, she has! and johnny, don't you dare tell her that i told you--but do you know she's putting her brother's boy through dartmouth? and you old johnny clifford, i don't care a darn whether she rouges a little bit or not--and you oughtn't to care--either! so there!'" with sudden tardy contrition the salesman's amused eyes wandered to the open book on the youngish girl's lap. "i sure talk too much," he muttered. "i guess maybe you'd like half a chance to read your story." the expression on the youngish girl's face was a curious mixture of humor and seriousness. "there's no special object in reading," she said, "when you can hear a bright man talk!" as unappreciatingly as a duck might shake champagne from its back, the traveling salesman shrugged the compliment from his shoulders. "oh, i'm bright enough," he grumbled, "but i ain't refined." slowly to the tips of his ears mounted a dark red flush of real mortification. "now, there's some traveling men," he mourned, "who are as slick and fine as any college president you ever saw. but me? i'd look coarse sipping warm milk out of a gold-lined spoon. i haven't had any education. and i'm fat, besides!" almost plaintively he turned and stared for a second from the young electrician's embarrassed grin to the youngish girl's more subtle smile. "why, i'm nearly fifty years old," he said, "and since i was fifteen the only learning i've ever got was what i picked up in trains talking to whoever sits nearest to me. sometimes it's hens i learn about. sometimes it's national politics. once a young canuck farmer sitting up all night with me coming down from st. john learned me all about the french revolution. and now and then high school kids will give me a point or two on astronomy. and in this very seat i'm sitting in now, i guess, a red-kerchiefed dago woman, who worked on a pansy farm just outside of boston, used to ride in town with me every night for a month, and she coached me quite a bit on dago talk, and i paid her five dollars for that." "oh, dear me!" said the youngish girl, with unmistakable sincerity. "i'm afraid you haven't learned anything at all from me!" "oh, yes, i have too!" cried the traveling salesman, his whole round face lighting up suddenly with real pleasure. "i've learned about an entirely new kind of lady to go home and tell my wife about. and i'll bet you a hundred dollars that you're a good deal more of a 'lady' than you'd even be willing to tell us. there ain't any provincial-- 'don't-you-dare-speak-to-me--this-is-the-first-time-i-ever-was-on-a-train air about you! i'll bet you've traveled a lot--all round the world--froze your eyes on icebergs and scorched 'em some on tropics." "y-e-s," laughed the youngish girl. "and i'll bet you've met the governor-general at least once in your life." "yes," said the girl, still laughing. "he dined at my house with me a week ago yesterday." "and i'll bet you, most of anything," said the traveling salesman shrewdly, "that you're haughtier than haughty with folks of your own kind. but with people like us--me and the electrician, or the soldier's widow from south africa who does your washing, or the eskimo man at the circus--you're as simple as a kitten. all your own kind of folks are nothing but grown-up people to you, and you treat 'em like grown-ups all right--a hundred cents to the dollar--but all our kind of folks are _playmates_ to you, and you take us as easy and pleasant as you'd slide down on the floor and play with any other kind of a kid. oh, you can tackle the other proposition all right--dances and balls and general gold lace glories; but it ain't fine loafers sitting round in parlors talking about the weather that's going to hold you very long, when all the time your heart's up and over the back fence with the kids who are playing the games. and, oh, say!" he broke off abruptly--"would you think it awfully impertinent of me if i asked you how you do your hair like that? 'cause, surer than smoke, after i get home and supper is over and the dishes are washed and i've just got to sleep, that little wife of mine will wake me up and say: 'oh, just one thing more. how did that lady in the train do her hair?'" with her chin lifting suddenly in a burst of softly uproarious delight, the youngish girl turned her head half-way around and raised her narrow, black-gloved hands to push a tortoise-shell pin into place. "why, it's perfectly simple," she explained. "it's just three puffs, and two curls, and then a twist." "and then a twist?" quizzed the traveling salesman earnestly, jotting down the memorandum very carefully on the shiny black surface of his sample-case. "oh, i hope i ain't been too familiar," he added, with sudden contriteness. "maybe i ought to have introduced myself first. my name's clifford. i'm a drummer for sayles & sayles. maine and the maritime provinces--that's my route. boston's the home office. ever been in halifax?" he quizzed a trifle proudly. "do an awful big business in halifax! happen to know the emporium store? the london, liverpool, and halifax emporium?" the youngish girl bit her lip for a second before she answered. then, very quietly, "y-e-s," she said, "i know the emporium--slightly. that is--i--own the block that the emporium is in." "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "oh, gee! now i _know_ i talk too much!" in nervously apologetic acquiescence the young electrician reached up a lean, clever, mechanical hand and smouched one more streak of black across his forehead in a desperate effort to reduce his tousled yellow hair to the particular smoothness that befitted the presence of a lady who owned a business block in any city whatsoever. "my father owned a store in malden, once," he stammered, just a trifle wistfully, "but it burnt down, and there wasn't any insurance. we always were a powerfully unlucky family. nothing much ever came our way!" even as he spoke, a toddling youngster from an overcrowded seat at the front end of the car came adventuring along the aisle after the swaying, clutching manner of tired, fretty children on trains. hesitating a moment, she stared up utterly unsmilingly into the salesman's beaming face, ignored the youngish girl's inviting hand, and with a sudden little chuckling sigh of contentment, climbed up clumsily into the empty place beside the young electrician, rummaged bustlingly around with its hands and feet for an instant, in a petulant effort to make a comfortable nest for itself, and then snuggled down at last, lolling half-way across the young electrician's perfectly strange knees, and drowsed off to sleep with all the delicious, friendly, unconcerned sang-froid of a tired puppy. almost unconsciously the young electrician reached out and unfastened the choky collar of the heavy, sweltering little overcoat; yet not a glance from his face had either lured or caressed the strange child for a single second. just for a moment, then, his smiling eyes reassured the jaded, jabbering french-canadian mother, who turned round with craning neck from the front of the car. "she's all right here. let her alone!" he signaled gesticulatingly from child to mother. then, turning to the traveling salesman, he mused reminiscently: "talking's--all--right. but where in creation do you get the time to _think_? got any kids?" he asked abruptly. "n-o," said the traveling salesman. "my wife, i guess, is kid enough for me." around the young electrician's eyes the whimsical smile-wrinkles deepened with amazing vividness. "huh!" he said. "i've got six." "gee!" chuckled the salesman. "boys?" the young electrician's eyebrows lifted in astonishment. "sure they're boys!" he said. "why, of course!" the traveling salesman looked out far away through the window and whistled a long, breathy whistle. "how in the deuce are you ever going to take care of 'em?" he asked. then his face sobered suddenly. "there was only two of us fellows at home--just daniel and me--and even so--there weren't ever quite enough of anything to go all the way round." for just an instant the youngish girl gazed a bit skeptically at the traveling salesman's general rotund air of prosperity. "you don't look--exactly like a man who's never had enough," she said smilingly. "food?" said the traveling salesman. "oh, shucks! it wasn't food i was thinking of. it was education. oh, of course," he added conscientiously, "of course, when the crops weren't either too heavy or too blooming light, pa usually managed some way or other to get daniel and me to school. and schooling was just nuts to me, and not a single nut so hard or so green that i wouldn't have chawed and bitten my way clear into it. but daniel--daniel somehow couldn't seem to see just how to enter a mushy bartlett pear without a knife or a fork--in some other person's fingers. he was all right, you know--but he just couldn't seem to find his own way alone into anything. so when the time came--" the grin on the traveling salesman's mouth grew just a little bit wry at one corner--"and so when the time came--it was an awful nice, sweet-smelling june night, i remember, and i'd come home early--i walked into the kitchen as nice as pie, where pa was sitting dozing in the cat's rocking-chair, in his gray stocking feet, and i threw down before him my full year's school report. it was pink, i remember, which was supposed to be the rosy color of success in our school; and i says: 'pa! there's my report! and pa,' i says, as bold and stuck-up as a brass weathercock on a new church, 'pa! teacher says that one of your boys has got to go to college!' and i was grinning all the while, i remember, worse than any chessy cat. "and pa he took my report in both his horny old hands and he spelt it all out real careful and slow and respectful, like as though it had been a lace valentine, and 'good boy!' he says, and 'bully boy!' and 'so teacher says that one of my boys has got to go to college? one of my boys? well, which one? go fetch me daniel's report.' so i went and fetched him daniel's report. it was gray, i remember--the supposed color of failure in our school--and i stood with the grin still half frozen on my face while pa spelt out the dingy record of poor daniel's year. and then, 'oh, gorry!' says pa. 'run away and g'long to bed. i've got to think. but first,' he says, all suddenly cautious and thrifty, 'how much does it cost to go to college?' and just about as delicate and casual as a missionary hinting for a new chapel, i blurted out loud as a bull: 'well, if i go up state to our own college, and get a chance to work for part of my board, it will cost me just $ a year, or maybe--maybe,' i stammered, 'maybe, if i'm extra careful, only $ . , say. for four years that's only $ ,' i finished triumphantly. "'_g-a-w-d!_' says pa. nothing at all except just, '_g-a-w-d!_' "when i came down to breakfast the next morning, he was still sitting there in the cat's rocking-chair, with his face as gray as his socks, and all the rest of him--blue jeans. and my pink school report, i remember, had slipped down under the stove, and the tortoise-shell cat was lashing it with her tail; but daniel's report, gray as his face, was still clutched up in pa's horny old hand. for just a second we eyed each other sort of dumb-like, and then for the first time, i tell you, i seen tears in his eyes. "'johnny,' he says, 'it's daniel that'll have to go to college. bright men,' he says, 'don't need no education.'" even after thirty years the traveling salesman's hand shook slightly with the memory, and his joggled mind drove him with unwonted carelessness to pin price mark after price mark in the same soft, flimsy mesh of pink lisle. but the grin on his lips did not altogether falter. "i'd had pains before in my stomach," he acknowledged good-naturedly, "but that morning with pa was the first time in my life that i ever had any pain in my plans!--so we mortgaged the house and the cow-barn and the maple-sugar trees," he continued, more and more cheerfully, "and daniel finished his schooling--in the lord's own time--and went to college." with another sudden, loud guffaw of mirth all the color came flushing back again into his heavy face. "well, daniel has sure needed all the education he could get," he affirmed heartily. "he's a methodist minister now somewhere down in georgia--and, educated 'way up to the top notch, he don't make no more than $ a year. $ !--oh, glory! why, daniel's piazza on his new house cost him $ , and his wife's last hospital bill was $ , and just one dentist alone gaffed him sixty-five dollars for straightening his oldest girl's teeth!" "not sixty-five?" gasped the young electrician in acute dismay. "why, two of my kids have got to have it done! oh, come now--you're joshing!" "i'm not either joshing," cried the traveling salesman. "sure it was sixty-five dollars. here's the receipted bill for it right here in my pocket." brusquely he reached out and snatched the paper back again. "oh, no, i beg your pardon. that's the receipt for the piazza.--what? it isn't? for the hospital bill then?--oh, hang! well, never mind. it _was_ sixty-five dollars. i tell you i've got it somewhere." "oh--you--paid--for--them--all, did you?" quizzed the youngish girl before she had time to think. "no, indeed!" lied the traveling salesman loyally. "but $ a year? what can a family man do with that? why, i earned that much before i was twenty-one! why, there wasn't a moment after i quit school and went to work that i wasn't earning real money! from the first night i stood on a street corner with a gasoline torch, hawking rasin-seeders, up to last night when i got an eight-hundred-dollar raise in my salary, there ain't been a single moment in my life when i couldn't have sold you my boots; and if you'd buncoed my boots away from me i'd have sold you my stockings; and if you'd buncoed my stockings away from me i'd have rented you the privilege of jumping on my bare toes. and i ain't never missed a meal yet--though once in my life i was forty-eight hours late for one!--oh, i'm bright enough," he mourned, "but i tell you i ain't refined." with the sudden stopping of the train the little child in the young electrician's lap woke fretfully. then, as the bumpy cars switched laboriously into a siding, and the engine went puffing off alone on some noncommittal errand of its own, the young electrician rose and stretched himself and peered out of the window into the acres and acres of snow, and bent down suddenly and swung the child to his shoulder, then, sauntering down the aisle to the door, jumped off into the snow and started to explore the edge of a little, snow-smothered pond which a score of red-mittened children were trying frantically to clear with huge yellow brooms. out from the crowd of loafers that hung about the station a lean yellow hound came nosing aimlessly forward, and then suddenly, with much fawning and many capers, annexed itself to the young electrician's heels like a dog that has just rediscovered its long-lost master. halfway up the car the french canadian mother and her brood of children crowded their faces close to the window--and thought they were watching the snow. and suddenly the car seemed very empty. the youngish girl thought it was her book that had grown so astonishingly devoid of interest. only the traveling salesman seemed to know just exactly what was the matter. craning his neck till his ears reddened, he surveyed and resurveyed the car, complaining: "what's become of all the folks?" a little nervously the youngish girl began to laugh. "nobody has gone," she said, "except--the young electrician." with a grunt of disbelief the traveling salesman edged over to the window and peered out through the deepening frost on the pane. inquisitively the youngish girl followed his gaze. already across the cold, white, monotonous, snow-smothered landscape the pale afternoon light was beginning to wane, and against the lowering red and purple streaks of the wintry sunset the young electrician's figure, with the little huddling pack on its shoulder, was silhouetted vaguely, with an almost startling mysticism, like the figure of an unearthly traveler starting forth upon an unearthly journey into an unearthly west. "ain't he the nice boy!" exclaimed the traveling salesman with almost passionate vehemence. "why, i'm sure i don't know!" said the youngish girl a trifle coldly. "why--it would take me quite a long time--to decide just how--nice he was. but--" with a quick softening of her voice--"but he certainly makes one think of--nice things--blue mountains, and green forests, and brown pine needles, and a long, hard trail, shoulder to shoulder--with a chance to warm one's heart at last at a hearth-fire--bigger than a sunset!" altogether unconsciously her small hands went gripping out to the edge of her seat, as though just a grip on plush could hold her imagination back from soaring into a miraculous, unfamiliar world where women did not idle all day long on carpets waiting for men who came on--pavements. "oh, my god!" she cried out with sudden passion. "i wish i could have lived just one day when the world was new. i wish--i wish i could have reaped just one single, solitary, big emotion before the world had caught it and--appraised it--and taxed it--and licensed it--and _staled_ it!" "oh-ho!" said the traveling salesman with a little sharp indrawing of his breath. "oh-ho!--so that's what the--young electrician makes you think of, is it?" for just an instant the traveling salesman thought that the youngish girl was going to strike him. "i wasn't thinking of the young electrician at all!" she asserted angrily. "i was thinking of something altogether--different." "yes. that's just it," murmured the traveling salesman placidly. "something--altogether--different. every time i look at him it's the darnedest thing! every time i look at him i--forget all about him. my head begins to wag and my foot begins to tap--and i find myself trying to--_hum_ him--as though he was the words of a tune i used to know." when the traveling salesman looked round again, there were tears in the youngish girl's eyes, and an instant after that her shoulders went plunging forward till her forehead rested on the back of the traveling salesman's seat. but it was not until the young electrician had come striding back to his seat, and wrapped himself up in the fold of a big newspaper, and not until the train had started on again and had ground out another noisy mile or so, that the traveling salesman spoke again--and this time it was just a little bit surreptitiously. "what--you--crying--for?" he asked with incredible gentleness. "i don't know, i'm sure," confessed the youngish girl, snuffingly. "i guess i must be tired." "u-m-m," said the traveling salesman. after a moment or two he heard the sharp little click of a watch. "oh, dear me!" fretted the youngish girl's somewhat smothered voice. "i didn't realize we were almost two hours late. why, it will be dark, won't it, when we get into boston?" "yes, sure it will be dark," said the traveling salesman. after another moment the youngish girl raised her forehead just the merest trifle from the back of the traveling salesman's seat, so that her voice sounded distinctly more definite and cheerful. "i've--never--been--to--boston--before," she drawled a little casually. "what!" exclaimed the traveling salesman. "been all around the world--and never been to boston?--oh, i see," he added hurriedly, "you're afraid your friends won't meet you!" out of the youngish girl's erstwhile disconsolate mouth a most surprising laugh issued. "no! i'm afraid they _will_ meet me," she said dryly. just as a soldier's foot turns from his heel alone, so the traveling salesman's whole face seemed to swing out suddenly from his chin, till his surprised eyes stared direct into the girl's surprised eyes. "my heavens!" he said. "you don't mean that _you've_--been writing an--'indiscreet letter'?" "y-e-s--i'm afraid that i have," said the youngish girl quite blandly. she sat up very straight now and narrowed her eyes just a trifle stubbornly toward the traveling salesman's very visible astonishment. "and what's more," she continued, clicking at her watch-case again--"and what's more, i'm on my way now to meet the consequences of said indiscreet letter.'" "alone?" gasped the traveling salesman. the twinkle in the youngish girl's eyes brightened perceptibly, but the firmness did not falter from her mouth. "are people apt to go in--crowds to--meet consequences?" she asked, perfectly pleasantly. "oh--come, now!" said the traveling salesman's most persuasive voice. "you don't want to go and get mixed up in any sensational nonsense and have your picture stuck in the sunday paper, do you?" the youngish girl's manner stiffened a little. "do i look like a person who gets mixed up in sensational nonsense?" she demanded rather sternly. "n-o-o," acknowledged the traveling salesman conscientiously. "n-o-o; but then there's never any telling what you calm, quiet-looking, still-waters sort of people will go ahead and do--once you get started." anxiously he took out his watch, and then began hurriedly to pack his samples back into his case. "it's only twenty-five minutes more," he argued earnestly. "oh, i say now, don't you go off and do anything foolish! my wife will be down at the station to meet me. you'd like my wife. you'd like her fine!--oh, i say now, you come home with us for sunday, and think things over a bit." as delightedly as when the traveling salesman had asked her how she fixed her hair, the youngish girl's hectic nervousness broke into genuine laughter. "yes," she teased, "i can see just how pleased your wife would be to have you bring home a perfectly strange lady for sunday!" "my wife is only a kid," said the traveling salesman gravely, "but she likes what i like--all right--and she'd give you the shrewdest, eagerest little 'helping hand' that you ever got in your life--if you'd only give her a chance to help you out--with whatever your trouble is." "but i haven't any 'trouble,'" persisted the youngish girl with brisk cheerfulness. "why, i haven't any trouble at all! why, i don't know but what i'd just as soon tell you all about it. maybe i really ought to tell somebody about it. maybe--anyway, it's a good deal easier to tell a stranger than a friend. maybe it would really do me good to hear how it sounds out loud. you see, i've never done anything but whisper it--just to myself--before. do you remember the wreck on the canadian pacific road last year? do you? well--i was in it!" "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "'twas up on just the edge of canada, wasn't it? and three of the passenger coaches went off the track? and the sleeper went clear over the bridge? and fell into an awful gully? and caught fire besides?" "yes," said the youngish girl. "i was in the sleeper." even without seeming to look at her at all, the traveling salesman could see quite distinctly that the youngish girl's knees were fairly knocking together and that the flesh around her mouth was suddenly gray and drawn, like an old person's. but the little persistent desire to laugh off everything still flickered about the corners of her lips. "yes," she said, "i was in the sleeper, and the two people right in front of me were killed; and it took almost three hours, i think, before they got any of us out. and while i was lying there in the darkness and mess and everything, i cried--and cried--and cried. it wasn't nice of me, i know, nor brave, nor anything, but i couldn't seem to help it--underneath all that pile of broken seats and racks and beams and things. "and pretty soon a man's voice--just a voice, no face or anything, you know, but just a voice from somewhere quite near me, spoke right out and said: 'what in creation are you crying so about? are you awfully hurt?' and i said--though i didn't mean to say it at all, but it came right out--'n-o, i don't think i'm hurt, but i don't like having all these seats and windows piled on top of me,' and i began crying all over again. 'but no one else is crying,' reproached the voice.--'and there's a perfectly good reason why not,' i said. 'they're all dead!'--'o--h,' said the voice, and then i began to cry harder than ever, and principally this time, i think, i cried because the horrid, old red plush cushions smelt so stale and dusty, jammed against my nose. "and then after a long time the voice spoke again and it said, 'if i'll sing you a little song, will you stop crying?' and i said, 'n-o, i don't think i could!' and after a long time the voice spoke again, and it said, 'well, if i'll tell you a story will you stop crying?' and i considered it a long time, and finally i said, 'well, if you'll tell me a perfectly true story--a story that's never, never been told to any one before--_i'll try and stop!_' "so the voice gave a funny little laugh almost like a woman's hysterics, and i stopped crying right off short, and the voice said, just a little bit mockingly: 'but the only perfectly true story that i know--the only story that's never--never been told to anybody before is the story of my life.' 'very well, then,' i said, 'tell me that! of course i was planning to live to be very old and learn a little about a great many things; but as long as apparently i'm not going to live to even reach my twenty-ninth birthday--to-morrow--you don't know how unutterably it would comfort me to think that at least i knew _everything_ about some one thing!' "and then the voice choked again, just a little bit, and said: 'well--here goes, then. once upon a time--but first, can you move your right hand? turn it just a little bit more this way. there! cuddle it down! now, you see, i've made a little home for it in mine. ouch! don't press down too hard! i think my wrist is broken. all ready, then? you won't cry another cry? promise? all right then. here goes. once upon a time--' "never mind about the story," said the youngish girl tersely. "it began about the first thing in all his life that he remembered seeing--something funny about a grandmother's brown wig hung over the edge of a white piazza railing--and he told me his name and address, and all about his people, and all about his business, and what banks his money was in, and something about some land down in the panhandle, and all the bad things that he'd ever done in his life, and all the good things, that he wished there'd been more of, and all the things that no one would dream of telling you if he ever, ever expected to see daylight again--things so intimate--things so-- "but it wasn't, of course, about his story that i wanted to tell you. it was about the 'home,' as he called it, that his broken hand made for my--frightened one. i don't know how to express it; i can't exactly think, even, of any words to explain it. why, i've been all over the world, i tell you, and fairly loafed and lolled in every conceivable sort of ease and luxury, but the soul of me--the wild, restless, breathless, discontented _soul_ of me--_never sat down before in all its life_--i say, until my frightened hand cuddled into his broken one. i tell you i don't pretend to explain it, i don't pretend to account for it; all i know is--that smothering there under all that horrible wreckage and everything--the instant my hand went home to his, the most absolute sense of serenity and contentment went over me. did you ever see young white horses straying through a white-birch wood in the springtime? well, it felt the way that _looks_!--did you ever hear an alto voice singing in the candle-light? well, it felt the way that _sounds_! the last vision you would like to glut your eyes on before blindness smote you! the last sound you would like to glut your ears on before deafness dulled you! the last touch--before intangibility! something final, complete, supreme--ineffably satisfying! "and then people came along and rescued us, and i was sick in the hospital for several weeks. and then after that i went to persia. i know it sounds silly, but it seemed to me as though just the smell of persia would be able to drive away even the memory of red plush dust and scorching woodwork. and there was a man on the steamer whom i used to know at home--a man who's almost always wanted to marry me. and there was a man who joined our party at teheran--who liked me a little. and the land was like silk and silver and attar of roses. but all the time i couldn't seem to think about anything except how perfectly awful it was that a _stranger_ like me should be running round loose in the world, carrying all the big, scary secrets of a man who didn't even know where i was. and then it came to me all of a sudden, one rather worrisome day, that no woman who knew as much about a man as i did was exactly a 'stranger' to him. and then, twice as suddenly, to great, grown-up, cool-blooded, money-staled, book-tamed _me_--it swept over me like a cyclone that i should never be able to decide anything more in all my life--not the width of a tinsel ribbon, not the goal of a journey, not the worth of a lover--until i'd seen the face that belonged to the voice in the railroad wreck. "and i sat down--and wrote the man a letter--i had his name and address, you know. and there--in a rather maddening moonlight night on the caspian sea--all the horrors and terrors of that other--canadian night came back to me and swamped completely all the arid timidity and sleek conventionality that women like me are hidebound with all their lives, and i wrote him--that unknown, unvisualized, unimagined--man--the utterly free, utterly frank, utterly honest sort of letter that any brave soul would write any other brave soul--every day of the world--if there wasn't any flesh. it wasn't a love letter. it wasn't even a sentimental letter. never mind what i told him. never mind anything except that there, in that tropical night on a moonlit sea, i asked him to meet me here, in boston, eight months afterward--on the same boston-bound canadian train--on this--the anniversary of our other tragic meeting." "and you think he'll be at the station?" gasped the traveling salesman. the youngish girl's answer was astonishingly tranquil. "i don't know, i'm sure," she said. "that part of it isn't my business. all i know is that i wrote the letter--and mailed it. it's fate's move next." "but maybe he never got the letter!" protested the traveling salesman, buckling frantically at the straps of his sample-case. "very likely," the youngish girl answered calmly. "and if he never got it, then fate has surely settled everything perfectly definitely for me--that way. the only trouble with that would be," she added whimsically, "that an unanswered letter is always pretty much like an unhooked hook. any kind of a gap is apt to be awkward, and the hook that doesn't catch in its own intended tissue is mighty apt to tear later at something you didn't want torn." "i don't know anything about that," persisted the traveling salesman, brushing nervously at the cinders on his hat. "all i say is--maybe he's married." "well, that's all right," smiled the youngish girl. "then fate would have settled it all for me perfectly satisfactorily _that_ way. i wouldn't mind at all his not being at the station. and i wouldn't mind at all his being married. and i wouldn't mind at all his turning out to be very, very old. none of those things, you see, would interfere in the slightest with the memory of the--voice or the--chivalry of the broken hand. the only thing i'd mind, i tell you, would be to think that he really and truly was the man who was made for me--and i missed finding it out!--oh, of course, i've worried myself sick these past few months thinking of the audacity of what i've done. i've got such a 'sore thought,' as you call it, that i'm almost ready to scream if anybody mentions the word 'indiscreet' in my presence. and yet, and yet--after all, it isn't as though i were reaching out into the darkness after an indefinite object. what i'm reaching out for is a _light_, so that i can tell exactly just what object is there. and, anyway," she quoted a little waveringly: "he either fears his fate too much, or his, deserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch to gain or lose it all!" "ain't you scared just a little bit?" probed the traveling salesman. all around them the people began bustling suddenly with their coats and bags. with a gesture of impatience the youngish girl jumped up and started to fasten her furs. the eyes that turned to answer the traveling salesman's question were brimming wet with tears. "yes--i'm--scared to death!" she smiled incongruously. almost authoritatively the salesman reached out his empty hand for her traveling-bag. "what you going to do if he ain't there?" he asked. the girl's eyebrows lifted. "why, just what i'm going to do if he _is_ there," she answered quite definitely. "i'm going right back to montreal to-night. there's a train out again, i think, at eight-thirty. even late as we are, that will give me an hour and a half at the station." "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "and you've traveled five days just to see what a man looks like--for an hour and a half?" "i'd have traveled twice five days," she whispered, "just to see what he looked like--for a--second and a half!" "but how in thunder are you going to recognize him?" fussed the traveling salesman. "and how in thunder is he going to recognize you?" "maybe i won't recognize him," acknowledged the youngish girl, "and likelier than not he won't recognize me; but don't you see?--can't you understand?--that all the audacity of it, all the worry of it--is absolutely nothing compared to the one little chance in ten thousand that we _will_ recognize each other?" "well, anyway," said the traveling salesman stubbornly, "i'm going to walk out slow behind you and see you through this thing all right." "oh, no, you're not!" exclaimed the youngish girl. "oh, no, you're not! can't you see that if he's there, i wouldn't mind you so much; but if he doesn't come, can't you understand that maybe i'd just as soon you didn't know about it?" "o-h," said the traveling salesman. a little impatiently he turned and routed the young electrician out of his sprawling nap. "don't you know boston when you see it?" he cried a trifle testily. for an instant the young electrician's sleepy eyes stared dully into the girl's excited face. then he stumbled up a bit awkwardly and reached out for all his coil-boxes and insulators. "good-night to you. much obliged to you," he nodded amiably. a moment later he and the traveling salesman were forging their way ahead through the crowded aisle. like the transient, impersonal, altogether mysterious stimulant of a strain of martial music, the young electrician vanished into space. but just at the edge of the car steps the traveling salesman dallied a second to wait for the youngish girl. "say," he said, "say, can i tell my wife what you've told me?" "y-e-s," nodded the youngish girl soberly. "and say," said the traveling salesman, "say, i don't exactly like to go off this way and never know at all how it all came out." casually his eyes fell on the big lynx muff in the youngish girl's hand. "say," he said, "if i promise, honest-injun, to go 'way off to the other end of the station, couldn't you just lift your muff up high, once, if everything comes out the way you want it?" "y-e-s," whispered the youngish girl almost inaudibly. then the traveling salesman went hurrying on to join the young electrician, and the youngish girl lagged along on the rear edge of the crowd like a bashful child dragging on the skirts of its mother. out of the groups of impatient people that flanked the track she saw a dozen little pecking reunions, where some one dashed wildly into the long, narrow stream of travelers and yanked out his special friend or relative, like a good-natured bird of prey. she saw a tired, worn, patient-looking woman step forward with four noisy little boys, and then stand dully waiting while the young electrician gathered his riotous offspring to his breast. she saw the traveling salesman grin like a bashful school-boy, just as a red-cloaked girl came running to him and bore him off triumphantly toward the street. and then suddenly, out of the blur, and the dust, and the dizziness, and the half-blinding glare of lights, the figure of a man loomed up directly and indomitably across the youngish girl's path--a man standing bare-headed and faintly smiling as one who welcomes a much-reverenced guest--a man tall, stalwart, sober-eyed, with a touch of gray at his temples, a man whom any woman would be proud to have waiting for her at the end of any journey. and right there before all that hurrying, scurrying, self-centered, unseeing crowd, he reached out his hands to her and gathered her frightened fingers close into his. "you've--kept--me--waiting--a--long--time," he reproached her. "yes!" she stammered. "yes! yes! the train was two hours late!" "it wasn't the hours that i was thinking about," said the man very quietly. "it was the--_year_!" and then, just as suddenly, the youngish girl felt a tug at her coat, and, turning round quickly, found herself staring with dazed eyes into the eager, childish face of the traveling salesman's red-cloaked wife. not thirty feet away from her the traveling salesman's shameless, stolid-looking back seemed to be blocking up the main exit to the street. "oh, are you the lady from british columbia?" queried the excited little voice. perplexity, amusement, yet a divine sort of marital confidence were in the question. "yes, surely i am," said the youngish girl softly. across the little wife's face a great rushing, flushing wave of tenderness blocked out for a second all trace of the cruel, slim scar that marred the perfect contour of one cheek. "oh, i don't know at all what it's all about," laughed the little wife, "but my husband asked me to come back and kiss you!" the road by jack london (new york: macmillan) to josiah flynt the real thing, blowed in the glass contents confession holding her down pictures "pinched" the pen hoboes that pass in the night road-kids and gay-cats two thousand stiffs bulls "speakin' in general, i 'ave tried 'em all, the 'appy roads that take you o'er the world. speakin' in general, i 'ave found them good for such as cannot use one bed too long, but must get 'ence, the same as i 'ave done, an' go observin' matters till they die." --sestina of the tramp-royal confession there is a woman in the state of nevada to whom i once lied continuously, consistently, and shamelessly, for the matter of a couple of hours. i don't want to apologize to her. far be it from me. but i do want to explain. unfortunately, i do not know her name, much less her present address. if her eyes should chance upon these lines, i hope she will write to me. it was in reno, nevada, in the summer of . also, it was fair-time, and the town was filled with petty crooks and tin-horns, to say nothing of a vast and hungry horde of hoboes. it was the hungry hoboes that made the town a "hungry" town. they "battered" the back doors of the homes of the citizens until the back doors became unresponsive. a hard town for "scoffings," was what the hoboes called it at that time. i know that i missed many a meal, in spite of the fact that i could "throw my feet" with the next one when it came to "slamming a gate" for a "poke-out" or a "set-down," or hitting for a "light piece" on the street. why, i was so hard put in that town, one day, that i gave the porter the slip and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. the train started as i made the platform, and i headed for the aforesaid millionnaire with the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. it was a dead heat, for i reached the millionnaire at the same instant that the porter reached me. i had no time for formalities. "gimme a quarter to eat on," i blurted out. and as i live, that millionnaire dipped into his pocket and gave me ... just ... precisely ... a quarter. it is my conviction that he was so flabbergasted that he obeyed automatically, and it has been a matter of keen regret ever since, on my part, that i didn't ask him for a dollar. i know that i'd have got it. i swung off the platform of that private car with the porter manoeuvring to kick me in the face. he missed me. one is at a terrible disadvantage when trying to swing off the lowest step of a car and not break his neck on the right of way, with, at the same time, an irate ethiopian on the platform above trying to land him in the face with a number eleven. but i got the quarter! i got it! but to return to the woman to whom i so shamelessly lied. it was in the evening of my last day in reno. i had been out to the race-track watching the ponies run, and had missed my dinner (_i.e._ the mid-day meal). i was hungry, and, furthermore, a committee of public safety had just been organized to rid the town of just such hungry mortals as i. already a lot of my brother hoboes had been gathered in by john law, and i could hear the sunny valleys of california calling to me over the cold crests of the sierras. two acts remained for me to perform before i shook the dust of reno from my feet. one was to catch the blind baggage on the westbound overland that night. the other was first to get something to eat. even youth will hesitate at an all-night ride, on an empty stomach, outside a train that is tearing the atmosphere through the snow-sheds, tunnels, and eternal snows of heaven-aspiring mountains. but that something to eat was a hard proposition. i was "turned down" at a dozen houses. sometimes i received insulting remarks and was informed of the barred domicile that should be mine if i had my just deserts. the worst of it was that such assertions were only too true. that was why i was pulling west that night. john law was abroad in the town, seeking eagerly for the hungry and homeless, for by such was his barred domicile tenanted. at other houses the doors were slammed in my face, cutting short my politely and humbly couched request for something to eat. at one house they did not open the door. i stood on the porch and knocked, and they looked out at me through the window. they even held one sturdy little boy aloft so that he could see over the shoulders of his elders the tramp who wasn't going to get anything to eat at their house. it began to look as if i should be compelled to go to the very poor for my food. the very poor constitute the last sure recourse of the hungry tramp. the very poor can always be depended upon. they never turn away the hungry. time and again, all over the united states, have i been refused food by the big house on the hill; and always have i received food from the little shack down by the creek or marsh, with its broken windows stuffed with rags and its tired-faced mother broken with labor. oh, you charity-mongers! go to the poor and learn, for the poor alone are the charitable. they neither give nor withhold from their excess. they have no excess. they give, and they withhold never, from what they need for themselves, and very often from what they cruelly need for themselves. a bone to the dog is not charity. charity is the bone shared with the dog when you are just as hungry as the dog. there was one house in particular where i was turned down that evening. the porch windows opened on the dining room, and through them i saw a man eating pie--a big meat-pie. i stood in the open door, and while he talked with me, he went on eating. he was prosperous, and out of his prosperity had been bred resentment against his less fortunate brothers. he cut short my request for something to eat, snapping out, "i don't believe you want to work." now this was irrelevant. i hadn't said anything about work. the topic of conversation i had introduced was "food." in fact, i didn't want to work. i wanted to take the westbound overland that night. "you wouldn't work if you had a chance," he bullied. i glanced at his meek-faced wife, and knew that but for the presence of this cerberus i'd have a whack at that meat-pie myself. but cerberus sopped himself in the pie, and i saw that i must placate him if i were to get a share of it. so i sighed to myself and accepted his work-morality. "of course i want work," i bluffed. "don't believe it," he snorted. "try me," i answered, warming to the bluff. "all right," he said. "come to the corner of blank and blank streets"--(i have forgotten the address)--"to-morrow morning. you know where that burned building is, and i'll put you to work tossing bricks." "all right, sir; i'll be there." he grunted and went on eating. i waited. after a couple of minutes he looked up with an i-thought-you-were-gone expression on his face, and demanded:-- "well?" "i ... i am waiting for something to eat," i said gently. "i knew you wouldn't work!" he roared. he was right, of course; but his conclusion must have been reached by mind-reading, for his logic wouldn't bear it out. but the beggar at the door must be humble, so i accepted his logic as i had accepted his morality. "you see, i am now hungry," i said still gently. "to-morrow morning i shall be hungrier. think how hungry i shall be when i have tossed bricks all day without anything to eat. now if you will give me something to eat, i'll be in great shape for those bricks." he gravely considered my plea, at the same time going on eating, while his wife nearly trembled into propitiatory speech, but refrained. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he said between mouthfuls. "you come to work to-morrow, and in the middle of the day i'll advance you enough for your dinner. that will show whether you are in earnest or not." "in the meantime--" i began; but he interrupted. "if i gave you something to eat now, i'd never see you again. oh, i know your kind. look at me. i owe no man. i have never descended so low as to ask any one for food. i have always earned my food. the trouble with you is that you are idle and dissolute. i can see it in your face. i have worked and been honest. i have made myself what i am. and you can do the same, if you work and are honest." "like you?" i queried. alas, no ray of humor had ever penetrated the sombre work-sodden soul of that man. "yes, like me," he answered. "all of us?" i queried. "yes, all of you," he answered, conviction vibrating in his voice. "but if we all became like you," i said, "allow me to point out that there'd be nobody to toss bricks for you." i swear there was a flicker of a smile in his wife's eye. as for him, he was aghast--but whether at the awful possibility of a reformed humanity that would not enable him to get anybody to toss bricks for him, or at my impudence, i shall never know. "i'll not waste words on you," he roared. "get out of here, you ungrateful whelp!" i scraped my feet to advertise my intention of going, and queried:-- "and i don't get anything to eat?" he arose suddenly to his feet. he was a large man. i was a stranger in a strange land, and john law was looking for me. i went away hurriedly. "but why ungrateful?" i asked myself as i slammed his gate. "what in the dickens did he give me to be ungrateful about?" i looked back. i could still see him through the window. he had returned to his pie. by this time i had lost heart. i passed many houses by without venturing up to them. all houses looked alike, and none looked "good." after walking half a dozen blocks i shook off my despondency and gathered my "nerve." this begging for food was all a game, and if i didn't like the cards, i could always call for a new deal. i made up my mind to tackle the next house. i approached it in the deepening twilight, going around to the kitchen door. i knocked softly, and when i saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman who answered, as by inspiration came to me the "story" i was to tell. for know that upon his ability to tell a good story depends the success of the beggar. first of all, and on the instant, the beggar must "size up" his victim. after that, he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiar personality and temperament of that particular victim. and right here arises the great difficulty: in the instant that he is sizing up the victim he must begin his story. not a minute is allowed for preparation. as in a lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victim and conceive a tale that will hit home. the successful hobo must be an artist. he must create spontaneously and instantaneously--and not upon a theme selected from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he reads in the face of the person who opens the door, be it man, woman, or child, sweet or crabbed, generous or miserly, good-natured or cantankerous, jew or gentile, black or white, race-prejudiced or brotherly, provincial or universal, or whatever else it may be. i have often thought that to this training of my tramp days is due much of my success as a story-writer. in order to get the food whereby i lived, i was compelled to tell tales that rang true. at the back door, out of inexorable necessity, is developed the convincingness and sincerity laid down by all authorities on the art of the short-story. also, i quite believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me. realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange at the kitchen door for grub. after all, art is only consummate artfulness, and artfulness saves many a "story." i remember lying in a police station at winnipeg, manitoba. i was bound west over the canadian pacific. of course, the police wanted my story, and i gave it to them--on the spur of the moment. they were landlubbers, in the heart of the continent, and what better story for them than a sea story? they could never trip me up on that. and so i told a tearful tale of my life on the hell-ship _glenmore_. (i had once seen the _glenmore_ lying at anchor in san francisco bay.) i was an english apprentice, i said. and they said that i didn't talk like an english boy. it was up to me to create on the instant. i had been born and reared in the united states. on the death of my parents, i had been sent to england to my grandparents. it was they who had apprenticed me on the _glenmore_. i hope the captain of the _glenmore_ will forgive me, for i gave him a character that night in the winnipeg police station. such cruelty! such brutality! such diabolical ingenuity of torture! it explained why i had deserted the _glenmore_ at montreal. but why was i in the middle of canada going west, when my grandparents lived in england? promptly i created a married sister who lived in california. she would take care of me. i developed at length her loving nature. but they were not done with me, those hard-hearted policemen. i had joined the _glenmore_ in england; in the two years that had elapsed before my desertion at montreal, what had the _glenmore_ done and where had she been? and thereat i took those landlubbers around the world with me. buffeted by pounding seas and stung with flying spray, they fought a typhoon with me off the coast of japan. they loaded and unloaded cargo with me in all the ports of the seven seas. i took them to india, and rangoon, and china, and had them hammer ice with me around the horn and at last come to moorings at montreal. and then they said to wait a moment, and one policeman went forth into the night while i warmed myself at the stove, all the while racking my brains for the trap they were going to spring on me. i groaned to myself when i saw him come in the door at the heels of the policeman. no gypsy prank had thrust those tiny hoops of gold through the ears; no prairie winds had beaten that skin into wrinkled leather; nor had snow-drift and mountain-slope put in his walk that reminiscent roll. and in those eyes, when they looked at me, i saw the unmistakable sun-wash of the sea. here was a theme, alas! with half a dozen policemen to watch me read--i who had never sailed the china seas, nor been around the horn, nor looked with my eyes upon india and rangoon. i was desperate. disaster stalked before me incarnate in the form of that gold-ear-ringed, weather-beaten son of the sea. who was he? what was he? i must solve him ere he solved me. i must take a new orientation, or else those wicked policemen would orientate me to a cell, a police court, and more cells. if he questioned me first, before i knew how much he knew, i was lost. but did i betray my desperate plight to those lynx-eyed guardians of the public welfare of winnipeg? not i. i met that aged sailorman glad-eyed and beaming, with all the simulated relief at deliverance that a drowning man would display on finding a life-preserver in his last despairing clutch. here was a man who understood and who would verify my true story to the faces of those sleuth-hounds who did not understand, or, at least, such was what i endeavored to play-act. i seized upon him; i volleyed him with questions about himself. before my judges i would prove the character of my savior before he saved me. he was a kindly sailorman--an "easy mark." the policemen grew impatient while i questioned him. at last one of them told me to shut up. i shut up; but while i remained shut up, i was busy creating, busy sketching the scenario of the next act. i had learned enough to go on with. he was a frenchman. he had sailed always on french merchant vessels, with the one exception of a voyage on a "lime-juicer." and last of all--blessed fact!--he had not been on the sea for twenty years. the policeman urged him on to examine me. "you called in at rangoon?" he queried. i nodded. "we put our third mate ashore there. fever." if he had asked me what kind of fever, i should have answered, "enteric," though for the life of me i didn't know what enteric was. but he didn't ask me. instead, his next question was:-- "and how is rangoon?" "all right. it rained a whole lot when we were there." "did you get shore-leave?" "sure," i answered. "three of us apprentices went ashore together." "do you remember the temple?" "which temple?" i parried. "the big one, at the top of the stairway." if i remembered that temple, i knew i'd have to describe it. the gulf yawned for me. i shook my head. "you can see it from all over the harbor," he informed me. "you don't need shore-leave to see that temple." i never loathed a temple so in my life. but i fixed that particular temple at rangoon. "you can't see it from the harbor," i contradicted. "you can't see it from the town. you can't see it from the top of the stairway. because--" i paused for the effect. "because there isn't any temple there." "but i saw it with my own eyes!" he cried. "that was in--?" i queried. "seventy-one." "it was destroyed in the great earthquake of ," i explained. "it was very old." there was a pause. he was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea. "the stairway is still there," i aided him. "you can see it from all over the harbor. and you remember that little island on the right-hand side coming into the harbor?" i guess there must have been one there (i was prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he nodded. "gone," i said. "seven fathoms of water there now." i had gained a moment for breath. while he pondered on time's changes, i prepared the finishing touches of my story. "you remember the custom-house at bombay?" he remembered it. "burned to the ground," i announced. "do you remember jim wan?" he came back at me. "dead," i said; but who the devil jim wan was i hadn't the slightest idea. i was on thin ice again. "do you remember billy harper, at shanghai?" i queried back at him quickly. that aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, but the billy harper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory. "of course you remember billy harper," i insisted. "everybody knows him. he's been there forty years. well, he's still there, that's all." and then the miracle happened. the sailorman remembered billy harper. perhaps there was a billy harper, and perhaps he had been in shanghai for forty years and was still there; but it was news to me. for fully half an hour longer, the sailorman and i talked on in similar fashion. in the end he told the policemen that i was what i represented myself to be, and after a night's lodging and a breakfast i was released to wander on westward to my married sister in san francisco. but to return to the woman in reno who opened her door to me in the deepening twilight. at the first glimpse of her kindly face i took my cue. i became a sweet, innocent, unfortunate lad. i couldn't speak. i opened my mouth and closed it again. never in my life before had i asked any one for food. my embarrassment was painful, extreme. i was ashamed. i, who looked upon begging as a delightful whimsicality, thumbed myself over into a true son of mrs. grundy, burdened with all her bourgeois morality. only the harsh pangs of the belly-need could compel me to do so degraded and ignoble a thing as beg for food. and into my face i strove to throw all the wan wistfulness of famished and ingenuous youth unused to mendicancy. "you are hungry, my poor boy," she said. i had made her speak first. i nodded my head and gulped. "it is the first time i have ever ... asked," i faltered. "come right in." the door swung open. "we have already finished eating, but the fire is burning and i can get something up for you." she looked at me closely when she got me into the light. "i wish my boy were as healthy and strong as you," she said. "but he is not strong. he sometimes falls down. he just fell down this afternoon and hurt himself badly, the poor dear." she mothered him with her voice, with an ineffable tenderness in it that i yearned to appropriate. i glanced at him. he sat across the table, slender and pale, his head swathed in bandages. he did not move, but his eyes, bright in the lamplight, were fixed upon me in a steady and wondering stare. "just like my poor father," i said. "he had the falling sickness. some kind of vertigo. it puzzled the doctors. they never could make out what was the matter with him." "he is dead?" she queried gently, setting before me half a dozen soft-boiled eggs. "dead," i gulped. "two weeks ago. i was with him when it happened. we were crossing the street together. he fell right down. he was never conscious again. they carried him into a drug-store. he died there." and thereat i developed the pitiful tale of my father--how, after my mother's death, he and i had gone to san francisco from the ranch; how his pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other money he had, was not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing. also, i narrated my own woes during the few days after his death that i had spent alone and forlorn on the streets of san francisco. while that good woman warmed up biscuits, fried bacon, and cooked more eggs, and while i kept pace with her in taking care of all that she placed before me, i enlarged the picture of that poor orphan boy and filled in the details. i became that poor boy. i believed in him as i believed in the beautiful eggs i was devouring. i could have wept for myself. i know the tears did get into my voice at times. it was very effective. in fact, with every touch i added to the picture, that kind soul gave me something also. she made up a lunch for me to carry away. she put in many boiled eggs, pepper and salt, and other things, and a big apple. she provided me with three pairs of thick red woollen socks. she gave me clean handkerchiefs and other things which i have since forgotten. and all the time she cooked more and more and i ate more and more. i gorged like a savage; but then it was a far cry across the sierras on a blind baggage, and i knew not when nor where i should find my next meal. and all the while, like a death's-head at the feast, silent and motionless, her own unfortunate boy sat and stared at me across the table. i suppose i represented to him mystery, and romance, and adventure--all that was denied the feeble flicker of life that was in him. and yet i could not forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw through me down to the bottom of my mendacious heart. "but where are you going to?" she asked me. "salt lake city," said i. "i have a sister there--a married sister." (i debated if i should make a mormon out of her, and decided against it.) "her husband is a plumber--a contracting plumber." now i knew that contracting plumbers were usually credited with making lots of money. but i had spoken. it was up to me to qualify. "they would have sent me the money for my fare if i had asked for it," i explained, "but they have had sickness and business troubles. his partner cheated him. and so i wouldn't write for the money. i knew i could make my way there somehow. i let them think i had enough to get me to salt lake city. she is lovely, and so kind. she was always kind to me. i guess i'll go into the shop and learn the trade. she has two daughters. they are younger than i. one is only a baby." of all my married sisters that i have distributed among the cities of the united states, that salt lake sister is my favorite. she is quite real, too. when i tell about her, i can see her, and her two little girls, and her plumber husband. she is a large, motherly woman, just verging on beneficent stoutness--the kind, you know, that always cooks nice things and that never gets angry. she is a brunette. her husband is a quiet, easy-going fellow. sometimes i almost know him quite well. and who knows but some day i may meet him? if that aged sailorman could remember billy harper, i see no reason why i should not some day meet the husband of my sister who lives in salt lake city. on the other hand, i have a feeling of certitude within me that i shall never meet in the flesh my many parents and grandparents--you see, i invariably killed them off. heart disease was my favorite way of getting rid of my mother, though on occasion i did away with her by means of consumption, pneumonia, and typhoid fever. it is true, as the winnipeg policemen will attest, that i have grandparents living in england; but that was a long time ago and it is a fair assumption that they are dead by now. at any rate, they have never written to me. i hope that woman in reno will read these lines and forgive me my gracelessness and unveracity. i do not apologize, for i am unashamed. it was youth, delight in life, zest for experience, that brought me to her door. it did me good. it taught me the intrinsic kindliness of human nature. i hope it did her good. anyway, she may get a good laugh out of it now that she learns the real inwardness of the situation. to her my story was "true." she believed in me and all my family, and she was filled with solicitude for the dangerous journey i must make ere i won to salt lake city. this solicitude nearly brought me to grief. just as i was leaving, my arms full of lunch and my pockets bulging with fat woollen socks, she bethought herself of a nephew, or uncle, or relative of some sort, who was in the railway mail service, and who, moreover, would come through that night on the very train on which i was going to steal my ride. the very thing! she would take me down to the depot, tell him my story, and get him to hide me in the mail car. thus, without danger or hardship, i would be carried straight through to ogden. salt lake city was only a few miles farther on. my heart sank. she grew excited as she developed the plan and with my sinking heart i had to feign unbounded gladness and enthusiasm at this solution of my difficulties. solution! why i was bound west that night, and here was i being trapped into going east. it _was_ a trap, and i hadn't the heart to tell her that it was all a miserable lie. and while i made believe that i was delighted, i was busy cudgelling my brains for some way to escape. but there was no way. she would see me into the mail-car--she said so herself--and then that mail-clerk relative of hers would carry me to ogden. and then i would have to beat my way back over all those hundreds of miles of desert. but luck was with me that night. just about the time she was getting ready to put on her bonnet and accompany me, she discovered that she had made a mistake. her mail-clerk relative was not scheduled to come through that night. his run had been changed. he would not come through until two nights afterward. i was saved, for of course my boundless youth would never permit me to wait those two days. i optimistically assured her that i'd get to salt lake city quicker if i started immediately, and i departed with her blessings and best wishes ringing in my ears. but those woollen socks were great. i know. i wore a pair of them that night on the blind baggage of the overland, and that overland went west. holding her down barring accidents, a good hobo, with youth and agility, can hold a train down despite all the efforts of the train-crew to "ditch" him--given, of course, night-time as an essential condition. when such a hobo, under such conditions, makes up his mind that he is going to hold her down, either he does hold her down, or chance trips him up. there is no legitimate way, short of murder, whereby the train-crew can ditch him. that train-crews have not stopped short of murder is a current belief in the tramp world. not having had that particular experience in my tramp days i cannot vouch for it personally. but this i have heard of the "bad" roads. when a tramp has "gone underneath," on the rods, and the train is in motion, there is apparently no way of dislodging him until the train stops. the tramp, snugly ensconced inside the truck, with the four wheels and all the framework around him, has the "cinch" on the crew--or so he thinks, until some day he rides the rods on a bad road. a bad road is usually one on which a short time previously one or several trainmen have been killed by tramps. heaven pity the tramp who is caught "underneath" on such a road--for caught he is, though the train be going sixty miles an hour. the "shack" (brakeman) takes a coupling-pin and a length of bell-cord to the platform in front of the truck in which the tramp is riding. the shack fastens the coupling-pin to the bell-cord, drops the former down between the platforms, and pays out the latter. the coupling-pin strikes the ties between the rails, rebounds against the bottom of the car, and again strikes the ties. the shack plays it back and forth, now to this side, now to the other, lets it out a bit and hauls it in a bit, giving his weapon opportunity for every variety of impact and rebound. every blow of that flying coupling-pin is freighted with death, and at sixty miles an hour it beats a veritable tattoo of death. the next day the remains of that tramp are gathered up along the right of way, and a line in the local paper mentions the unknown man, undoubtedly a tramp, assumably drunk, who had probably fallen asleep on the track. as a characteristic illustration of how a capable hobo can hold her down, i am minded to give the following experience. i was in ottawa, bound west over the canadian pacific. three thousand miles of that road stretched before me; it was the fall of the year, and i had to cross manitoba and the rocky mountains. i could expect "crimpy" weather, and every moment of delay increased the frigid hardships of the journey. furthermore, i was disgusted. the distance between montreal and ottawa is one hundred and twenty miles. i ought to know, for i had just come over it and it had taken me six days. by mistake i had missed the main line and come over a small "jerk" with only two locals a day on it. and during these six days i had lived on dry crusts, and not enough of them, begged from the french peasants. furthermore, my disgust had been heightened by the one day i had spent in ottawa trying to get an outfit of clothing for my long journey. let me put it on record right here that ottawa, with one exception, is the hardest town in the united states and canada to beg clothes in; the one exception is washington, d.c. the latter fair city is the limit. i spent two weeks there trying to beg a pair of shoes, and then had to go on to jersey city before i got them. but to return to ottawa. at eight sharp in the morning i started out after clothes. i worked energetically all day. i swear i walked forty miles. i interviewed the housewives of a thousand homes. i did not even knock off work for dinner. and at six in the afternoon, after ten hours of unremitting and depressing toil, i was still shy one shirt, while the pair of trousers i had managed to acquire was tight and, moreover, was showing all the signs of an early disintegration. at six i quit work and headed for the railroad yards, expecting to pick up something to eat on the way. but my hard luck was still with me. i was refused food at house after house. then i got a "hand-out." my spirits soared, for it was the largest hand-out i had ever seen in a long and varied experience. it was a parcel wrapped in newspapers and as big as a mature suit-case. i hurried to a vacant lot and opened it. first, i saw cake, then more cake, all kinds and makes of cake, and then some. it was all cake. no bread and butter with thick firm slices of meat between--nothing but cake; and i who of all things abhorred cake most! in another age and clime they sat down by the waters of babylon and wept. and in a vacant lot in canada's proud capital, i, too, sat down and wept ... over a mountain of cake. as one looks upon the face of his dead son, so looked i upon that multitudinous pastry. i suppose i was an ungrateful tramp, for i refused to partake of the bounteousness of the house that had had a party the night before. evidently the guests hadn't liked cake either. that cake marked the crisis in my fortunes. than it nothing could be worse; therefore things must begin to mend. and they did. at the very next house i was given a "set-down." now a "set-down" is the height of bliss. one is taken inside, very often is given a chance to wash, and is then "set-down" at a table. tramps love to throw their legs under a table. the house was large and comfortable, in the midst of spacious grounds and fine trees, and sat well back from the street. they had just finished eating, and i was taken right into the dining room--in itself a most unusual happening, for the tramp who is lucky enough to win a set-down usually receives it in the kitchen. a grizzled and gracious englishman, his matronly wife, and a beautiful young frenchwoman talked with me while i ate. i wonder if that beautiful young frenchwoman would remember, at this late day, the laugh i gave her when i uttered the barbaric phrase, "two-bits." you see, i was trying delicately to hit them for a "light piece." that was how the sum of money came to be mentioned. "what?" she said. "two-bits," said i. her mouth was twitching as she again said, "what?" "two-bits," said i. whereat she burst into laughter. "won't you repeat it?" she said, when she had regained control of herself. "two-bits," said i. and once more she rippled into uncontrollable silvery laughter. "i beg your pardon," said she; "but what ... what was it you said?" "two-bits," said i; "is there anything wrong about it?" "not that i know of," she gurgled between gasps; "but what does it mean?" i explained, but i do not remember now whether or not i got that two-bits out of her; but i have often wondered since as to which of us was the provincial. when i arrived at the depot, i found, much to my disgust, a bunch of at least twenty tramps that were waiting to ride out the blind baggages of the overland. now two or three tramps on the blind baggage are all right. they are inconspicuous. but a score! that meant trouble. no train-crew would ever let all of us ride. i may as well explain here what a blind baggage is. some mail-cars are built without doors in the ends; hence, such a car is "blind." the mail-cars that possess end doors, have those doors always locked. suppose, after the train has started, that a tramp gets on to the platform of one of these blind cars. there is no door, or the door is locked. no conductor or brakeman can get to him to collect fare or throw him off. it is clear that the tramp is safe until the next time the train stops. then he must get off, run ahead in the darkness, and when the train pulls by, jump on to the blind again. but there are ways and ways, as you shall see. when the train pulled out, those twenty tramps swarmed upon the three blinds. some climbed on before the train had run a car-length. they were awkward dubs, and i saw their speedy finish. of course, the train-crew was "on," and at the first stop the trouble began. i jumped off and ran forward along the track. i noticed that i was accompanied by a number of the tramps. they evidently knew their business. when one is beating an overland, he must always keep well ahead of the train at the stops. i ran ahead, and as i ran, one by one those that accompanied me dropped out. this dropping out was the measure of their skill and nerve in boarding a train. for this is the way it works. when the train starts, the shack rides out the blind. there is no way for him to get back into the train proper except by jumping off the blind and catching a platform where the car-ends are not "blind." when the train is going as fast as the shack cares to risk, he therefore jumps off the blind, lets several cars go by, and gets on to the train. so it is up to the tramp to run so far ahead that before the blind is opposite him the shack will have already vacated it. i dropped the last tramp by about fifty feet, and waited. the train started. i saw the lantern of the shack on the first blind. he was riding her out. and i saw the dubs stand forlornly by the track as the blind went by. they made no attempt to get on. they were beaten by their own inefficiency at the very start. after them, in the line-up, came the tramps that knew a little something about the game. they let the first blind, occupied by the shack, go by, and jumped on the second and third blinds. of course, the shack jumped off the first and on to the second as it went by, and scrambled around there, throwing off the men who had boarded it. but the point is that i was so far ahead that when the first blind came opposite me, the shack had already left it and was tangled up with the tramps on the second blind. a half dozen of the more skilful tramps, who had run far enough ahead, made the first blind, too. at the next stop, as we ran forward along the track, i counted but fifteen of us. five had been ditched. the weeding-out process had begun nobly, and it continued station by station. now we were fourteen, now twelve, now eleven, now nine, now eight. it reminded me of the ten little niggers of the nursery rhyme. i was resolved that i should be the last little nigger of all. and why not? was i not blessed with strength, agility, and youth? (i was eighteen, and in perfect condition.) and didn't i have my "nerve" with me? and furthermore, was i not a tramp-royal? were not these other tramps mere dubs and "gay-cats" and amateurs alongside of me? if i weren't the last little nigger, i might as well quit the game and get a job on an alfalfa farm somewhere. by the time our number had been reduced to four, the whole train-crew had become interested. from then on it was a contest of skill and wits, with the odds in favor of the crew. one by one the three other survivors turned up missing, until i alone remained. my, but i was proud of myself! no croesus was ever prouder of his first million. i was holding her down in spite of two brakemen, a conductor, a fireman, and an engineer. and here are a few samples of the way i held her down. out ahead, in the darkness,--so far ahead that the shack riding out the blind must perforce get off before it reaches me,--i get on. very well. i am good for another station. when that station is reached, i dart ahead again to repeat the manoeuvre. the train pulls out. i watch her coming. there is no light of a lantern on the blind. has the crew abandoned the fight? i do not know. one never knows, and one must be prepared every moment for anything. as the first blind comes opposite me, and i run to leap aboard, i strain my eyes to see if the shack is on the platform. for all i know he may be there, with his lantern doused, and even as i spring upon the steps that lantern may smash down upon my head. i ought to know. i have been hit by lanterns two or three times. but no, the first blind is empty. the train is gathering speed. i am safe for another station. but am i? i feel the train slacken speed. on the instant i am alert. a manoeuvre is being executed against me, and i do not know what it is. i try to watch on both sides at once, not forgetting to keep track of the tender in front of me. from any one, or all, of these three directions, i may be assailed. ah, there it comes. the shack has ridden out the engine. my first warning is when his feet strike the steps of the right-hand side of the blind. like a flash i am off the blind to the left and running ahead past the engine. i lose myself in the darkness. the situation is where it has been ever since the train left ottawa. i am ahead, and the train must come past me if it is to proceed on its journey. i have as good a chance as ever for boarding her. i watch carefully. i see a lantern come forward to the engine, and i do not see it go back from the engine. it must therefore be still on the engine, and it is a fair assumption that attached to the handle of that lantern is a shack. that shack was lazy, or else he would have put out his lantern instead of trying to shield it as he came forward. the train pulls out. the first blind is empty, and i gain it. as before the train slackens, the shack from the engine boards the blind from one side, and i go off the other side and run forward. as i wait in the darkness i am conscious of a big thrill of pride. the overland has stopped twice for me--for me, a poor hobo on the bum. i alone have twice stopped the overland with its many passengers and coaches, its government mail, and its two thousand steam horses straining in the engine. and i weigh only one hundred and sixty pounds, and i haven't a five-cent piece in my pocket! again i see the lantern come forward to the engine. but this time it comes conspicuously. a bit too conspicuously to suit me, and i wonder what is up. at any rate i have something else to be afraid of than the shack on the engine. the train pulls by. just in time, before i make my spring, i see the dark form of a shack, without a lantern, on the first blind. i let it go by, and prepare to board the second blind. but the shack on the first blind has jumped off and is at my heels. also, i have a fleeting glimpse of the lantern of the shack who rode out the engine. he has jumped off, and now both shacks are on the ground on the same side with me. the next moment the second blind comes by and i am aboard it. but i do not linger. i have figured out my countermove. as i dash across the platform i hear the impact of the shack's feet against the steps as he boards. i jump off the other side and run forward with the train. my plan is to run forward and get on the first blind. it is nip and tuck, for the train is gathering speed. also, the shack is behind me and running after me. i guess i am the better sprinter, for i make the first blind. i stand on the steps and watch my pursuer. he is only about ten feet back and running hard; but now the train has approximated his own speed, and, relative to me, he is standing still. i encourage him, hold out my hand to him; but he explodes in a mighty oath, gives up and makes the train several cars back. the train is speeding along, and i am still chuckling to myself, when, without warning, a spray of water strikes me. the fireman is playing the hose on me from the engine. i step forward from the car-platform to the rear of the tender, where i am sheltered under the overhang. the water flies harmlessly over my head. my fingers itch to climb up on the tender and lam that fireman with a chunk of coal; but i know if i do that, i'll be massacred by him and the engineer, and i refrain. at the next stop i am off and ahead in the darkness. this time, when the train pulls out, both shacks are on the first blind. i divine their game. they have blocked the repetition of my previous play. i cannot again take the second blind, cross over, and run forward to the first. as soon as the first blind passes and i do not get on, they swing off, one on each side of the train. i board the second blind, and as i do so i know that a moment later, simultaneously, those two shacks will arrive on both sides of me. it is like a trap. both ways are blocked. yet there is another way out, and that way is up. so i do not wait for my pursuers to arrive. i climb upon the upright ironwork of the platform and stand upon the wheel of the hand-brake. this has taken up the moment of grace and i hear the shacks strike the steps on either side. i don't stop to look. i raise my arms overhead until my hands rest against the down-curving ends of the roofs of the two cars. one hand, of course, is on the curved roof of one car, the other hand on the curved roof of the other car. by this time both shacks are coming up the steps. i know it, though i am too busy to see them. all this is happening in the space of only several seconds. i make a spring with my legs and "muscle" myself up with my arms. as i draw up my legs, both shacks reach for me and clutch empty air. i know this, for i look down and see them. also i hear them swear. i am now in a precarious position, riding the ends of the down-curving roofs of two cars at the same time. with a quick, tense movement, i transfer both legs to the curve of one roof and both hands to the curve of the other roof. then, gripping the edge of that curving roof, i climb over the curve to the level roof above, where i sit down to catch my breath, holding on the while to a ventilator that projects above the surface. i am on top of the train--on the "decks," as the tramps call it, and this process i have described is by them called "decking her." and let me say right here that only a young and vigorous tramp is able to deck a passenger train, and also, that the young and vigorous tramp must have his nerve with him as well. the train goes on gathering speed, and i know i am safe until the next stop--but only until the next stop. if i remain on the roof after the train stops, i know those shacks will fusillade me with rocks. a healthy shack can "dewdrop" a pretty heavy chunk of stone on top of a car--say anywhere from five to twenty pounds. on the other hand, the chances are large that at the next stop the shacks will be waiting for me to descend at the place i climbed up. it is up to me to climb down at some other platform. registering a fervent hope that there are no tunnels in the next half mile, i rise to my feet and walk down the train half a dozen cars. and let me say that one must leave timidity behind him on such a _passear_. the roofs of passenger coaches are not made for midnight promenades. and if any one thinks they are, let me advise him to try it. just let him walk along the roof of a jolting, lurching car, with nothing to hold on to but the black and empty air, and when he comes to the down-curving end of the roof, all wet and slippery with dew, let him accelerate his speed so as to step across to the next roof, down-curving and wet and slippery. believe me, he will learn whether his heart is weak or his head is giddy. as the train slows down for a stop, half a dozen platforms from where i had decked her i come down. no one is on the platform. when the train comes to a standstill, i slip off to the ground. ahead, and between me and the engine, are two moving lanterns. the shacks are looking for me on the roofs of the cars. i note that the car beside which i am standing is a "four-wheeler"--by which is meant that it has only four wheels to each truck. (when you go underneath on the rods, be sure to avoid the "six-wheelers,"--they lead to disasters.) i duck under the train and make for the rods, and i can tell you i am mighty glad that the train is standing still. it is the first time i have ever gone underneath on the canadian pacific, and the internal arrangements are new to me. i try to crawl over the top of the truck, between the truck and the bottom of the car. but the space is not large enough for me to squeeze through. this is new to me. down in the united states i am accustomed to going underneath on rapidly moving trains, seizing a gunnel and swinging my feet under to the brake-beam, and from there crawling over the top of the truck and down inside the truck to a seat on the cross-rod. feeling with my hands in the darkness, i learn that there is room between the brake-beam and the ground. it is a tight squeeze. i have to lie flat and worm my way through. once inside the truck, i take my seat on the rod and wonder what the shacks are thinking has become of me. the train gets under way. they have given me up at last. but have they? at the very next stop, i see a lantern thrust under the next truck to mine at the other end of the car. they are searching the rods for me. i must make my get-away pretty lively. i crawl on my stomach under the brake-beam. they see me and run for me, but i crawl on hands and knees across the rail on the opposite side and gain my feet. then away i go for the head of the train. i run past the engine and hide in the sheltering darkness. it is the same old situation. i am ahead of the train, and the train must go past me. the train pulls out. there is a lantern on the first blind. i lie low, and see the peering shack go by. but there is also a lantern on the second blind. that shack spots me and calls to the shack who has gone past on the first blind. both jump off. never mind, i'll take the third blind and deck her. but heavens, there is a lantern on the third blind, too. it is the conductor. i let it go by. at any rate i have now the full train-crew in front of me. i turn and run back in the opposite direction to what the train is going. i look over my shoulder. all three lanterns are on the ground and wobbling along in pursuit. i sprint. half the train has gone by, and it is going quite fast, when i spring aboard. i know that the two shacks and the conductor will arrive like ravening wolves in about two seconds. i spring upon the wheel of the hand-brake, get my hands on the curved ends of the roofs, and muscle myself up to the decks; while my disappointed pursuers, clustering on the platform beneath like dogs that have treed a cat, howl curses up at me and say unsocial things about my ancestors. but what does that matter? it is five to one, including the engineer and fireman, and the majesty of the law and the might of a great corporation are behind them, and i am beating them out. i am too far down the train, and i run ahead over the roofs of the coaches until i am over the fifth or sixth platform from the engine. i peer down cautiously. a shack is on that platform. that he has caught sight of me, i know from the way he makes a swift sneak inside the car; and i know, also, that he is waiting inside the door, all ready to pounce out on me when i climb down. but i make believe that i don't know, and i remain there to encourage him in his error. i do not see him, yet i know that he opens the door once and peeps up to assure himself that i am still there. the train slows down for a station. i dangle my legs down in a tentative way. the train stops. my legs are still dangling. i hear the door unlatch softly. he is all ready for me. suddenly i spring up and run forward over the roof. this is right over his head, where he lurks inside the door. the train is standing still; the night is quiet, and i take care to make plenty of noise on the metal roof with my feet. i don't know, but my assumption is that he is now running forward to catch me as i descend at the next platform. but i don't descend there. halfway along the roof of the coach, i turn, retrace my way softly and quickly to the platform both the shack and i have just abandoned. the coast is clear. i descend to the ground on the off-side of the train and hide in the darkness. not a soul has seen me. i go over to the fence, at the edge of the right of way, and watch. ah, ha! what's that? i see a lantern on top of the train, moving along from front to rear. they think i haven't come down, and they are searching the roofs for me. and better than that--on the ground on each side of the train, moving abreast with the lantern on top, are two other lanterns. it is a rabbit-drive, and i am the rabbit. when the shack on top flushes me, the ones on each side will nab me. i roll a cigarette and watch the procession go by. once past me, i am safe to proceed to the front of the train. she pulls out, and i make the front blind without opposition. but before she is fully under way and just as i am lighting my cigarette, i am aware that the fireman has climbed over the coal to the back of the tender and is looking down at me. i am filled with apprehension. from his position he can mash me to a jelly with lumps of coal. instead of which he addresses me, and i note with relief the admiration in his voice. "you son-of-a-gun," is what he says. it is a high compliment, and i thrill as a schoolboy thrills on receiving a reward of merit. "say," i call up to him, "don't you play the hose on me any more." "all right," he answers, and goes back to his work. i have made friends with the engine, but the shacks are still looking for me. at the next stop, the shacks ride out all three blinds, and as before, i let them go by and deck in the middle of the train. the crew is on its mettle by now, and the train stops. the shacks are going to ditch me or know the reason why. three times the mighty overland stops for me at that station, and each time i elude the shacks and make the decks. but it is hopeless, for they have finally come to an understanding of the situation. i have taught them that they cannot guard the train from me. they must do something else. and they do it. when the train stops that last time, they take after me hot-footed. ah, i see their game. they are trying to run me down. at first they herd me back toward the rear of the train. i know my peril. once to the rear of the train, it will pull out with me left behind. i double, and twist, and turn, dodge through my pursuers, and gain the front of the train. one shack still hangs on after me. all right, i'll give him the run of his life, for my wind is good. i run straight ahead along the track. it doesn't matter. if he chases me ten miles, he'll nevertheless have to catch the train, and i can board her at any speed that he can. so i run on, keeping just comfortably ahead of him and straining my eyes in the gloom for cattle-guards and switches that may bring me to grief. alas! i strain my eyes too far ahead, and trip over something just under my feet, i know not what, some little thing, and go down to earth in a long, stumbling fall. the next moment i am on my feet, but the shack has me by the collar. i do not struggle. i am busy with breathing deeply and with sizing him up. he is narrow-shouldered, and i have at least thirty pounds the better of him in weight. besides, he is just as tired as i am, and if he tries to slug me, i'll teach him a few things. but he doesn't try to slug me, and that problem is settled. instead, he starts to lead me back toward the train, and another possible problem arises. i see the lanterns of the conductor and the other shack. we are approaching them. not for nothing have i made the acquaintance of the new york police. not for nothing, in box-cars, by water-tanks, and in prison-cells, have i listened to bloody tales of man-handling. what if these three men are about to man-handle me? heaven knows i have given them provocation enough. i think quickly. we are drawing nearer and nearer to the other two trainmen. i line up the stomach and the jaw of my captor, and plan the right and left i'll give him at the first sign of trouble. pshaw! i know another trick i'd like to work on him, and i almost regret that i did not do it at the moment i was captured. i could make him sick, what of his clutch on my collar. his fingers, tight-gripping, are buried inside my collar. my coat is tightly buttoned. did you ever see a tourniquet? well, this is one. all i have to do is to duck my head under his arm and begin to twist. i must twist rapidly--very rapidly. i know how to do it; twisting in a violent, jerky way, ducking my head under his arm with each revolution. before he knows it, those detaining fingers of his will be detained. he will be unable to withdraw them. it is a powerful leverage. twenty seconds after i have started revolving, the blood will be bursting out of his finger-ends, the delicate tendons will be rupturing, and all the muscles and nerves will be mashing and crushing together in a shrieking mass. try it sometime when somebody has you by the collar. but be quick--quick as lightning. also, be sure to hug yourself while you are revolving--hug your face with your left arm and your abdomen with your right. you see, the other fellow might try to stop you with a punch from his free arm. it would be a good idea, too, to revolve away from that free arm rather than toward it. a punch going is never so bad as a punch coming. that shack will never know how near he was to being made very, very sick. all that saves him is that it is not in their plan to man-handle me. when we draw near enough, he calls out that he has me, and they signal the train to come on. the engine passes us, and the three blinds. after that, the conductor and the other shack swing aboard. but still my captor holds on to me. i see the plan. he is going to hold me until the rear of the train goes by. then he will hop on, and i shall be left behind--ditched. but the train has pulled out fast, the engineer trying to make up for lost time. also, it is a long train. it is going very lively, and i know the shack is measuring its speed with apprehension. "think you can make it?" i query innocently. he releases my collar, makes a quick run, and swings aboard. a number of coaches are yet to pass by. he knows it, and remains on the steps, his head poked out and watching me. in that moment my next move comes to me. i'll make the last platform. i know she's going fast and faster, but i'll only get a roll in the dirt if i fail, and the optimism of youth is mine. i do not give myself away. i stand with a dejected droop of shoulder, advertising that i have abandoned hope. but at the same time i am feeling with my feet the good gravel. it is perfect footing. also i am watching the poked-out head of the shack. i see it withdrawn. he is confident that the train is going too fast for me ever to make it. and the train _is_ going fast--faster than any train i have ever tackled. as the last coach comes by i sprint in the same direction with it. it is a swift, short sprint. i cannot hope to equal the speed of the train, but i can reduce the difference of our speed to the minimum, and, hence, reduce the shock of impact, when i leap on board. in the fleeting instant of darkness i do not see the iron hand-rail of the last platform; nor is there time for me to locate it. i reach for where i think it ought to be, and at the same instant my feet leave the ground. it is all in the toss. the next moment i may be rolling in the gravel with broken ribs, or arms, or head. but my fingers grip the hand-hold, there is a jerk on my arms that slightly pivots my body, and my feet land on the steps with sharp violence. i sit down, feeling very proud of myself. in all my hoboing it is the best bit of train-jumping i have done. i know that late at night one is always good for several stations on the last platform, but i do not care to trust myself at the rear of the train. at the first stop i run forward on the off-side of the train, pass the pullmans, and duck under and take a rod under a day-coach. at the next stop i run forward again and take another rod. i am now comparatively safe. the shacks think i am ditched. but the long day and the strenuous night are beginning to tell on me. also, it is not so windy nor cold underneath, and i begin to doze. this will never do. sleep on the rods spells death, so i crawl out at a station and go forward to the second blind. here i can lie down and sleep; and here i do sleep--how long i do not know--for i am awakened by a lantern thrust into my face. the two shacks are staring at me. i scramble up on the defensive, wondering as to which one is going to make the first "pass" at me. but slugging is far from their minds. "i thought you was ditched," says the shack who had held me by the collar. "if you hadn't let go of me when you did, you'd have been ditched along with me," i answer. "how's that?" he asks. "i'd have gone into a clinch with you, that's all," is my reply. they hold a consultation, and their verdict is summed up in:-- "well, i guess you can ride, bo. there's no use trying to keep you off." and they go away and leave me in peace to the end of their division. i have given the foregoing as a sample of what "holding her down" means. of course, i have selected a fortunate night out of my experiences, and said nothing of the nights--and many of them--when i was tripped up by accident and ditched. in conclusion, i want to tell of what happened when i reached the end of the division. on single-track, transcontinental lines, the freight trains wait at the divisions and follow out after the passenger trains. when the division was reached, i left my train, and looked for the freight that would pull out behind it. i found the freight, made up on a side-track and waiting. i climbed into a box-car half full of coal and lay down. in no time i was asleep. i was awakened by the sliding open of the door. day was just dawning, cold and gray, and the freight had not yet started. a "con" (conductor) was poking his head inside the door. "get out of that, you blankety-blank-blank!" he roared at me. i got, and outside i watched him go down the line inspecting every car in the train. when he got out of sight i thought to myself that he would never think i'd have the nerve to climb back into the very car out of which he had fired me. so back i climbed and lay down again. now that con's mental processes must have been paralleling mine, for he reasoned that it was the very thing i would do. for back he came and fired me out. now, surely, i reasoned, he will never dream that i'd do it a third time. back i went, into the very same car. but i decided to make sure. only one side-door could be opened. the other side-door was nailed up. beginning at the top of the coal, i dug a hole alongside of that door and lay down in it. i heard the other door open. the con climbed up and looked in over the top of the coal. he couldn't see me. he called to me to get out. i tried to fool him by remaining quiet. but when he began tossing chunks of coal into the hole on top of me, i gave up and for the third time was fired out. also, he informed me in warm terms of what would happen to me if he caught me in there again. i changed my tactics. when a man is paralleling your mental processes, ditch him. abruptly break off your line of reasoning, and go off on a new line. this i did. i hid between some cars on an adjacent side-track, and watched. sure enough, that con came back again to the car. he opened the door, he climbed up, he called, he threw coal into the hole i had made. he even crawled over the coal and looked into the hole. that satisfied him. five minutes later the freight was pulling out, and he was not in sight. i ran alongside the car, pulled the door open, and climbed in. he never looked for me again, and i rode that coal-car precisely one thousand and twenty-two miles, sleeping most of the time and getting out at divisions (where the freights always stop for an hour or so) to beg my food. and at the end of the thousand and twenty-two miles i lost that car through a happy incident. i got a "set-down," and the tramp doesn't live who won't miss a train for a set-down any time. pictures "what do it matter where or 'ow we die, so long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all?" --sestina of the tramp-royal perhaps the greatest charm of tramp-life is the absence of monotony. in hobo land the face of life is protean--an ever changing phantasmagoria, where the impossible happens and the unexpected jumps out of the bushes at every turn of the road. the hobo never knows what is going to happen the next moment; hence, he lives only in the present moment. he has learned the futility of telic endeavor, and knows the delight of drifting along with the whimsicalities of chance. often i think over my tramp days, and ever i marvel at the swift succession of pictures that flash up in my memory. it matters not where i begin to think; any day of all the days is a day apart, with a record of swift-moving pictures all its own. for instance, i remember a sunny summer morning in harrisburg, pennsylvania, and immediately comes to my mind the auspicious beginning of the day--a "set-down" with two maiden ladies, and not in their kitchen, but in their dining room, with them beside me at the table. we ate eggs, out of egg-cups! it was the first time i had ever seen egg-cups, or heard of egg-cups! i was a bit awkward at first, i'll confess; but i was hungry and unabashed. i mastered the egg-cup, and i mastered the eggs in a way that made those two maiden ladies sit up. why, they ate like a couple of canaries, dabbling with the one egg each they took, and nibbling at tiny wafers of toast. life was low in their bodies; their blood ran thin; and they had slept warm all night. i had been out all night, consuming much fuel of my body to keep warm, beating my way down from a place called emporium, in the northern part of the state. wafers of toast! out of sight! but each wafer was no more than a mouthful to me--nay, no more than a bite. it is tedious to have to reach for another piece of toast each bite when one is potential with many bites. when i was a very little lad, i had a very little dog called punch. i saw to his feeding myself. some one in the household had shot a lot of ducks, and we had a fine meat dinner. when i had finished, i prepared punch's dinner--a large plateful of bones and tidbits. i went outside to give it to him. now it happened that a visitor had ridden over from a neighboring ranch, and with him had come a newfoundland dog as big as a calf. i set the plate on the ground. punch wagged his tail and began. he had before him a blissful half-hour at least. there was a sudden rush. punch was brushed aside like a straw in the path of a cyclone, and that newfoundland swooped down upon the plate. in spite of his huge maw he must have been trained to quick lunches, for, in the fleeting instant before he received the kick in the ribs i aimed at him, he completely engulfed the contents of the plate. he swept it clean. one last lingering lick of his tongue removed even the grease stains. as that big newfoundland behaved at the plate of my dog punch, so behaved i at the table of those two maiden ladies of harrisburg. i swept it bare. i didn't break anything, but i cleaned out the eggs and the toast and the coffee. the servant brought more, but i kept her busy, and ever she brought more and more. the coffee was delicious, but it needn't have been served in such tiny cups. what time had i to eat when it took all my time to prepare the many cups of coffee for drinking? at any rate, it gave my tongue time to wag. those two maiden ladies, with their pink-and-white complexions and gray curls, had never looked upon the bright face of adventure. as the "tramp-royal" would have it, they had worked all their lives "on one same shift." into the sweet scents and narrow confines of their uneventful existence i brought the large airs of the world, freighted with the lusty smells of sweat and strife, and with the tangs and odors of strange lands and soils. and right well i scratched their soft palms with the callous on my own palms--the half-inch horn that comes of pull-and-haul of rope and long and arduous hours of caressing shovel-handles. this i did, not merely in the braggadocio of youth, but to prove, by toil performed, the claim i had upon their charity. ah, i can see them now, those dear, sweet ladies, just as i sat at their breakfast table twelve years ago, discoursing upon the way of my feet in the world, brushing aside their kindly counsel as a real devilish fellow should, and thrilling them, not alone with my own adventures, but with the adventures of all the other fellows with whom i had rubbed shoulders and exchanged confidences. i appropriated them all, the adventures of the other fellows, i mean; and if those maiden ladies had been less trustful and guileless, they could have tangled me up beautifully in my chronology. well, well, and what of it? it was fair exchange. for their many cups of coffee, and eggs, and bites of toast, i gave full value. right royally i gave them entertainment. my coming to sit at their table was their adventure, and adventure is beyond price anyway. coming along the street, after parting from the maiden ladies, i gathered in a newspaper from the doorway of some late-riser, and in a grassy park lay down to get in touch with the last twenty-four hours of the world. there, in the park, i met a fellow-hobo who told me his life-story and who wrestled with me to join the united states army. he had given in to the recruiting officer and was just about to join, and he couldn't see why i shouldn't join with him. he had been a member of coxey's army in the march to washington several months before, and that seemed to have given him a taste for army life. i, too, was a veteran, for had i not been a private in company l of the second division of kelly's industrial army?--said company l being commonly known as the "nevada push." but my army experience had had the opposite effect on me; so i left that hobo to go his way to the dogs of war, while i "threw my feet" for dinner. this duty performed, i started to walk across the bridge over the susquehanna to the west shore. i forget the name of the railroad that ran down that side, but while lying in the grass in the morning the idea had come to me to go to baltimore; so to baltimore i was going on that railroad, whatever its name was. it was a warm afternoon, and part way across the bridge i came to a lot of fellows who were in swimming off one of the piers. off went my clothes and in went i. the water was fine; but when i came out and dressed, i found i had been robbed. some one had gone through my clothes. now i leave it to you if being robbed isn't in itself adventure enough for one day. i have known men who have been robbed and who have talked all the rest of their lives about it. true, the thief that went through my clothes didn't get much--some thirty or forty cents in nickels and pennies, and my tobacco and cigarette papers; but it was all i had, which is more than most men can be robbed of, for they have something left at home, while i had no home. it was a pretty tough gang in swimming there. i sized up, and knew better than to squeal. so i begged "the makings," and i could have sworn it was one of my own papers i rolled the tobacco in. then on across the bridge i hiked to the west shore. here ran the railroad i was after. no station was in sight. how to catch a freight without walking to a station was the problem. i noticed that the track came up a steep grade, culminating at the point where i had tapped it, and i knew that a heavy freight couldn't pull up there any too lively. but how lively? on the opposite side of the track rose a high bank. on the edge, at the top, i saw a man's head sticking up from the grass. perhaps he knew how fast the freights took the grade, and when the next one went south. i called out my questions to him, and he motioned to me to come up. i obeyed, and when i reached the top, i found four other men lying in the grass with him. i took in the scene and knew them for what they were--american gypsies. in the open space that extended back among the trees from the edge of the bank were several nondescript wagons. ragged, half-naked children swarmed over the camp, though i noticed that they took care not to come near and bother the men-folk. several lean, unbeautiful, and toil-degraded women were pottering about with camp-chores, and one i noticed who sat by herself on the seat of one of the wagons, her head drooped forward, her knees drawn up to her chin and clasped limply by her arms. she did not look happy. she looked as if she did not care for anything--in this i was wrong, for later i was to learn that there was something for which she did care. the full measure of human suffering was in her face, and, in addition, there was the tragic expression of incapacity for further suffering. nothing could hurt any more, was what her face seemed to portray; but in this, too, i was wrong. i lay in the grass on the edge of the steep and talked with the men-folk. we were kin--brothers. i was the american hobo, and they were the american gypsy. i knew enough of their argot for conversation, and they knew enough of mine. there were two more in their gang, who were across the river "mushing" in harrisburg. a "musher" is an itinerant fakir. this word is not to be confounded with the klondike "musher," though the origin of both terms may be the same; namely, the corruption of the french _marche ons_, to march, to walk, to "mush." the particular graft of the two mushers who had crossed the river was umbrella-mending; but what real graft lay behind their umbrella-mending, i was not told, nor would it have been polite to ask. it was a glorious day. not a breath of wind was stirring, and we basked in the shimmering warmth of the sun. from everywhere arose the drowsy hum of insects, and the balmy air was filled with scents of the sweet earth and the green growing things. we were too lazy to do more than mumble on in intermittent conversation. and then, all abruptly, the peace and quietude was jarred awry by man. two bare-legged boys of eight or nine in some minor way broke some rule of the camp--what it was i did not know; and a man who lay beside me suddenly sat up and called to them. he was chief of the tribe, a man with narrow forehead and narrow-slitted eyes, whose thin lips and twisted sardonic features explained why the two boys jumped and tensed like startled deer at the sound of his voice. the alertness of fear was in their faces, and they turned, in a panic, to run. he called to them to come back, and one boy lagged behind reluctantly, his meagre little frame portraying in pantomime the struggle within him between fear and reason. he wanted to come back. his intelligence and past experience told him that to come back was a lesser evil than to run on; but lesser evil that it was, it was great enough to put wings to his fear and urge his feet to flight. still he lagged and struggled until he reached the shelter of the trees, where he halted. the chief of the tribe did not pursue. he sauntered over to a wagon and picked up a heavy whip. then he came back to the centre of the open space and stood still. he did not speak. he made no gestures. he was the law, pitiless and omnipotent. he merely stood there and waited. and i knew, and all knew, and the two boys in the shelter of the trees knew, for what he waited. the boy who had lagged slowly came back. his face was stamped with quivering resolution. he did not falter. he had made up his mind to take his punishment. and mark you, the punishment was not for the original offence, but for the offence of running away. and in this, that tribal chieftain but behaved as behaves the exalted society in which he lived. we punish our criminals, and when they escape and run away, we bring them back and add to their punishment. straight up to the chief the boy came, halting at the proper distance for the swing of the lash. the whip hissed through the air, and i caught myself with a start of surprise at the weight of the blow. the thin little leg was so very thin and little. the flesh showed white where the lash had curled and bitten, and then, where the white had shown, sprang up the savage welt, with here and there along its length little scarlet oozings where the skin had broken. again the whip swung, and the boy's whole body winced in anticipation of the blow, though he did not move from the spot. his will held good. a second welt sprang up, and a third. it was not until the fourth landed that the boy screamed. also, he could no longer stand still, and from then on, blow after blow, he danced up and down in his anguish, screaming; but he did not attempt to run away. if his involuntary dancing took him beyond the reach of the whip, he danced back into range again. and when it was all over--a dozen blows--he went away, whimpering and squealing, among the wagons. the chief stood still and waited. the second boy came out from the trees. but he did not come straight. he came like a cringing dog, obsessed by little panics that made him turn and dart away for half a dozen steps. but always he turned and came back, circling nearer and nearer to the man, whimpering, making inarticulate animal-noises in his throat. i saw that he never looked at the man. his eyes always were fixed upon the whip, and in his eyes was a terror that made me sick--the frantic terror of an inconceivably maltreated child. i have seen strong men dropping right and left out of battle and squirming in their death-throes, i have seen them by scores blown into the air by bursting shells and their bodies torn asunder; believe me, the witnessing was as merrymaking and laughter and song to me in comparison with the way the sight of that poor child affected me. the whipping began. the whipping of the first boy was as play compared with this one. in no time the blood was running down his thin little legs. he danced and squirmed and doubled up till it seemed almost that he was some grotesque marionette operated by strings. i say "seemed," for his screaming gave the lie to the seeming and stamped it with reality. his shrieks were shrill and piercing; within them no hoarse notes, but only the thin sexlessness of the voice of a child. the time came when the boy could stand it no more. reason fled, and he tried to run away. but now the man followed up, curbing his flight, herding him with blows back always into the open space. then came interruption. i heard a wild smothered cry. the woman who sat in the wagon seat had got out and was running to interfere. she sprang between the man and boy. "you want some, eh?" said he with the whip. "all right, then." he swung the whip upon her. her skirts were long, so he did not try for her legs. he drove the lash for her face, which she shielded as best she could with her hands and forearms, drooping her head forward between her lean shoulders, and on the lean shoulders and arms receiving the blows. heroic mother! she knew just what she was doing. the boy, still shrieking, was making his get-away to the wagons. and all the while the four men lay beside me and watched and made no move. nor did i move, and without shame i say it; though my reason was compelled to struggle hard against my natural impulse to rise up and interfere. i knew life. of what use to the woman, or to me, would be my being beaten to death by five men there on the bank of the susquehanna? i once saw a man hanged, and though my whole soul cried protest, my mouth cried not. had it cried, i should most likely have had my skull crushed by the butt of a revolver, for it was the law that the man should hang. and here, in this gypsy group, it was the law that the woman should be whipped. even so, the reason in both cases that i did not interfere was not that it was the law, but that the law was stronger than i. had it not been for those four men beside me in the grass, right gladly would i have waded into the man with the whip. and, barring the accident of the landing on me with a knife or a club in the hands of some of the various women of the camp, i am confident that i should have beaten him into a mess. but the four men _were_ beside me in the grass. they made their law stronger than i. oh, believe me, i did my own suffering. i had seen women beaten before, often, but never had i seen such a beating as this. her dress across the shoulders was cut into shreds. one blow that had passed her guard, had raised a bloody welt from cheek to chin. not one blow, nor two, not one dozen, nor two dozen, but endlessly, infinitely, that whip-lash smote and curled about her. the sweat poured from me, and i breathed hard, clutching at the grass with my hands until i strained it out by the roots. and all the time my reason kept whispering, "fool! fool!" that welt on the face nearly did for me. i started to rise to my feet; but the hand of the man next to me went out to my shoulder and pressed me down. "easy, pardner, easy," he warned me in a low voice. i looked at him. his eyes met mine unwaveringly. he was a large man, broad-shouldered and heavy-muscled; and his face was lazy, phlegmatic, slothful, withal kindly, yet without passion, and quite soulless--a dim soul, unmalicious, unmoral, bovine, and stubborn. just an animal he was, with no more than a faint flickering of intelligence, a good-natured brute with the strength and mental caliber of a gorilla. his hand pressed heavily upon me, and i knew the weight of the muscles behind. i looked at the other brutes, two of them unperturbed and incurious, and one of them that gloated over the spectacle; and my reason came back to me, my muscles relaxed, and i sank down in the grass. my mind went back to the two maiden ladies with whom i had had breakfast that morning. less than two miles, as the crow flies, separated them from this scene. here, in the windless day, under a beneficent sun, was a sister of theirs being beaten by a brother of mine. here was a page of life they could never see--and better so, though for lack of seeing they would never be able to understand their sisterhood, nor themselves, nor know the clay of which they were made. for it is not given to woman to live in sweet-scented, narrow rooms and at the same time be a little sister to all the world. the whipping was finished, and the woman, no longer screaming, went back to her seat in the wagon. nor did the other women come to her--just then. they were afraid. but they came afterward, when a decent interval had elapsed. the man put the whip away and rejoined us, flinging himself down on the other side of me. he was breathing hard from his exertions. he wiped the sweat from his eyes on his coat-sleeve, and looked challengingly at me. i returned his look carelessly; what he had done was no concern of mine. i did not go away abruptly. i lay there half an hour longer, which, under the circumstances, was tact and etiquette. i rolled cigarettes from tobacco i borrowed from them, and when i slipped down the bank to the railroad, i was equipped with the necessary information for catching the next freight bound south. well, and what of it? it was a page out of life, that's all; and there are many pages worse, far worse, that i have seen. i have sometimes held forth (facetiously, so my listeners believed) that the chief distinguishing trait between man and the other animals is that man is the only animal that maltreats the females of his kind. it is something of which no wolf nor cowardly coyote is ever guilty. it is something that even the dog, degenerated by domestication, will not do. the dog still retains the wild instinct in this matter, while man has lost most of his wild instincts--at least, most of the good ones. worse pages of life than what i have described? read the reports on child labor in the united states,--east, west, north, and south, it doesn't matter where,--and know that all of us, profit-mongers that we are, are typesetters and printers of worse pages of life than that mere page of wife-beating on the susquehanna. i went down the grade a hundred yards to where the footing beside the track was good. here i could catch my freight as it pulled slowly up the hill, and here i found half a dozen hoboes waiting for the same purpose. several were playing seven-up with an old pack of cards. i took a hand. a coon began to shuffle the deck. he was fat, and young, and moon-faced. he beamed with good-nature. it fairly oozed from him. as he dealt the first card to me, he paused and said:-- "say, bo, ain't i done seen you befo'?" "you sure have," i answered. "an' you didn't have those same duds on, either." he was puzzled. "d'ye remember buffalo?" i queried. then he knew me, and with laughter and ejaculation hailed me as a comrade; for at buffalo his clothes had been striped while he did his bit of time in the erie county penitentiary. for that matter, my clothes had been likewise striped, for i had been doing my bit of time, too. the game proceeded, and i learned the stake for which we played. down the bank toward the river descended a steep and narrow path that led to a spring some twenty-five feet beneath. we played on the edge of the bank. the man who was "stuck" had to take a small condensed-milk can, and with it carry water to the winners. the first game was played and the coon was stuck. he took the small milk-tin and climbed down the bank, while we sat above and guyed him. we drank like fish. four round trips he had to make for me alone, and the others were equally lavish with their thirst. the path was very steep, and sometimes the coon slipped when part way up, spilled the water, and had to go back for more. but he didn't get angry. he laughed as heartily as any of us; that was why he slipped so often. also, he assured us of the prodigious quantities of water he would drink when some one else got stuck. when our thirst was quenched, another game was started. again the coon was stuck, and again we drank our fill. a third game and a fourth ended the same way, and each time that moon-faced darky nearly died with delight at appreciation of the fate that chance was dealing out to him. and we nearly died with him, what of our delight. we laughed like careless children, or gods, there on the edge of the bank. i know that i laughed till it seemed the top of my head would come off, and i drank from the milk-tin till i was nigh waterlogged. serious discussion arose as to whether we could successfully board the freight when it pulled up the grade, what of the weight of water secreted on our persons. this particular phase of the situation just about finished the coon. he had to break off from water-carrying for at least five minutes while he lay down and rolled with laughter. the lengthening shadows stretched farther and farther across the river, and the soft, cool twilight came on, and ever we drank water, and ever our ebony cup-bearer brought more and more. forgotten was the beaten woman of the hour before. that was a page read and turned over; i was busy now with this new page, and when the engine whistled on the grade, this page would be finished and another begun; and so the book of life goes on, page after page and pages without end--when one is young. and then we played a game in which the coon failed to be stuck. the victim was a lean and dyspeptic-looking hobo, the one who had laughed least of all of us. we said we didn't want any water--which was the truth. not the wealth of ormuz and of ind, nor the pressure of a pneumatic ram, could have forced another drop into my saturated carcass. the coon looked disappointed, then rose to the occasion and guessed he'd have some. he meant it, too. he had some, and then some, and then some. ever the melancholy hobo climbed down and up the steep bank, and ever the coon called for more. he drank more water than all the rest of us put together. the twilight deepened into night, the stars came out, and he still drank on. i do believe that if the whistle of the freight hadn't sounded, he'd be there yet, swilling water and revenge while the melancholy hobo toiled down and up. but the whistle sounded. the page was done. we sprang to our feet and strung out alongside the track. there she came, coughing and spluttering up the grade, the headlight turning night into day and silhouetting us in sharp relief. the engine passed us, and we were all running with the train, some boarding on the side-ladders, others "springing" the side-doors of empty box-cars and climbing in. i caught a flat-car loaded with mixed lumber and crawled away into a comfortable nook. i lay on my back with a newspaper under my head for a pillow. above me the stars were winking and wheeling in squadrons back and forth as the train rounded the curves, and watching them i fell asleep. the day was done--one day of all my days. to-morrow would be another day, and i was young. "pinched" i rode into niagara falls in a "side-door pullman," or, in common parlance, a box-car. a flat-car, by the way, is known amongst the fraternity as a "gondola," with the second syllable emphasized and pronounced long. but to return. i arrived in the afternoon and headed straight from the freight train to the falls. once my eyes were filled with that wonder-vision of down-rushing water, i was lost. i could not tear myself away long enough to "batter" the "privates" (domiciles) for my supper. even a "set-down" could not have lured me away. night came on, a beautiful night of moonlight, and i lingered by the falls until after eleven. then it was up to me to hunt for a place to "kip." "kip," "doss," "flop," "pound your ear," all mean the same thing; namely, to sleep. somehow, i had a "hunch" that niagara falls was a "bad" town for hoboes, and i headed out into the country. i climbed a fence and "flopped" in a field. john law would never find me there, i flattered myself. i lay on my back in the grass and slept like a babe. it was so balmy warm that i woke up not once all night. but with the first gray daylight my eyes opened, and i remembered the wonderful falls. i climbed the fence and started down the road to have another look at them. it was early--not more than five o'clock--and not until eight o'clock could i begin to batter for my breakfast. i could spend at least three hours by the river. alas! i was fated never to see the river nor the falls again. the town was asleep when i entered it. as i came along the quiet street, i saw three men coming toward me along the sidewalk. they were walking abreast. hoboes, i decided, like myself, who had got up early. in this surmise i was not quite correct. i was only sixty-six and two-thirds per cent correct. the men on each side were hoboes all right, but the man in the middle wasn't. i directed my steps to the edge of the sidewalk in order to let the trio go by. but it didn't go by. at some word from the man in the centre, all three halted, and he of the centre addressed me. i piped the lay on the instant. he was a "fly-cop" and the two hoboes were his prisoners. john law was up and out after the early worm. i was a worm. had i been richer by the experiences that were to befall me in the next several months, i should have turned and run like the very devil. he might have shot at me, but he'd have had to hit me to get me. he'd have never run after me, for two hoboes in the hand are worth more than one on the get-away. but like a dummy i stood still when he halted me. our conversation was brief. "what hotel are you stopping at?" he queried. he had me. i wasn't stopping at any hotel, and, since i did not know the name of a hotel in the place, i could not claim residence in any of them. also, i was up too early in the morning. everything was against me. "i just arrived," i said. "well, you turn around and walk in front of me, and not too far in front. there's somebody wants to see you." i was "pinched." i knew who wanted to see me. with that "fly-cop" and the two hoboes at my heels, and under the direction of the former, i led the way to the city jail. there we were searched and our names registered. i have forgotten, now, under which name i was registered. i gave the name of jack drake, but when they searched me, they found letters addressed to jack london. this caused trouble and required explanation, all of which has passed from my mind, and to this day i do not know whether i was pinched as jack drake or jack london. but one or the other, it should be there to-day in the prison register of niagara falls. reference can bring it to light. the time was somewhere in the latter part of june, . it was only a few days after my arrest that the great railroad strike began. from the office we were led to the "hobo" and locked in. the "hobo" is that part of a prison where the minor offenders are confined together in a large iron cage. since hoboes constitute the principal division of the minor offenders, the aforesaid iron cage is called the hobo. here we met several hoboes who had already been pinched that morning, and every little while the door was unlocked and two or three more were thrust in on us. at last, when we totalled sixteen, we were led upstairs into the court-room. and now i shall faithfully describe what took place in that court-room, for know that my patriotic american citizenship there received a shock from which it has never fully recovered. in the court-room were the sixteen prisoners, the judge, and two bailiffs. the judge seemed to act as his own clerk. there were no witnesses. there were no citizens of niagara falls present to look on and see how justice was administered in their community. the judge glanced at the list of cases before him and called out a name. a hobo stood up. the judge glanced at a bailiff. "vagrancy, your honor," said the bailiff. "thirty days," said his honor. the hobo sat down, and the judge was calling another name and another hobo was rising to his feet. the trial of that hobo had taken just about fifteen seconds. the trial of the next hobo came off with equal celerity. the bailiff said, "vagrancy, your honor," and his honor said, "thirty days." thus it went like clockwork, fifteen seconds to a hobo--and thirty days. they are poor dumb cattle, i thought to myself. but wait till my turn comes; i'll give his honor a "spiel." part way along in the performance, his honor, moved by some whim, gave one of us an opportunity to speak. as chance would have it, this man was not a genuine hobo. he bore none of the ear-marks of the professional "stiff." had he approached the rest of us, while waiting at a water-tank for a freight, we should have unhesitatingly classified him as a "gay-cat." gay-cat is the synonym for tenderfoot in hobo land. this gay-cat was well along in years--somewhere around forty-five, i should judge. his shoulders were humped a trifle, and his face was seamed by weather-beat. for many years, according to his story, he had driven team for some firm in (if i remember rightly) lockport, new york. the firm had ceased to prosper, and finally, in the hard times of , had gone out of business. he had been kept on to the last, though toward the last his work had been very irregular. he went on and explained at length his difficulties in getting work (when so many were out of work) during the succeeding months. in the end, deciding that he would find better opportunities for work on the lakes, he had started for buffalo. of course he was "broke," and there he was. that was all. "thirty days," said his honor, and called another hobo's name. said hobo got up. "vagrancy, your honor," said the bailiff, and his honor said, "thirty days." and so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty days to each hobo. the machine of justice was grinding smoothly. most likely, considering how early it was in the morning, his honor had not yet had his breakfast and was in a hurry. but my american blood was up. behind me were the many generations of my american ancestry. one of the kinds of liberty those ancestors of mine had fought and died for was the right of trial by jury. this was my heritage, stained sacred by their blood, and it devolved upon me to stand up for it. all right, i threatened to myself; just wait till he gets to me. he got to me. my name, whatever it was, was called, and i stood up. the bailiff said, "vagrancy, your honor," and i began to talk. but the judge began talking at the same time, and he said, "thirty days." i started to protest, but at that moment his honor was calling the name of the next hobo on the list. his honor paused long enough to say to me, "shut up!" the bailiff forced me to sit down. and the next moment that next hobo had received thirty days and the succeeding hobo was just in process of getting his. when we had all been disposed of, thirty days to each stiff, his honor, just as he was about to dismiss us, suddenly turned to the teamster from lockport--the one man he had allowed to talk. "why did you quit your job?" his honor asked. now the teamster had already explained how his job had quit him, and the question took him aback. "your honor," he began confusedly, "isn't that a funny question to ask?" "thirty days more for quitting your job," said his honor, and the court was closed. that was the outcome. the teamster got sixty days all together, while the rest of us got thirty days. we were taken down below, locked up, and given breakfast. it was a pretty good breakfast, as prison breakfasts go, and it was the best i was to get for a month to come. as for me, i was dazed. here was i, under sentence, after a farce of a trial wherein i was denied not only my right of trial by jury, but my right to plead guilty or not guilty. another thing my fathers had fought for flashed through my brain--habeas corpus. i'd show them. but when i asked for a lawyer, i was laughed at. habeas corpus was all right, but of what good was it to me when i could communicate with no one outside the jail? but i'd show them. they couldn't keep me in jail forever. just wait till i got out, that was all. i'd make them sit up. i knew something about the law and my own rights, and i'd expose their maladministration of justice. visions of damage suits and sensational newspaper headlines were dancing before my eyes when the jailers came in and began hustling us out into the main office. a policeman snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. (ah, ha, thought i, a new indignity. just wait till i get out.) on the left wrist of a negro he snapped the other handcuff of that pair. he was a very tall negro, well past six feet--so tall was he that when we stood side by side his hand lifted mine up a trifle in the manacles. also, he was the happiest and the raggedest negro i have ever seen. we were all handcuffed similarly, in pairs. this accomplished, a bright nickel-steel chain was brought forth, run down through the links of all the handcuffs, and locked at front and rear of the double-line. we were now a chain-gang. the command to march was given, and out we went upon the street, guarded by two officers. the tall negro and i had the place of honor. we led the procession. after the tomb-like gloom of the jail, the outside sunshine was dazzling. i had never known it to be so sweet as now, a prisoner with clanking chains, i knew that i was soon to see the last of it for thirty days. down through the streets of niagara falls we marched to the railroad station, stared at by curious passers-by, and especially by a group of tourists on the veranda of a hotel that we marched past. there was plenty of slack in the chain, and with much rattling and clanking we sat down, two and two, in the seats of the smoking-car. afire with indignation as i was at the outrage that had been perpetrated on me and my forefathers, i was nevertheless too prosaically practical to lose my head over it. this was all new to me. thirty days of mystery were before me, and i looked about me to find somebody who knew the ropes. for i had already learned that i was not bound for a petty jail with a hundred or so prisoners in it, but for a full-grown penitentiary with a couple of thousand prisoners in it, doing anywhere from ten days to ten years. in the seat behind me, attached to the chain by his wrist, was a squat, heavily-built, powerfully-muscled man. he was somewhere between thirty-five and forty years of age. i sized him up. in the corners of his eyes i saw humor and laughter and kindliness. as for the rest of him, he was a brute-beast, wholly unmoral, and with all the passion and turgid violence of the brute-beast. what saved him, what made him possible for me, were those corners of his eyes--the humor and laughter and kindliness of the beast when unaroused. he was my "meat." i "cottoned" to him. while my cuff-mate, the tall negro, mourned with chucklings and laughter over some laundry he was sure to lose through his arrest, and while the train rolled on toward buffalo, i talked with the man in the seat behind me. he had an empty pipe. i filled it for him with my precious tobacco--enough in a single filling to make a dozen cigarettes. nay, the more we talked the surer i was that he was my meat, and i divided all my tobacco with him. now it happens that i am a fluid sort of an organism, with sufficient kinship with life to fit myself in 'most anywhere. i laid myself out to fit in with that man, though little did i dream to what extraordinary good purpose i was succeeding. he had never been in the particular penitentiary to which we were going, but he had done "one-," "two-," and "five-spots" in various other penitentiaries (a "spot" is a year), and he was filled with wisdom. we became pretty chummy, and my heart bounded when he cautioned me to follow his lead. he called me "jack," and i called him "jack." the train stopped at a station about five miles from buffalo, and we, the chain-gang, got off. i do not remember the name of this station, but i am confident that it is some one of the following: rocklyn, rockwood, black rock, rockcastle, or newcastle. but whatever the name of the place, we were walked a short distance and then put on a street-car. it was an old-fashioned car, with a seat, running the full length, on each side. all the passengers who sat on one side were asked to move over to the other side, and we, with a great clanking of chain, took their places. we sat facing them, i remember, and i remember, too, the awed expression on the faces of the women, who took us, undoubtedly, for convicted murderers and bank-robbers. i tried to look my fiercest, but that cuff-mate of mine, the too happy negro, insisted on rolling his eyes, laughing, and reiterating, "o lawdy! lawdy!" we left the car, walked some more, and were led into the office of the erie county penitentiary. here we were to register, and on that register one or the other of my names will be found. also, we were informed that we must leave in the office all our valuables: money, tobacco, matches, pocketknives, and so forth. my new pal shook his head at me. "if you do not leave your things here, they will be confiscated inside," warned the official. still my pal shook his head. he was busy with his hands, hiding his movements behind the other fellows. (our handcuffs had been removed.) i watched him, and followed suit, wrapping up in a bundle in my handkerchief all the things i wanted to take in. these bundles the two of us thrust into our shirts. i noticed that our fellow-prisoners, with the exception of one or two who had watches, did not turn over their belongings to the man in the office. they were determined to smuggle them in somehow, trusting to luck; but they were not so wise as my pal, for they did not wrap their things in bundles. our erstwhile guardians gathered up the handcuffs and chain and departed for niagara falls, while we, under new guardians, were led away into the prison. while we were in the office, our number had been added to by other squads of newly arrived prisoners, so that we were now a procession forty or fifty strong. know, ye unimprisoned, that traffic is as restricted inside a large prison as commerce was in the middle ages. once inside a penitentiary, one cannot move about at will. every few steps are encountered great steel doors or gates which are always kept locked. we were bound for the barber-shop, but we encountered delays in the unlocking of doors for us. we were thus delayed in the first "hall" we entered. a "hall" is not a corridor. imagine an oblong cube, built out of bricks and rising six stories high, each story a row of cells, say fifty cells in a row--in short, imagine a cube of colossal honeycomb. place this cube on the ground and enclose it in a building with a roof overhead and walls all around. such a cube and encompassing building constitute a "hall" in the erie county penitentiary. also, to complete the picture, see a narrow gallery, with steel railing, running the full length of each tier of cells and at the ends of the oblong cube see all these galleries, from both sides, connected by a fire-escape system of narrow steel stairways. we were halted in the first hall, waiting for some guard to unlock a door. here and there, moving about, were convicts, with close-cropped heads and shaven faces, and garbed in prison stripes. one such convict i noticed above us on the gallery of the third tier of cells. he was standing on the gallery and leaning forward, his arms resting on the railing, himself apparently oblivious of our presence. he seemed staring into vacancy. my pal made a slight hissing noise. the convict glanced down. motioned signals passed between them. then through the air soared the handkerchief bundle of my pal. the convict caught it, and like a flash it was out of sight in his shirt and he was staring into vacancy. my pal had told me to follow his lead. i watched my chance when the guard's back was turned, and my bundle followed the other one into the shirt of the convict. a minute later the door was unlocked, and we filed into the barber-shop. here were more men in convict stripes. they were the prison barbers. also, there were bath-tubs, hot water, soap, and scrubbing-brushes. we were ordered to strip and bathe, each man to scrub his neighbor's back--a needless precaution, this compulsory bath, for the prison swarmed with vermin. after the bath, we were each given a canvas clothes-bag. "put all your clothes in the bags," said the guard. "it's no good trying to smuggle anything in. you've got to line up naked for inspection. men for thirty days or less keep their shoes and suspenders. men for more than thirty days keep nothing." this announcement was received with consternation. how could naked men smuggle anything past an inspection? only my pal and i were safe. but it was right here that the convict barbers got in their work. they passed among the poor newcomers, kindly volunteering to take charge of their precious little belongings, and promising to return them later in the day. those barbers were philanthropists--to hear them talk. as in the case of fra lippo lippi, never was there such prompt disemburdening. matches, tobacco, rice-paper, pipes, knives, money, everything, flowed into the capacious shirts of the barbers. they fairly bulged with the spoil, and the guards made believe not to see. to cut the story short, nothing was ever returned. the barbers never had any intention of returning what they had taken. they considered it legitimately theirs. it was the barber-shop graft. there were many grafts in that prison, as i was to learn; and i, too, was destined to become a grafter--thanks to my new pal. there were several chairs, and the barbers worked rapidly. the quickest shaves and hair-cuts i have ever seen were given in that shop. the men lathered themselves, and the barbers shaved them at the rate of a minute to a man. a hair-cut took a trifle longer. in three minutes the down of eighteen was scraped from my face, and my head was as smooth as a billiard-ball just sprouting a crop of bristles. beards, mustaches, like our clothes and everything, came off. take my word for it, we were a villainous-looking gang when they got through with us. i had not realized before how really altogether bad we were. then came the line-up, forty or fifty of us, naked as kipling's heroes who stormed lungtungpen. to search us was easy. there were only our shoes and ourselves. two or three rash spirits, who had doubted the barbers, had the goods found on them--which goods, namely, tobacco, pipes, matches, and small change, were quickly confiscated. this over, our new clothes were brought to us--stout prison shirts, and coats and trousers conspicuously striped. i had always lingered under the impression that the convict stripes were put on a man only after he had been convicted of a felony. i lingered no longer, but put on the insignia of shame and got my first taste of marching the lock-step. in single file, close together, each man's hands on the shoulders of the man in front, we marched on into another large hall. here we were ranged up against the wall in a long line and ordered to strip our left arms. a youth, a medical student who was getting in his practice on cattle such as we, came down the line. he vaccinated just about four times as rapidly as the barbers shaved. with a final caution to avoid rubbing our arms against anything, and to let the blood dry so as to form the scab, we were led away to our cells. here my pal and i parted, but not before he had time to whisper to me, "suck it out." as soon as i was locked in, i sucked my arm clean. and afterward i saw men who had not sucked and who had horrible holes in their arms into which i could have thrust my fist. it was their own fault. they could have sucked. in my cell was another man. we were to be cell-mates. he was a young, manly fellow, not talkative, but very capable, indeed as splendid a fellow as one could meet with in a day's ride, and this in spite of the fact that he had just recently finished a two-year term in some ohio penitentiary. hardly had we been in our cell half an hour, when a convict sauntered down the gallery and looked in. it was my pal. he had the freedom of the hall, he explained. he was unlocked at six in the morning and not locked up again till nine at night. he was in with the "push" in that hall, and had been promptly appointed a trusty of the kind technically known as "hall-man." the man who had appointed him was also a prisoner and a trusty, and was known as "first hall-man." there were thirteen hall-men in that hall. ten of them had charge each of a gallery of cells, and over them were the first, second, and third hall-men. we newcomers were to stay in our cells for the rest of the day, my pal informed me, so that the vaccine would have a chance to take. then next morning we would be put to hard labor in the prison-yard. "but i'll get you out of the work as soon as i can," he promised. "i'll get one of the hall-men fired and have you put in his place." he put his hand into his shirt, drew out the handkerchief containing my precious belongings, passed it in to me through the bars, and went on down the gallery. i opened the bundle. everything was there. not even a match was missing. i shared the makings of a cigarette with my cell-mate. when i started to strike a match for a light, he stopped me. a flimsy, dirty comforter lay in each of our bunks for bedding. he tore off a narrow strip of the thin cloth and rolled it tightly and telescopically into a long and slender cylinder. this he lighted with a precious match. the cylinder of tight-rolled cotton cloth did not flame. on the end a coal of fire slowly smouldered. it would last for hours, and my cell-mate called it a "punk." and when it burned short, all that was necessary was to make a new punk, put the end of it against the old, blow on them, and so transfer the glowing coal. why, we could have given prometheus pointers on the conserving of fire. at twelve o'clock dinner was served. at the bottom of our cage door was a small opening like the entrance of a runway in a chicken-yard. through this were thrust two hunks of dry bread and two pannikins of "soup." a portion of soup consisted of about a quart of hot water with floating on its surface a lonely drop of grease. also, there was some salt in that water. we drank the soup, but we did not eat the bread. not that we were not hungry, and not that the bread was uneatable. it was fairly good bread. but we had reasons. my cell-mate had discovered that our cell was alive with bed-bugs. in all the cracks and interstices between the bricks where the mortar had fallen out flourished great colonies. the natives even ventured out in the broad daylight and swarmed over the walls and ceiling by hundreds. my cell-mate was wise in the ways of the beasts. like childe roland, dauntless the slug-horn to his lips he bore. never was there such a battle. it lasted for hours. it was shambles. and when the last survivors fled to their brick-and-mortar fastnesses, our work was only half done. we chewed mouthfuls of our bread until it was reduced to the consistency of putty. when a fleeing belligerent escaped into a crevice between the bricks, we promptly walled him in with a daub of the chewed bread. we toiled on until the light grew dim and until every hole, nook, and cranny was closed. i shudder to think of the tragedies of starvation and cannibalism that must have ensued behind those bread-plastered ramparts. we threw ourselves on our bunks, tired out and hungry, to wait for supper. it was a good day's work well done. in the weeks to come we at least should not suffer from the hosts of vermin. we had foregone our dinner, saved our hides at the expense of our stomachs; but we were content. alas for the futility of human effort! scarcely was our long task completed when a guard unlocked our door. a redistribution of prisoners was being made, and we were taken to another cell and locked in two galleries higher up. early next morning our cells were unlocked, and down in the hall the several hundred prisoners of us formed the lock-step and marched out into the prison-yard to go to work. the erie canal runs right by the back yard of the erie county penitentiary. our task was to unload canal-boats, carrying huge stay-bolts on our shoulders, like railroad ties, into the prison. as i worked i sized up the situation and studied the chances for a get-away. there wasn't the ghost of a show. along the tops of the walls marched guards armed with repeating rifles, and i was told, furthermore, that there were machine-guns in the sentry-towers. i did not worry. thirty days were not so long. i'd stay those thirty days, and add to the store of material i intended to use, when i got out, against the harpies of justice. i'd show what an american boy could do when his rights and privileges had been trampled on the way mine had. i had been denied my right of trial by jury; i had been denied my right to plead guilty or not guilty; i had been denied a trial even (for i couldn't consider that what i had received at niagara falls was a trial); i had not been allowed to communicate with a lawyer nor any one, and hence had been denied my right of suing for a writ of habeas corpus; my face had been shaved, my hair cropped close, convict stripes had been put upon my body; i was forced to toil hard on a diet of bread and water and to march the shameful lock-step with armed guards over me--and all for what? what had i done? what crime had i committed against the good citizens of niagara falls that all this vengeance should be wreaked upon me? i had not even violated their "sleeping-out" ordinance. i had slept outside their jurisdiction, in the country, that night. i had not even begged for a meal, or battered for a "light piece" on their streets. all that i had done was to walk along their sidewalk and gaze at their picayune waterfall. and what crime was there in that? technically i was guilty of no misdemeanor. all right, i'd show them when i got out. the next day i talked with a guard. i wanted to send for a lawyer. the guard laughed at me. so did the other guards. i really was _incommunicado_ so far as the outside world was concerned. i tried to write a letter out, but i learned that all letters were read, and censured or confiscated, by the prison authorities, and that "short-timers" were not allowed to write letters anyway. a little later i tried smuggling letters out by men who were released, but i learned that they were searched and the letters found and destroyed. never mind. it all helped to make it a blacker case when i did get out. but as the prison days went by (which i shall describe in the next chapter), i "learned a few." i heard tales of the police, and police-courts, and lawyers, that were unbelievable and monstrous. men, prisoners, told me of personal experiences with the police of great cities that were awful. and more awful were the hearsay tales they told me concerning men who had died at the hands of the police and who therefore could not testify for themselves. years afterward, in the report of the lexow committee, i was to read tales true and more awful than those told to me. but in the meantime, during the first days of my imprisonment, i scoffed at what i heard. as the days went by, however, i began to grow convinced. i saw with my own eyes, there in that prison, things unbelievable and monstrous. and the more convinced i became, the profounder grew the respect in me for the sleuth-hounds of the law and for the whole institution of criminal justice. my indignation ebbed away, and into my being rushed the tides of fear. i saw at last, clear-eyed, what i was up against. i grew meek and lowly. each day i resolved more emphatically to make no rumpus when i got out. all i asked, when i got out, was a chance to fade away from the landscape. and that was just what i did do when i was released. i kept my tongue between my teeth, walked softly, and sneaked for pennsylvania, a wiser and a humbler man. the pen for two days i toiled in the prison-yard. it was heavy work, and, in spite of the fact that i malingered at every opportunity, i was played out. this was because of the food. no man could work hard on such food. bread and water, that was all that was given us. once a week we were supposed to get meat; but this meat did not always go around, and since all nutriment had first been boiled out of it in the making of soup, it didn't matter whether one got a taste of it once a week or not. furthermore, there was one vital defect in the bread-and-water diet. while we got plenty of water, we did not get enough of the bread. a ration of bread was about the size of one's two fists, and three rations a day were given to each prisoner. there was one good thing, i must say, about the water--it was hot. in the morning it was called "coffee," at noon it was dignified as "soup," and at night it masqueraded as "tea." but it was the same old water all the time. the prisoners called it "water bewitched." in the morning it was black water, the color being due to boiling it with burnt bread-crusts. at noon it was served minus the color, with salt and a drop of grease added. at night it was served with a purplish-auburn hue that defied all speculation; it was darn poor tea, but it was dandy hot water. we were a hungry lot in the erie county pen. only the "long-timers" knew what it was to have enough to eat. the reason for this was that they would have died after a time on the fare we "short-timers" received. i know that the long-timers got more substantial grub, because there was a whole row of them on the ground floor in our hall, and when i was a trusty, i used to steal from their grub while serving them. man cannot live on bread alone and not enough of it. my pal delivered the goods. after two days of work in the yard i was taken out of my cell and made a trusty, a "hall-man." at morning and night we served the bread to the prisoners in their cells; but at twelve o'clock a different method was used. the convicts marched in from work in a long line. as they entered the door of our hall, they broke the lock-step and took their hands down from the shoulders of their line-mates. just inside the door were piled trays of bread, and here also stood the first hall-man and two ordinary hall-men. i was one of the two. our task was to hold the trays of bread as the line of convicts filed past. as soon as the tray, say, that i was holding was emptied, the other hall-man took my place with a full tray. and when his was emptied, i took his place with a full tray. thus the line tramped steadily by, each man reaching with his right hand and taking one ration of bread from the extended tray. the task of the first hall-man was different. he used a club. he stood beside the tray and watched. the hungry wretches could never get over the delusion that sometime they could manage to get two rations of bread out of the tray. but in my experience that sometime never came. the club of the first hall-man had a way of flashing out--quick as the stroke of a tiger's claw--to the hand that dared ambitiously. the first hall-man was a good judge of distance, and he had smashed so many hands with that club that he had become infallible. he never missed, and he usually punished the offending convict by taking his one ration away from him and sending him to his cell to make his meal off of hot water. and at times, while all these men lay hungry in their cells, i have seen a hundred or so extra rations of bread hidden away in the cells of the hall-men. it would seem absurd, our retaining this bread. but it was one of our grafts. we were economic masters inside our hall, turning the trick in ways quite similar to the economic masters of civilization. we controlled the food-supply of the population, and, just like our brother bandits outside, we made the people pay through the nose for it. we peddled the bread. once a week, the men who worked in the yard received a five-cent plug of chewing tobacco. this chewing tobacco was the coin of the realm. two or three rations of bread for a plug was the way we exchanged, and they traded, not because they loved tobacco less, but because they loved bread more. oh, i know, it was like taking candy from a baby, but what would you? we had to live. and certainly there should be some reward for initiative and enterprise. besides, we but patterned ourselves after our betters outside the walls, who, on a larger scale, and under the respectable disguise of merchants, bankers, and captains of industry, did precisely what we were doing. what awful things would have happened to those poor wretches if it hadn't been for us, i can't imagine. heaven knows we put bread into circulation in the erie county pen. ay, and we encouraged frugality and thrift ... in the poor devils who forewent their tobacco. and then there was our example. in the breast of every convict there we implanted the ambition to become even as we and run a graft. saviours of society--i guess yes. here was a hungry man without any tobacco. maybe he was a profligate and had used it all up on himself. very good; he had a pair of suspenders. i exchanged half a dozen rations of bread for it--or a dozen rations if the suspenders were very good. now i never wore suspenders, but that didn't matter. around the corner lodged a long-timer, doing ten years for manslaughter. he wore suspenders, and he wanted a pair. i could trade them to him for some of his meat. meat was what i wanted. or perhaps he had a tattered, paper-covered novel. that was treasure-trove. i could read it and then trade it off to the bakers for cake, or to the cooks for meat and vegetables, or to the firemen for decent coffee, or to some one or other for the newspaper that occasionally filtered in, heaven alone knows how. the cooks, bakers, and firemen were prisoners like myself, and they lodged in our hall in the first row of cells over us. in short, a full-grown system of barter obtained in the erie county pen. there was even money in circulation. this money was sometimes smuggled in by the short-timers, more frequently came from the barber-shop graft, where the newcomers were mulcted, but most of all flowed from the cells of the long-timers--though how they got it i don't know. what of his preeminent position, the first hall-man was reputed to be quite wealthy. in addition to his miscellaneous grafts, he grafted on us. we farmed the general wretchedness, and the first hall-man was farmer-general over all of us. we held our particular grafts by his permission, and we had to pay for that permission. as i say, he was reputed to be wealthy; but we never saw his money, and he lived in a cell all to himself in solitary grandeur. but that money was made in the pen i had direct evidence, for i was cell-mate quite a time with the third hall-man. he had over sixteen dollars. he used to count his money every night after nine o'clock, when we were locked in. also, he used to tell me each night what he would do to me if i gave away on him to the other hall-men. you see, he was afraid of being robbed, and danger threatened him from three different directions. there were the guards. a couple of them might jump upon him, give him a good beating for alleged insubordination, and throw him into the "solitaire" (the dungeon); and in the mix-up that sixteen dollars of his would take wings. then again, the first hall-man could have taken it all away from him by threatening to dismiss him and fire him back to hard labor in the prison-yard. and yet again, there were the ten of us who were ordinary hall-men. if we got an inkling of his wealth, there was a large liability, some quiet day, of the whole bunch of us getting him into a corner and dragging him down. oh, we were wolves, believe me--just like the fellows who do business in wall street. he had good reason to be afraid of us, and so had i to be afraid of him. he was a huge, illiterate brute, an ex-chesapeake-bay-oyster-pirate, an "ex-con" who had done five years in sing sing, and a general all-around stupidly carnivorous beast. he used to trap sparrows that flew into our hall through the open bars. when he made a capture, he hurried away with it into his cell, where i have seen him crunching bones and spitting out feathers as he bolted it raw. oh, no, i never gave away on him to the other hall-men. this is the first time i have mentioned his sixteen dollars. but i grafted on him just the same. he was in love with a woman prisoner who was confined in the "female department." he could neither read nor write, and i used to read her letters to him and write his replies. and i made him pay for it, too. but they were good letters. i laid myself out on them, put in my best licks, and furthermore, i won her for him; though i shrewdly guess that she was in love, not with him, but with the humble scribe. i repeat, those letters were great. another one of our grafts was "passing the punk." we were the celestial messengers, the fire-bringers, in that iron world of bolt and bar. when the men came in from work at night and were locked in their cells, they wanted to smoke. then it was that we restored the divine spark, running the galleries, from cell to cell, with our smouldering punks. those who were wise, or with whom we did business, had their punks all ready to light. not every one got divine sparks, however. the guy who refused to dig up, went sparkless and smokeless to bed. but what did we care? we had the immortal cinch on him, and if he got fresh, two or three of us would pitch on him and give him "what-for." you see, this was the working-theory of the hall-men. there were thirteen of us. we had something like half a thousand prisoners in our hall. we were supposed to do the work, and to keep order. the latter was the function of the guards, which they turned over to us. it was up to us to keep order; if we didn't, we'd be fired back to hard labor, most probably with a taste of the dungeon thrown in. but so long as we maintained order, that long could we work our own particular grafts. bear with me a moment and look at the problem. here were thirteen beasts of us over half a thousand other beasts. it was a living hell, that prison, and it was up to us thirteen there to rule. it was impossible, considering the nature of the beasts, for us to rule by kindness. we ruled by fear. of course, behind us, backing us up, were the guards. in extremity we called upon them for help; but it would bother them if we called upon them too often, in which event we could depend upon it that they would get more efficient trusties to take our places. but we did not call upon them often, except in a quiet sort of way, when we wanted a cell unlocked in order to get at a refractory prisoner inside. in such cases all the guard did was to unlock the door and walk away so as not to be a witness of what happened when half a dozen hall-men went inside and did a bit of man-handling. as regards the details of this man-handling i shall say nothing. and after all, man-handling was merely one of the very minor unprintable horrors of the erie county pen. i say "unprintable"; and in justice i must also say "unthinkable." they were unthinkable to me until i saw them, and i was no spring chicken in the ways of the world and the awful abysses of human degradation. it would take a deep plummet to reach bottom in the erie county pen, and i do but skim lightly and facetiously the surface of things as i there saw them. at times, say in the morning when the prisoners came down to wash, the thirteen of us would be practically alone in the midst of them, and every last one of them had it in for us. thirteen against five hundred, and we ruled by fear. we could not permit the slightest infraction of rules, the slightest insolence. if we did, we were lost. our own rule was to hit a man as soon as he opened his mouth--hit him hard, hit him with anything. a broom-handle, end-on, in the face, had a very sobering effect. but that was not all. such a man must be made an example of; so the next rule was to wade right in and follow him up. of course, one was sure that every hall-man in sight would come on the run to join in the chastisement; for this also was a rule. whenever any hall-man was in trouble with a prisoner, the duty of any other hall-man who happened to be around was to lend a fist. never mind the merits of the case--wade in and hit, and hit with anything; in short, lay the man out. i remember a handsome young mulatto of about twenty who got the insane idea into his head that he should stand for his rights. and he did have the right of it, too; but that didn't help him any. he lived on the topmost gallery. eight hall-men took the conceit out of him in just about a minute and a half--for that was the length of time required to travel along his gallery to the end and down five flights of steel stairs. he travelled the whole distance on every portion of his anatomy except his feet, and the eight hall-men were not idle. the mulatto struck the pavement where i was standing watching it all. he regained his feet and stood upright for a moment. in that moment he threw his arms wide apart and omitted an awful scream of terror and pain and heartbreak. at the same instant, as in a transformation scene, the shreds of his stout prison clothes fell from him, leaving him wholly naked and streaming blood from every portion of the surface of his body. then he collapsed in a heap, unconscious. he had learned his lesson, and every convict within those walls who heard him scream had learned a lesson. so had i learned mine. it is not a nice thing to see a man's heart broken in a minute and a half. the following will illustrate how we drummed up business in the graft of passing the punk. a row of newcomers is installed in your cells. you pass along before the bars with your punk. "hey, bo, give us a light," some one calls to you. now this is an advertisement that that particular man has tobacco on him. you pass in the punk and go your way. a little later you come back and lean up casually against the bars. "say, bo, can you let us have a little tobacco?" is what you say. if he is not wise to the game, the chances are that he solemnly avers that he hasn't any more tobacco. all very well. you condole with him and go your way. but you know that his punk will last him only the rest of that day. next day you come by, and he says again, "hey, bo, give us a light." and you say, "you haven't any tobacco and you don't need a light." and you don't give him any, either. half an hour after, or an hour or two or three hours, you will be passing by and the man will call out to you in mild tones, "come here, bo." and you come. you thrust your hand between the bars and have it filled with precious tobacco. then you give him a light. sometimes, however, a newcomer arrives, upon whom no grafts are to be worked. the mysterious word is passed along that he is to be treated decently. where this word originated i could never learn. the one thing patent is that the man has a "pull." it may be with one of the superior hall-men; it may be with one of the guards in some other part of the prison; it may be that good treatment has been purchased from grafters higher up; but be it as it may, we know that it is up to us to treat him decently if we want to avoid trouble. we hall-men were middle-men and common carriers. we arranged trades between convicts confined in different parts of the prison, and we put through the exchange. also, we took our commissions coming and going. sometimes the objects traded had to go through the hands of half a dozen middle-men, each of whom took his whack, or in some way or another was paid for his service. sometimes one was in debt for services, and sometimes one had others in his debt. thus, i entered the prison in debt to the convict who smuggled in my things for me. a week or so afterward, one of the firemen passed a letter into my hand. it had been given to him by a barber. the barber had received it from the convict who had smuggled in my things. because of my debt to him i was to carry the letter on. but he had not written the letter. the original sender was a long-timer in his hall. the letter was for a woman prisoner in the female department. but whether it was intended for her, or whether she, in turn, was one of the chain of go-betweens, i did not know. all that i knew was her description, and that it was up to me to get it into her hands. two days passed, during which time i kept the letter in my possession; then the opportunity came. the women did the mending of all the clothes worn by the convicts. a number of our hall-men had to go to the female department to bring back huge bundles of clothes. i fixed it with the first hall-man that i was to go along. door after door was unlocked for us as we threaded our way across the prison to the women's quarters. we entered a large room where the women sat working at their mending. my eyes were peeled for the woman who had been described to me. i located her and worked near to her. two eagle-eyed matrons were on watch. i held the letter in my palm, and i looked my intention at the woman. she knew i had something for her; she must have been expecting it, and had set herself to divining, at the moment we entered, which of us was the messenger. but one of the matrons stood within two feet of her. already the hall-men were picking up the bundles they were to carry away. the moment was passing. i delayed with my bundle, making believe that it was not tied securely. would that matron ever look away? or was i to fail? and just then another woman cut up playfully with one of the hall-men--stuck out her foot and tripped him, or pinched him, or did something or other. the matron looked that way and reprimanded the woman sharply. now i do not know whether or not this was all planned to distract the matron's attention, but i did know that it was my opportunity. my particular woman's hand dropped from her lap down by her side. i stooped to pick up my bundle. from my stooping position i slipped the letter into her hand, and received another in exchange. the next moment the bundle was on my shoulder, the matron's gaze had returned to me because i was the last hall-man, and i was hastening to catch up with my companions. the letter i had received from the woman i turned over to the fireman, and thence it passed through the hands of the barber, of the convict who had smuggled in my things, and on to the long-timer at the other end. often we conveyed letters, the chain of communication of which was so complex that we knew neither sender nor sendee. we were but links in the chain. somewhere, somehow, a convict would thrust a letter into my hand with the instruction to pass it on to the next link. all such acts were favors to be reciprocated later on, when i should be acting directly with a principal in transmitting letters, and from whom i should be receiving my pay. the whole prison was covered by a network of lines of communication. and we who were in control of the system of communication, naturally, since we were modelled after capitalistic society, exacted heavy tolls from our customers. it was service for profit with a vengeance, though we were at times not above giving service for love. and all the time i was in the pen i was making myself solid with my pal. he had done much for me, and in return he expected me to do as much for him. when we got out, we were to travel together, and, it goes without saying, pull off "jobs" together. for my pal was a criminal--oh, not a jewel of the first water, merely a petty criminal who would steal and rob, commit burglary, and, if cornered, not stop short of murder. many a quiet hour we sat and talked together. he had two or three jobs in view for the immediate future, in which my work was cut out for me, and in which i joined in planning the details. i had been with and seen much of criminals, and my pal never dreamed that i was only fooling him, giving him a string thirty days long. he thought i was the real goods, liked me because i was not stupid, and liked me a bit, too, i think, for myself. of course i had not the slightest intention of joining him in a life of sordid, petty crime; but i'd have been an idiot to throw away all the good things his friendship made possible. when one is on the hot lava of hell, he cannot pick and choose his path, and so it was with me in the erie county pen. i had to stay in with the "push," or do hard labor on bread and water; and to stay in with the push i had to make good with my pal. life was not monotonous in the pen. every day something was happening: men were having fits, going crazy, fighting, or the hall-men were getting drunk. rover jack, one of the ordinary hall-men, was our star "oryide." he was a true "profesh," a "blowed-in-the-glass" stiff, and as such received all kinds of latitude from the hall-men in authority. pittsburg joe, who was second hall-man, used to join rover jack in his jags; and it was a saying of the pair that the erie county pen was the only place where a man could get "slopped" and not be arrested. i never knew, but i was told that bromide of potassium, gained in devious ways from the dispensary, was the dope they used. but i do know, whatever their dope was, that they got good and drunk on occasion. our hall was a common stews, filled with the ruck and the filth, the scum and dregs, of society--hereditary inefficients, degenerates, wrecks, lunatics, addled intelligences, epileptics, monsters, weaklings, in short, a very nightmare of humanity. hence, fits flourished with us. these fits seemed contagious. when one man began throwing a fit, others followed his lead. i have seen seven men down with fits at the same time, making the air hideous with their cries, while as many more lunatics would be raging and gibbering up and down. nothing was ever done for the men with fits except to throw cold water on them. it was useless to send for the medical student or the doctor. they were not to be bothered with such trivial and frequent occurrences. there was a young dutch boy, about eighteen years of age, who had fits most frequently of all. he usually threw one every day. it was for that reason that we kept him on the ground floor farther down in the row of cells in which we lodged. after he had had a few fits in the prison-yard, the guards refused to be bothered with him any more, and so he remained locked up in his cell all day with a cockney cell-mate, to keep him company. not that the cockney was of any use. whenever the dutch boy had a fit, the cockney became paralyzed with terror. the dutch boy could not speak a word of english. he was a farmer's boy, serving ninety days as punishment for having got into a scrap with some one. he prefaced his fits with howling. he howled like a wolf. also, he took his fits standing up, which was very inconvenient for him, for his fits always culminated in a headlong pitch to the floor. whenever i heard the long wolf-howl rising, i used to grab a broom and run to his cell. now the trusties were not allowed keys to the cells, so i could not get in to him. he would stand up in the middle of his narrow cell, shivering convulsively, his eyes rolled backward till only the whites were visible, and howling like a lost soul. try as i would, i could never get the cockney to lend him a hand. while he stood and howled, the cockney crouched and trembled in the upper bunk, his terror-stricken gaze fixed on that awful figure, with eyes rolled back, that howled and howled. it was hard on him, too, the poor devil of a cockney. his own reason was not any too firmly seated, and the wonder is that he did not go mad. all that i could do was my best with the broom. i would thrust it through the bars, train it on dutchy's chest, and wait. as the crisis approached he would begin swaying back and forth. i followed this swaying with the broom, for there was no telling when he would take that dreadful forward pitch. but when he did, i was there with the broom, catching him and easing him down. contrive as i would, he never came down quite gently, and his face was usually bruised by the stone floor. once down and writhing in convulsions, i'd throw a bucket of water over him. i don't know whether cold water was the right thing or not, but it was the custom in the erie county pen. nothing more than that was ever done for him. he would lie there, wet, for an hour or so, and then crawl into his bunk. i knew better than to run to a guard for assistance. what was a man with a fit, anyway? in the adjoining cell lived a strange character--a man who was doing sixty days for eating swill out of barnum's swill-barrel, or at least that was the way he put it. he was a badly addled creature, and, at first, very mild and gentle. the facts of his case were as he had stated them. he had strayed out to the circus ground, and, being hungry, had made his way to the barrel that contained the refuse from the table of the circus people. "and it was good bread," he often assured me; "and the meat was out of sight." a policeman had seen him and arrested him, and there he was. once i passed his cell with a piece of stiff thin wire in my hand. he asked me for it so earnestly that i passed it through the bars to him. promptly, and with no tool but his fingers, he broke it into short lengths and twisted them into half a dozen very creditable safety pins. he sharpened the points on the stone floor. thereafter i did quite a trade in safety pins. i furnished the raw material and peddled the finished product, and he did the work. as wages, i paid him extra rations of bread, and once in a while a chunk of meat or a piece of soup-bone with some marrow inside. but his imprisonment told on him, and he grew violent day by day. the hall-men took delight in teasing him. they filled his weak brain with stories of a great fortune that had been left him. it was in order to rob him of it that he had been arrested and sent to jail. of course, as he himself knew, there was no law against eating out of a barrel. therefore he was wrongly imprisoned. it was a plot to deprive him of his fortune. the first i knew of it, i heard the hall-men laughing about the string they had given him. next he held a serious conference with me, in which he told me of his millions and the plot to deprive him of them, and in which he appointed me his detective. i did my best to let him down gently, speaking vaguely of a mistake, and that it was another man with a similar name who was the rightful heir. i left him quite cooled down; but i couldn't keep the hall-men away from him, and they continued to string him worse than ever. in the end, after a most violent scene, he threw me down, revoked my private detectiveship, and went on strike. my trade in safety pins ceased. he refused to make any more safety pins, and he peppered me with raw material through the bars of his cell when i passed by. i could never make it up with him. the other hall-men told him that i was a detective in the employ of the conspirators. and in the meantime the hall-men drove him mad with their stringing. his fictitious wrongs preyed upon his mind, and at last he became a dangerous and homicidal lunatic. the guards refused to listen to his tale of stolen millions, and he accused them of being in the plot. one day he threw a pannikin of hot tea over one of them, and then his case was investigated. the warden talked with him a few minutes through the bars of his cell. then he was taken away for examination before the doctors. he never came back, and i often wonder if he is dead, or if he still gibbers about his millions in some asylum for the insane. at last came the day of days, my release. it was the day of release for the third hall-man as well, and the short-timer girl i had won for him was waiting for him outside the wall. they went away blissfully together. my pal and i went out together, and together we walked down into buffalo. were we not to be together always? we begged together on the "main-drag" that day for pennies, and what we received was spent for "shupers" of beer--i don't know how they are spelled, but they are pronounced the way i have spelled them, and they cost three cents. i was watching my chance all the time for a get-away. from some bo on the drag i managed to learn what time a certain freight pulled out. i calculated my time accordingly. when the moment came, my pal and i were in a saloon. two foaming shupers were before us. i'd have liked to say good-by. he had been good to me. but i did not dare. i went out through the rear of the saloon and jumped the fence. it was a swift sneak, and a few minutes later i was on board a freight and heading south on the western new york and pennsylvania railroad. hoboes that pass in the night in the course of my tramping i encountered hundreds of hoboes, whom i hailed or who hailed me, and with whom i waited at water-tanks, "boiled-up," cooked "mulligans," "battered" the "drag" or "privates," and beat trains, and who passed and were seen never again. on the other hand, there were hoboes who passed and repassed with amazing frequency, and others, still, who passed like ghosts, close at hand, unseen, and never seen. it was one of the latter that i chased clear across canada over three thousand miles of railroad, and never once did i lay eyes on him. his "monica" was skysail jack. i first ran into it at montreal. carved with a jack-knife was the skysail-yard of a ship. it was perfectly executed. under it was "skysail jack." above was "b.w. - - ." this latter conveyed the information that he had passed through montreal bound west, on october , . he had one day the start of me. "sailor jack" was my monica at that particular time, and promptly i carved it alongside of his, along with the date and the information that i, too, was bound west. i had misfortune in getting over the next hundred miles, and eight days later i picked up skysail jack's trail three hundred miles west of ottawa. there it was, carved on a water-tank, and by the date i saw that he likewise had met with delay. he was only two days ahead of me. i was a "comet" and "tramp-royal," so was skysail jack; and it was up to my pride and reputation to catch up with him. i "railroaded" day and night, and i passed him; then turn about he passed me. sometimes he was a day or so ahead, and sometimes i was. from hoboes, bound east, i got word of him occasionally, when he happened to be ahead; and from them i learned that he had become interested in sailor jack and was making inquiries about me. we'd have made a precious pair, i am sure, if we'd ever got together; but get together we couldn't. i kept ahead of him clear across manitoba, but he led the way across alberta, and early one bitter gray morning, at the end of a division just east of kicking horse pass, i learned that he had been seen the night before between kicking horse pass and rogers' pass. it was rather curious the way the information came to me. i had been riding all night in a "side-door pullman" (box-car), and nearly dead with cold had crawled out at the division to beg for food. a freezing fog was drifting past, and i "hit" some firemen i found in the round-house. they fixed me up with the leavings from their lunch-pails, and in addition i got out of them nearly a quart of heavenly "java" (coffee). i heated the latter, and, as i sat down to eat, a freight pulled in from the west. i saw a side-door open and a road-kid climb out. through the drifting fog he limped over to me. he was stiff with cold, his lips blue. i shared my java and grub with him, learned about skysail jack, and then learned about him. behold, he was from my own town, oakland, california, and he was a member of the celebrated boo gang--a gang with which i had affiliated at rare intervals. we talked fast and bolted the grub in the half-hour that followed. then my freight pulled out, and i was on it, bound west on the trail of skysail jack. i was delayed between the passes, went two days without food, and walked eleven miles on the third day before i got any, and yet i succeeded in passing skysail jack along the fraser river in british columbia. i was riding "passengers" then and making time; but he must have been riding passengers, too, and with more luck or skill than i, for he got into mission ahead of me. now mission was a junction, forty miles east of vancouver. from the junction one could proceed south through washington and oregon over the northern pacific. i wondered which way skysail jack would go, for i thought i was ahead of him. as for myself i was still bound west to vancouver. i proceeded to the water-tank to leave that information, and there, freshly carved, with that day's date upon it, was skysail jack's monica. i hurried on into vancouver. but he was gone. he had taken ship immediately and was still flying west on his world-adventure. truly, skysail jack, you were a tramp-royal, and your mate was the "wind that tramps the world." i take off my hat to you. you were "blowed-in-the-glass" all right. a week later i, too, got my ship, and on board the steamship umatilla, in the forecastle, was working my way down the coast to san francisco. skysail jack and sailor jack--gee! if we'd ever got together. water-tanks are tramp directories. not all in idle wantonness do tramps carve their monicas, dates, and courses. often and often have i met hoboes earnestly inquiring if i had seen anywhere such and such a "stiff" or his monica. and more than once i have been able to give the monica of recent date, the water-tank, and the direction in which he was then bound. and promptly the hobo to whom i gave the information lit out after his pal. i have met hoboes who, in trying to catch a pal, had pursued clear across the continent and back again, and were still going. "monicas" are the nom-de-rails that hoboes assume or accept when thrust upon them by their fellows. leary joe, for instance, was timid, and was so named by his fellows. no self-respecting hobo would select stew bum for himself. very few tramps care to remember their pasts during which they ignobly worked, so monicas based upon trades are very rare, though i remember having met the following: moulder blackey, painter red, chi plumber, boiler-maker, sailor boy, and printer bo. "chi" (pronounced shy), by the way, is the argot for "chicago." a favorite device of hoboes is to base their monicas on the localities from which they hail, as: new york tommy, pacific slim, buffalo smithy, canton tim, pittsburg jack, syracuse shine, troy mickey, k.l. bill, and connecticut jimmy. then there was "slim jim from vinegar hill, who never worked and never will." a "shine" is always a negro, so called, possibly, from the high lights on his countenance. texas shine or toledo shine convey both race and nativity. among those that incorporated their race, i recollect the following: frisco sheeny, new york irish, michigan french, english jack, cockney kid, and milwaukee dutch. others seem to take their monicas in part from the color-schemes stamped upon them at birth, such as: chi whitey, new jersey red, boston blackey, seattle browney, and yellow dick and yellow belly--the last a creole from mississippi, who, i suspect, had his monica thrust upon him. texas royal, happy joe, bust connors, burley bo, tornado blackey, and touch mccall used more imagination in rechristening themselves. others, with less fancy, carry the names of their physical peculiarities, such as: vancouver slim, detroit shorty, ohio fatty, long jack, big jim, little joe, new york blink, chi nosey, and broken-backed ben. by themselves come the road-kids, sporting an infinite variety of monicas. for example, the following, whom here and there i have encountered: buck kid, blind kid, midget kid, holy kid, bat kid, swift kid, cookey kid, monkey kid, iowa kid, corduroy kid, orator kid (who could tell how it happened), and lippy kid (who was insolent, depend upon it). on the water-tank at san marcial, new mexico, a dozen years ago, was the following hobo bill of fare:-- ( ) main-drag fair. ( ) bulls not hostile. ( ) round-house good for kipping. ( ) north-bound trains no good. ( ) privates no good. ( ) restaurants good for cooks only. ( ) railroad house good for night-work only. number one conveys the information that begging for money on the main street is fair; number two, that the police will not bother hoboes; number three, that one can sleep in the round-house. number four, however, is ambiguous. the north-bound trains may be no good to beat, and they may be no good to beg. number five means that the residences are not good to beggars, and number six means that only hoboes that have been cooks can get grub from the restaurants. number seven bothers me. i cannot make out whether the railroad house is a good place for any hobo to beg at night, or whether it is good only for hobo-cooks to beg at night, or whether any hobo, cook or non-cook, can lend a hand at night, helping the cooks of the railroad house with their dirty work and getting something to eat in payment. but to return to the hoboes that pass in the night. i remember one i met in california. he was a swede, but he had lived so long in the united states that one couldn't guess his nationality. he had to tell it on himself. in fact, he had come to the united states when no more than a baby. i ran into him first at the mountain town of truckee. "which way, bo?" was our greeting, and "bound east" was the answer each of us gave. quite a bunch of "stiffs" tried to ride out the overland that night, and i lost the swede in the shuffle. also, i lost the overland. i arrived in reno, nevada, in a box-car that was promptly side-tracked. it was a sunday morning, and after i threw my feet for breakfast, i wandered over to the piute camp to watch the indians gambling. and there stood the swede, hugely interested. of course we got together. he was the only acquaintance i had in that region, and i was his only acquaintance. we rushed together like a couple of dissatisfied hermits, and together we spent the day, threw our feet for dinner, and late in the afternoon tried to "nail" the same freight. but he was ditched, and i rode her out alone, to be ditched myself in the desert twenty miles beyond. of all desolate places, the one at which i was ditched was the limit. it was called a flag-station, and it consisted of a shanty dumped inconsequentially into the sand and sagebrush. a chill wind was blowing, night was coming on, and the solitary telegraph operator who lived in the shanty was afraid of me. i knew that neither grub nor bed could i get out of him. it was because of his manifest fear of me that i did not believe him when he told me that east-bound trains never stopped there. besides, hadn't i been thrown off of an east-bound train right at that very spot not five minutes before? he assured me that it had stopped under orders, and that a year might go by before another was stopped under orders. he advised me that it was only a dozen or fifteen miles on to wadsworth and that i'd better hike. i elected to wait, however, and i had the pleasure of seeing two west-bound freights go by without stopping, and one east-bound freight. i wondered if the swede was on the latter. it was up to me to hit the ties to wadsworth, and hit them i did, much to the telegraph operator's relief, for i neglected to burn his shanty and murder him. telegraph operators have much to be thankful for. at the end of half a dozen miles, i had to get off the ties and let the east-bound overland go by. she was going fast, but i caught sight of a dim form on the first "blind" that looked like the swede. that was the last i saw of him for weary days. i hit the high places across those hundreds of miles of nevada desert, riding the overlands at night, for speed, and in the day-time riding in box-cars and getting my sleep. it was early in the year, and it was cold in those upland pastures. snow lay here and there on the level, all the mountains were shrouded in white, and at night the most miserable wind imaginable blew off from them. it was not a land in which to linger. and remember, gentle reader, the hobo goes through such a land, without shelter, without money, begging his way and sleeping at night without blankets. this last is something that can be realized only by experience. in the early evening i came down to the depot at ogden. the overland of the union pacific was pulling east, and i was bent on making connections. out in the tangle of tracks ahead of the engine i encountered a figure slouching through the gloom. it was the swede. we shook hands like long-lost brothers, and discovered that our hands were gloved. "where'd ye glahm 'em?" i asked. "out of an engine-cab," he answered; "and where did you?" "they belonged to a fireman," said i; "he was careless." we caught the blind as the overland pulled out, and mighty cold we found it. the way led up a narrow gorge between snow-covered mountains, and we shivered and shook and exchanged confidences about how we had covered the ground between reno and ogden. i had closed my eyes for only an hour or so the previous night, and the blind was not comfortable enough to suit me for a snooze. at a stop, i went forward to the engine. we had on a "double-header" (two engines) to take us over the grade. the pilot of the head engine, because it "punched the wind," i knew would be too cold; so i selected the pilot of the second engine, which was sheltered by the first engine. i stepped on the cowcatcher and found the pilot occupied. in the darkness i felt out the form of a young boy. he was sound asleep. by squeezing, there was room for two on the pilot, and i made the boy budge over and crawled up beside him. it was a "good" night; the "shacks" (brakemen) didn't bother us, and in no time we were asleep. once in a while hot cinders or heavy jolts aroused me, when i snuggled closer to the boy and dozed off to the coughing of the engines and the screeching of the wheels. the overland made evanston, wyoming, and went no farther. a wreck ahead blocked the line. the dead engineer had been brought in, and his body attested the peril of the way. a tramp, also, had been killed, but his body had not been brought in. i talked with the boy. he was thirteen years old. he had run away from his folks in some place in oregon, and was heading east to his grandmother. he had a tale of cruel treatment in the home he had left that rang true; besides, there was no need for him to lie to me, a nameless hobo on the track. and that boy was going some, too. he couldn't cover the ground fast enough. when the division superintendents decided to send the overland back over the way it had come, then up on a cross "jerk" to the oregon short line, and back along that road to tap the union pacific the other side of the wreck, that boy climbed upon the pilot and said he was going to stay with it. this was too much for the swede and me. it meant travelling the rest of that frigid night in order to gain no more than a dozen miles or so. we said we'd wait till the wreck was cleared away, and in the meantime get a good sleep. now it is no snap to strike a strange town, broke, at midnight, in cold weather, and find a place to sleep. the swede hadn't a penny. my total assets consisted of two dimes and a nickel. from some of the town boys we learned that beer was five cents, and that the saloons kept open all night. there was our meat. two glasses of beer would cost ten cents, there would be a stove and chairs, and we could sleep it out till morning. we headed for the lights of a saloon, walking briskly, the snow crunching under our feet, a chill little wind blowing through us. alas, i had misunderstood the town boys. beer was five cents in one saloon only in the whole burg, and we didn't strike that saloon. but the one we entered was all right. a blessed stove was roaring white-hot; there were cosey, cane-bottomed arm-chairs, and a none-too-pleasant-looking barkeeper who glared suspiciously at us as we came in. a man cannot spend continuous days and nights in his clothes, beating trains, fighting soot and cinders, and sleeping anywhere, and maintain a good "front." our fronts were decidedly against us; but what did we care? i had the price in my jeans. "two beers," said i nonchalantly to the barkeeper, and while he drew them, the swede and i leaned against the bar and yearned secretly for the arm-chairs by the stove. the barkeeper set the two foaming glasses before us, and with pride i deposited the ten cents. now i was dead game. as soon as i learned my error in the price i'd have dug up another ten cents. never mind if it did leave me only a nickel to my name, a stranger in a strange land. i'd have paid it all right. but that barkeeper never gave me a chance. as soon as his eyes spotted the dime i had laid down, he seized the two glasses, one in each hand, and dumped the beer into the sink behind the bar. at the same time, glaring at us malevolently, he said:-- "you've got scabs on your nose. you've got scabs on your nose. you've got scabs on your nose. see!" i hadn't either, and neither had the swede. our noses were all right. the direct bearing of his words was beyond our comprehension, but the indirect bearing was clear as print: he didn't like our looks, and beer was evidently ten cents a glass. i dug down and laid another dime on the bar, remarking carelessly, "oh, i thought this was a five-cent joint." "your money's no good here," he answered, shoving the two dimes across the bar to me. sadly i dropped them back into my pocket, sadly we yearned toward the blessed stove and the arm-chairs, and sadly we went out the door into the frosty night. but as we went out the door, the barkeeper, still glaring, called after us, "you've got scabs on your nose, see!" i have seen much of the world since then, journeyed among strange lands and peoples, opened many books, sat in many lecture-halls; but to this day, though i have pondered long and deep, i have been unable to divine the meaning in the cryptic utterance of that barkeeper in evanston, wyoming. our noses _were_ all right. we slept that night over the boilers in an electric-lighting plant. how we discovered that "kipping" place i can't remember. we must have just headed for it, instinctively, as horses head for water or carrier-pigeons head for the home-cote. but it was a night not pleasant to remember. a dozen hoboes were ahead of us on top the boilers, and it was too hot for all of us. to complete our misery, the engineer would not let us stand around down below. he gave us our choice of the boilers or the outside snow. "you said you wanted to sleep, and so, damn you, sleep," said he to me, when, frantic and beaten out by the heat, i came down into the fire-room. "water," i gasped, wiping the sweat from my eyes, "water." he pointed out of doors and assured me that down there somewhere in the blackness i'd find the river. i started for the river, got lost in the dark, fell into two or three drifts, gave it up, and returned half-frozen to the top of the boilers. when i had thawed out, i was thirstier than ever. around me the hoboes were moaning, groaning, sobbing, sighing, gasping, panting, rolling and tossing and floundering heavily in their torment. we were so many lost souls toasting on a griddle in hell, and the engineer, satan incarnate, gave us the sole alternative of freezing in the outer cold. the swede sat up and anathematized passionately the wanderlust in man that sent him tramping and suffering hardships such as that. "when i get back to chicago," he perorated, "i'm going to get a job and stick to it till hell freezes over. then i'll go tramping again." and, such is the irony of fate, next day, when the wreck ahead was cleared, the swede and i pulled out of evanston in the ice-boxes of an "orange special," a fast freight laden with fruit from sunny california. of course, the ice-boxes were empty on account of the cold weather, but that didn't make them any warmer for us. we entered them through hatchways in the top of the car; the boxes were constructed of galvanized iron, and in that biting weather were not pleasant to the touch. we lay there, shivered and shook, and with chattering teeth held a council wherein we decided that we'd stay by the ice-boxes day and night till we got out of the inhospitable plateau region and down into the mississippi valley. but we must eat, and we decided that at the next division we would throw our feet for grub and make a rush back to our ice-boxes. we arrived in the town of green river late in the afternoon, but too early for supper. before meal-time is the worst time for "battering" back-doors; but we put on our nerve, swung off the side-ladders as the freight pulled into the yards, and made a run for the houses. we were quickly separated; but we had agreed to meet in the ice-boxes. i had bad luck at first; but in the end, with a couple of "hand-outs" poked into my shirt, i chased for the train. it was pulling out and going fast. the particular refrigerator-car in which we were to meet had already gone by, and half a dozen cars down the train from it i swung on to the side-ladders, went up on top hurriedly, and dropped down into an ice-box. but a shack had seen me from the caboose, and at the next stop a few miles farther on, rock springs, the shack stuck his head into my box and said: "hit the grit, you son of a toad! hit the grit!" also he grabbed me by the heels and dragged me out. i hit the grit all right, and the orange special and the swede rolled on without me. snow was beginning to fall. a cold night was coming on. after dark i hunted around in the railroad yards until i found an empty refrigerator car. in i climbed--not into the ice-boxes, but into the car itself. i swung the heavy doors shut, and their edges, covered with strips of rubber, sealed the car air-tight. the walls were thick. there was no way for the outside cold to get in. but the inside was just as cold as the outside. how to raise the temperature was the problem. but trust a "profesh" for that. out of my pockets i dug up three or four newspapers. these i burned, one at a time, on the floor of the car. the smoke rose to the top. not a bit of the heat could escape, and, comfortable and warm, i passed a beautiful night. i didn't wake up once. in the morning it was still snowing. while throwing my feet for breakfast, i missed an east-bound freight. later in the day i nailed two other freights and was ditched from both of them. all afternoon no east-bound trains went by. the snow was falling thicker than ever, but at twilight i rode out on the first blind of the overland. as i swung aboard the blind from one side, somebody swung aboard from the other. it was the boy who had run away from oregon. now the first blind of a fast train in a driving snow-storm is no summer picnic. the wind goes right through one, strikes the front of the car, and comes back again. at the first stop, darkness having come on, i went forward and interviewed the fireman. i offered to "shove" coal to the end of his run, which was rawlins, and my offer was accepted. my work was out on the tender, in the snow, breaking the lumps of coal with a sledge and shovelling it forward to him in the cab. but as i did not have to work all the time, i could come into the cab and warm up now and again. "say," i said to the fireman, at my first breathing spell, "there's a little kid back there on the first blind. he's pretty cold." the cabs on the union pacific engines are quite spacious, and we fitted the kid into a warm nook in front of the high seat of the fireman, where the kid promptly fell asleep. we arrived at rawlins at midnight. the snow was thicker than ever. here the engine was to go into the round-house, being replaced by a fresh engine. as the train came to a stop, i dropped off the engine steps plump into the arms of a large man in a large overcoat. he began asking me questions, and i promptly demanded who he was. just as promptly he informed me that he was the sheriff. i drew in my horns and listened and answered. he began describing the kid who was still asleep in the cab. i did some quick thinking. evidently the family was on the trail of the kid, and the sheriff had received telegraphed instructions from oregon. yes, i had seen the kid. i had met him first in ogden. the date tallied with the sheriff's information. but the kid was still behind somewhere, i explained, for he had been ditched from that very overland that night when it pulled out of rock springs. and all the time i was praying that the kid wouldn't wake up, come down out of the cab, and put the "kibosh" on me. the sheriff left me in order to interview the shacks, but before he left he said:-- "bo, this town is no place for you. understand? you ride this train out, and make no mistake about it. if i catch you after it's gone ..." i assured him that it was not through desire that i was in his town; that the only reason i was there was that the train had stopped there; and that he wouldn't see me for smoke the way i'd get out of his darn town. while he went to interview the shacks, i jumped back into the cab. the kid was awake and rubbing his eyes. i told him the news and advised him to ride the engine into the round-house. to cut the story short, the kid made the same overland out, riding the pilot, with instructions to make an appeal to the fireman at the first stop for permission to ride in the engine. as for myself, i got ditched. the new fireman was young and not yet lax enough to break the rules of the company against having tramps in the engine; so he turned down my offer to shove coal. i hope the kid succeeded with him, for all night on the pilot in that blizzard would have meant death. strange to say, i do not at this late day remember a detail of how i was ditched at rawlins. i remember watching the train as it was immediately swallowed up in the snow-storm, and of heading for a saloon to warm up. here was light and warmth. everything was in full blast and wide open. faro, roulette, craps, and poker tables were running, and some mad cow-punchers were making the night merry. i had just succeeded in fraternizing with them and was downing my first drink at their expense, when a heavy hand descended on my shoulder. i looked around and sighed. it was the sheriff. without a word he led me out into the snow. "there's an orange special down there in the yards," said he. "it's a damn cold night," said i. "it pulls out in ten minutes," said he. that was all. there was no discussion. and when that orange special pulled out, i was in the ice-boxes. i thought my feet would freeze before morning, and the last twenty miles into laramie i stood upright in the hatchway and danced up and down. the snow was too thick for the shacks to see me, and i didn't care if they did. my quarter of a dollar bought me a hot breakfast at laramie, and immediately afterward i was on board the blind baggage of an overland that was climbing to the pass through the backbone of the rockies. one does not ride blind baggages in the daytime; but in this blizzard at the top of the rocky mountains i doubted if the shacks would have the heart to put me off. and they didn't. they made a practice of coming forward at every stop to see if i was frozen yet. at ames' monument, at the summit of the rockies,--i forget the altitude,--the shack came forward for the last time. "say, bo," he said, "you see that freight side-tracked over there to let us go by?" i saw. it was on the next track, six feet away. a few feet more in that storm and i could not have seen it. "well, the 'after-push' of kelly's army is in one of them cars. they've got two feet of straw under them, and there's so many of them that they keep the car warm." his advice was good, and i followed it, prepared, however, if it was a "con game" the shack had given me, to take the blind as the overland pulled out. but it was straight goods. i found the car--a big refrigerator car with the leeward door wide open for ventilation. up i climbed and in. i stepped on a man's leg, next on some other man's arm. the light was dim, and all i could make out was arms and legs and bodies inextricably confused. never was there such a tangle of humanity. they were all lying in the straw, and over, and under, and around one another. eighty-four husky hoboes take up a lot of room when they are stretched out. the men i stepped on were resentful. their bodies heaved under me like the waves of the sea, and imparted an involuntary forward movement to me. i could not find any straw to step upon, so i stepped upon more men. the resentment increased, so did my forward movement. i lost my footing and sat down with sharp abruptness. unfortunately, it was on a man's head. the next moment he had risen on his hands and knees in wrath, and i was flying through the air. what goes up must come down, and i came down on another man's head. what happened after that is very vague in my memory. it was like going through a threshing-machine. i was bandied about from one end of the car to the other. those eighty-four hoboes winnowed me out till what little was left of me, by some miracle, found a bit of straw to rest upon. i was initiated, and into a jolly crowd. all the rest of that day we rode through the blizzard, and to while the time away it was decided that each man was to tell a story. it was stipulated that each story must be a good one, and, furthermore, that it must be a story no one had ever heard before. the penalty for failure was the threshing-machine. nobody failed. and i want to say right here that never in my life have i sat at so marvellous a story-telling debauch. here were eighty-four men from all the world--i made eighty-five; and each man told a masterpiece. it had to be, for it was either masterpiece or threshing-machine. late in the afternoon we arrived in cheyenne. the blizzard was at its height, and though the last meal of all of us had been breakfast, no man cared to throw his feet for supper. all night we rolled on through the storm, and next day found us down on the sweet plains of nebraska and still rolling. we were out of the storm and the mountains. the blessed sun was shining over a smiling land, and we had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. we found out that the freight would arrive about noon at a town, if i remember right, that was called grand island. we took up a collection and sent a telegram to the authorities of that town. the text of the message was that eighty-five healthy, hungry hoboes would arrive about noon and that it would be a good idea to have dinner ready for them. the authorities of grand island had two courses open to them. they could feed us, or they could throw us in jail. in the latter event they'd have to feed us anyway, and they decided wisely that one meal would be the cheaper way. when the freight rolled into grand island at noon, we were sitting on the tops of the cars and dangling our legs in the sunshine. all the police in the burg were on the reception committee. they marched us in squads to the various hotels and restaurants, where dinners were spread for us. we had been thirty-six hours without food, and we didn't have to be taught what to do. after that we were marched back to the railroad station. the police had thoughtfully compelled the freight to wait for us. she pulled out slowly, and the eighty-five of us, strung out along the track, swarmed up the side-ladders. we "captured" the train. we had no supper that evening--at least the "push" didn't, but i did. just at supper time, as the freight was pulling out of a small town, a man climbed into the car where i was playing pedro with three other stiffs. the man's shirt was bulging suspiciously. in his hand he carried a battered quart-measure from which arose steam. i smelled "java." i turned my cards over to one of the stiffs who was looking on, and excused myself. then, in the other end of the car, pursued by envious glances, i sat down with the man who had climbed aboard and shared his "java" and the hand-outs that had bulged his shirt. it was the swede. at about ten o'clock in the evening, we arrived at omaha. "let's shake the push," said the swede to me. "sure," said i. as the freight pulled into omaha, we made ready to do so. but the people of omaha were also ready. the swede and i hung upon the side-ladders, ready to drop off. but the freight did not stop. furthermore, long rows of policemen, their brass buttons and stars glittering in the electric lights, were lined up on each side of the track. the swede and i knew what would happen to us if we ever dropped off into their arms. we stuck by the side-ladders, and the train rolled on across the missouri river to council bluffs. "general" kelly, with an army of two thousand hoboes, lay in camp at chautauqua park, several miles away. the after-push we were with was general kelly's rear-guard, and, detraining at council bluffs, it started to march to camp. the night had turned cold, and heavy wind-squalls, accompanied by rain, were chilling and wetting us. many police were guarding us and herding us to the camp. the swede and i watched our chance and made a successful get-away. the rain began coming down in torrents, and in the darkness, unable to see our hands in front of our faces, like a pair of blind men we fumbled about for shelter. our instinct served us, for in no time we stumbled upon a saloon--not a saloon that was open and doing business, not merely a saloon that was closed for the night, and not even a saloon with a permanent address, but a saloon propped up on big timbers, with rollers underneath, that was being moved from somewhere to somewhere. the doors were locked. a squall of wind and rain drove down upon us. we did not hesitate. smash went the door, and in we went. i have made some tough camps in my time, "carried the banner" in infernal metropolises, bedded in pools of water, slept in the snow under two blankets when the spirit thermometer registered seventy-four degrees below zero (which is a mere trifle of one hundred and six degrees of frost); but i want to say right here that never did i make a tougher camp, pass a more miserable night, than that night i passed with the swede in the itinerant saloon at council bluffs. in the first place, the building, perched up as it was in the air, had exposed a multitude of openings in the floor through which the wind whistled. in the second place, the bar was empty; there was no bottled fire-water with which we could warm ourselves and forget our misery. we had no blankets, and in our wet clothes, wet to the skin, we tried to sleep. i rolled under the bar, and the swede rolled under the table. the holes and crevices in the floor made it impossible, and at the end of half an hour i crawled up on top the bar. a little later the swede crawled up on top his table. and there we shivered and prayed for daylight. i know, for one, that i shivered until i could shiver no more, till the shivering muscles exhausted themselves and merely ached horribly. the swede moaned and groaned, and every little while, through chattering teeth, he muttered, "never again; never again." he muttered this phrase repeatedly, ceaselessly, a thousand times; and when he dozed, he went on muttering it in his sleep. at the first gray of dawn we left our house of pain, and outside, found ourselves in a mist, dense and chill. we stumbled on till we came to the railroad track. i was going back to omaha to throw my feet for breakfast; my companion was going on to chicago. the moment for parting had come. our palsied hands went out to each other. we were both shivering. when we tried to speak, our teeth chattered us back into silence. we stood alone, shut off from the world; all that we could see was a short length of railroad track, both ends of which were lost in the driving mist. we stared dumbly at each other, our clasped hands shaking sympathetically. the swede's face was blue with the cold, and i know mine must have been. "never again what?" i managed to articulate. speech strove for utterance in the swede's throat; then faint and distant, in a thin whisper from the very bottom of his frozen soul, came the words:-- "never again a hobo." he paused, and, as he went on again, his voice gathered strength and huskiness as it affirmed his will. "never again a hobo. i'm going to get a job. you'd better do the same. nights like this make rheumatism." he wrung my hand. "good-by, bo," said he. "good-by, bo," said i. the next we were swallowed up from each other by the mist. it was our final passing. but here's to you, mr. swede, wherever you are. i hope you got that job. road-kids and gay-cats every once in a while, in newspapers, magazines, and biographical dictionaries, i run upon sketches of my life, wherein, delicately phrased, i learn that it was in order to study sociology that i became a tramp. this is very nice and thoughtful of the biographers, but it is inaccurate. i became a tramp--well, because of the life that was in me, of the wanderlust in my blood that would not let me rest. sociology was merely incidental; it came afterward, in the same manner that a wet skin follows a ducking. i went on "the road" because i couldn't keep away from it; because i hadn't the price of the railroad fare in my jeans; because i was so made that i couldn't work all my life on "one same shift"; because--well, just because it was easier to than not to. it happened in my own town, in oakland, when i was sixteen. at that time i had attained a dizzy reputation in my chosen circle of adventurers, by whom i was known as the prince of the oyster pirates. it is true, those immediately outside my circle, such as honest bay-sailors, longshoremen, yachtsmen, and the legal owners of the oysters, called me "tough," "hoodlum," "smoudge," "thief," "robber," and various other not nice things--all of which was complimentary and but served to increase the dizziness of the high place in which i sat. at that time i had not read "paradise lost," and later, when i read milton's "better to reign in hell than serve in heaven," i was fully convinced that great minds run in the same channels. it was at this time that the fortuitous concatenation of events sent me upon my first adventure on the road. it happened that there was nothing doing in oysters just then; that at benicia, forty miles away, i had some blankets i wanted to get; and that at port costa, several miles from benicia, a stolen boat lay at anchor in charge of the constable. now this boat was owned by a friend of mine, by name dinny mccrea. it had been stolen and left at port costa by whiskey bob, another friend of mine. (poor whiskey bob! only last winter his body was picked up on the beach shot full of holes by nobody knows whom.) i had come down from "up river" some time before, and reported to dinny mccrea the whereabouts of his boat; and dinny mccrea had promptly offered ten dollars to me if i should bring it down to oakland to him. time was heavy on my hands. i sat on the dock and talked it over with nickey the greek, another idle oyster pirate. "let's go," said i, and nickey was willing. he was "broke." i possessed fifty cents and a small skiff. the former i invested and loaded into the latter in the form of crackers, canned corned beef, and a ten-cent bottle of french mustard. (we were keen on french mustard in those days.) then, late in the afternoon, we hoisted our small spritsail and started. we sailed all night, and next morning, on the first of a glorious flood-tide, a fair wind behind us, we came booming up the carquinez straits to port costa. there lay the stolen boat, not twenty-five feet from the wharf. we ran alongside and doused our little spritsail. i sent nickey forward to lift the anchor, while i began casting off the gaskets. a man ran out on the wharf and hailed us. it was the constable. it suddenly came to me that i had neglected to get a written authorization from dinny mccrea to take possession of his boat. also, i knew that constable wanted to charge at least twenty-five dollars in fees for capturing the boat from whiskey bob and subsequently taking care of it. and my last fifty cents had been blown in for corned beef and french mustard, and the reward was only ten dollars anyway. i shot a glance forward to nickey. he had the anchor up-and-down and was straining at it. "break her out," i whispered to him, and turned and shouted back to the constable. the result was that he and i were talking at the same time, our spoken thoughts colliding in mid-air and making gibberish. the constable grew more imperative, and perforce i had to listen. nickey was heaving on the anchor till i thought he'd burst a blood-vessel. when the constable got done with his threats and warnings, i asked him who he was. the time he lost in telling me enabled nickey to break out the anchor. i was doing some quick calculating. at the feet of the constable a ladder ran down the dock to the water, and to the ladder was moored a skiff. the oars were in it. but it was padlocked. i gambled everything on that padlock. i felt the breeze on my cheek, saw the surge of the tide, looked at the remaining gaskets that confined the sail, ran my eyes up the halyards to the blocks and knew that all was clear, and then threw off all dissimulation. "in with her!" i shouted to nickey, and sprang to the gaskets, casting them loose and thanking my stars that whiskey bob had tied them in square-knots instead of "grannies." the constable had slid down the ladder and was fumbling with a key at the padlock. the anchor came aboard and the last gasket was loosed at the same instant that the constable freed the skiff and jumped to the oars. "peak-halyards!" i commanded my crew, at the same time swinging on to the throat-halyards. up came the sail on the run. i belayed and ran aft to the tiller. "stretch her!" i shouted to nickey at the peak. the constable was just reaching for our stern. a puff of wind caught us, and we shot away. it was great. if i'd had a black flag, i know i'd have run it up in triumph. the constable stood up in the skiff, and paled the glory of the day with the vividness of his language. also, he wailed for a gun. you see, that was another gamble we had taken. anyway, we weren't stealing the boat. it wasn't the constable's. we were merely stealing his fees, which was his particular form of graft. and we weren't stealing the fees for ourselves, either; we were stealing them for my friend, dinny mccrea. benicia was made in a few minutes, and a few minutes later my blankets were aboard. i shifted the boat down to the far end of steamboat wharf, from which point of vantage we could see anybody coming after us. there was no telling. maybe the port costa constable would telephone to the benicia constable. nickey and i held a council of war. we lay on deck in the warm sun, the fresh breeze on our cheeks, the flood-tide rippling and swirling past. it was impossible to start back to oakland till afternoon, when the ebb would begin to run. but we figured that the constable would have an eye out on the carquinez straits when the ebb started, and that nothing remained for us but to wait for the following ebb, at two o'clock next morning, when we could slip by cerberus in the darkness. so we lay on deck, smoked cigarettes, and were glad that we were alive. i spat over the side and gauged the speed of the current. "with this wind, we could run this flood clear to rio vista," i said. "and it's fruit-time on the river," said nickey. "and low water on the river," said i. "it's the best time of the year to make sacramento." we sat up and looked at each other. the glorious west wind was pouring over us like wine. we both spat over the side and gauged the current. now i contend that it was all the fault of that flood-tide and fair wind. they appealed to our sailor instinct. if it had not been for them, the whole chain of events that was to put me upon the road would have broken down. we said no word, but cast off our moorings and hoisted sail. our adventures up the sacramento river are no part of this narrative. we subsequently made the city of sacramento and tied up at a wharf. the water was fine, and we spent most of our time in swimming. on the sand-bar above the railroad bridge we fell in with a bunch of boys likewise in swimming. between swims we lay on the bank and talked. they talked differently from the fellows i had been used to herding with. it was a new vernacular. they were road-kids, and with every word they uttered the lure of the road laid hold of me more imperiously. "when i was down in alabama," one kid would begin; or, another, "coming up on the c. & a. from k.c."; whereat, a third kid, "on the c. & a. there ain't no steps to the 'blinds.'" and i would lie silently in the sand and listen. "it was at a little town in ohio on the lake shore and michigan southern," a kid would start; and another, "ever ride the cannonball on the wabash?"; and yet another, "nope, but i've been on the white mail out of chicago." "talk about railroadin'--wait till you hit the pennsylvania, four tracks, no water tanks, take water on the fly, that's goin' some." "the northern pacific's a bad road now." "salinas is on the 'hog,' the 'bulls' is 'horstile.'" "i got 'pinched' at el paso, along with moke kid." "talkin' of 'poke-outs,' wait till you hit the french country out of montreal--not a word of english--you say, 'mongee, madame, mongee, no spika da french,' an' rub your stomach an' look hungry, an' she gives you a slice of sow-belly an' a chunk of dry 'punk.'" and i continued to lie in the sand and listen. these wanderers made my oyster-piracy look like thirty cents. a new world was calling to me in every word that was spoken--a world of rods and gunnels, blind baggages and "side-door pullmans," "bulls" and "shacks," "floppings" and "chewin's," "pinches" and "get-aways," "strong arms" and "bindle-stiffs," "punks" and "profesh." and it all spelled adventure. very well; i would tackle this new world. i "lined" myself up alongside those road-kids. i was just as strong as any of them, just as quick, just as nervy, and my brain was just as good. after the swim, as evening came on, they dressed and went up town. i went along. the kids began "battering" the "main-stem" for "light pieces," or, in other words, begging for money on the main street. i had never begged in my life, and this was the hardest thing for me to stomach when i first went on the road. i had absurd notions about begging. my philosophy, up to that time, was that it was finer to steal than to beg; and that robbery was finer still because the risk and the penalty were proportionately greater. as an oyster pirate i had already earned convictions at the hands of justice, which, if i had tried to serve them, would have required a thousand years in state's prison. to rob was manly; to beg was sordid and despicable. but i developed in the days to come all right, all right, till i came to look upon begging as a joyous prank, a game of wits, a nerve-exerciser. that first night, however, i couldn't rise to it; and the result was that when the kids were ready to go to a restaurant and eat, i wasn't. i was broke. meeny kid, i think it was, gave me the price, and we all ate together. but while i ate, i meditated. the receiver, it was said, was as bad as the thief; meeny kid had done the begging, and i was profiting by it. i decided that the receiver was a whole lot worse than the thief, and that it shouldn't happen again. and it didn't. i turned out next day and threw my feet as well as the next one. nickey the greek's ambition didn't run to the road. he was not a success at throwing his feet, and he stowed away one night on a barge and went down river to san francisco. i met him, only a week ago, at a pugilistic carnival. he has progressed. he sat in a place of honor at the ring-side. he is now a manager of prize-fighters and proud of it. in fact, in a small way, in local sportdom, he is quite a shining light. "no kid is a road-kid until he has gone over 'the hill'"--such was the law of the road i heard expounded in sacramento. all right, i'd go over the hill and matriculate. "the hill," by the way, was the sierra nevadas. the whole gang was going over the hill on a jaunt, and of course i'd go along. it was french kid's first adventure on the road. he had just run away from his people in san francisco. it was up to him and me to deliver the goods. in passing, i may remark that my old title of "prince" had vanished. i had received my "monica." i was now "sailor kid," later to be known as "'frisco kid," when i had put the rockies between me and my native state. at . p.m. the central pacific overland pulled out of the depot at sacramento for the east--that particular item of time-table is indelibly engraved on my memory. there were about a dozen in our gang, and we strung out in the darkness ahead of the train ready to take her out. all the local road-kids that we knew came down to see us off--also, to "ditch" us if they could. that was their idea of a joke, and there were only about forty of them to carry it out. their ring-leader was a crackerjack road-kid named bob. sacramento was his home town, but he'd hit the road pretty well everywhere over the whole country. he took french kid and me aside and gave us advice something like this: "we're goin' to try an' ditch your bunch, see? youse two are weak. the rest of the push can take care of itself. so, as soon as youse two nail a blind, deck her. an' stay on the decks till youse pass roseville junction, at which burg the constables are horstile, sloughin' in everybody on sight." the engine whistled and the overland pulled out. there were three blinds on her--room for all of us. the dozen of us who were trying to make her out would have preferred to slip aboard quietly; but our forty friends crowded on with the most amazing and shameless publicity and advertisement. following bob's advice, i immediately "decked her," that is, climbed up on top of the roof of one of the mail-cars. there i lay down, my heart jumping a few extra beats, and listened to the fun. the whole train crew was forward, and the ditching went on fast and furious. after the train had run half a mile, it stopped, and the crew came forward again and ditched the survivors. i, alone, had made the train out. back at the depot, about him two or three of the push that had witnessed the accident, lay french kid with both legs off. french kid had slipped or stumbled--that was all, and the wheels had done the rest. such was my initiation to the road. it was two years afterward when i next saw french kid and examined his "stumps." this was an act of courtesy. "cripples" always like to have their stumps examined. one of the entertaining sights on the road is to witness the meeting of two cripples. their common disability is a fruitful source of conversation; and they tell how it happened, describe what they know of the amputation, pass critical judgment on their own and each other's surgeons, and wind up by withdrawing to one side, taking off bandages and wrappings, and comparing stumps. but it was not until several days later, over in nevada, when the push caught up with me, that i learned of french kid's accident. the push itself arrived in bad condition. it had gone through a train-wreck in the snow-sheds; happy joe was on crutches with two mashed legs, and the rest were nursing skins and bruises. in the meantime, i lay on the roof of the mail-car, trying to remember whether roseville junction, against which burg bob had warned me, was the first stop or the second stop. to make sure, i delayed descending to the platform of the blind until after the second stop. and then i didn't descend. i was new to the game, and i felt safer where i was. but i never told the push that i held down the decks the whole night, clear across the sierras, through snow-sheds and tunnels, and down to truckee on the other side, where i arrived at seven in the morning. such a thing was disgraceful, and i'd have been a common laughing-stock. this is the first time i have confessed the truth about that first ride over the hill. as for the push, it decided that i was all right, and when i came back over the hill to sacramento, i was a full-fledged road-kid. yet i had much to learn. bob was my mentor, and he was all right. i remember one evening (it was fair-time in sacramento, and we were knocking about and having a good time) when i lost my hat in a fight. there was i bare-headed in the street, and it was bob to the rescue. he took me to one side from the push and told me what to do. i was a bit timid of his advice. i had just come out of jail, where i had been three days, and i knew that if the police "pinched" me again, i'd get good and "soaked." on the other hand, i couldn't show the white feather. i'd been over the hill, i was running full-fledged with the push, and it was up to me to deliver the goods. so i accepted bob's advice, and he came along with me to see that i did it up brown. we took our position on k street, on the corner, i think, of fifth. it was early in the evening and the street was crowded. bob studied the head-gear of every chinaman that passed. i used to wonder how the road-kids all managed to wear "five-dollar stetson stiff-rims," and now i knew. they got them, the way i was going to get mine, from the chinese. i was nervous--there were so many people about; but bob was cool as an iceberg. several times, when i started forward toward a chinaman, all nerved and keyed up, bob dragged me back. he wanted me to get a good hat, and one that fitted. now a hat came by that was the right size but not new; and, after a dozen impossible hats, along would come one that was new but not the right size. and when one did come by that was new and the right size, the rim was too large or not large enough. my, bob was finicky. i was so wrought up that i'd have snatched any kind of a head-covering. at last came the hat, the one hat in sacramento for me. i knew it was a winner as soon as i looked at it. i glanced at bob. he sent a sweeping look-about for police, then nodded his head. i lifted the hat from the chinaman's head and pulled it down on my own. it was a perfect fit. then i started. i heard bob crying out, and i caught a glimpse of him blocking the irate mongolian and tripping him up. i ran on. i turned up the next corner, and around the next. this street was not so crowded as k, and i walked along in quietude, catching my breath and congratulating myself upon my hat and my get-away. and then, suddenly, around the corner at my back, came the bare-headed chinaman. with him were a couple more chinamen, and at their heels were half a dozen men and boys. i sprinted to the next corner, crossed the street, and rounded the following corner. i decided that i had surely played him out, and i dropped into a walk again. but around the corner at my heels came that persistent mongolian. it was the old story of the hare and the tortoise. he could not run so fast as i, but he stayed with it, plodding along at a shambling and deceptive trot, and wasting much good breath in noisy imprecations. he called all sacramento to witness the dishonor that had been done him, and a goodly portion of sacramento heard and flocked at his heels. and i ran on like the hare, and ever that persistent mongolian, with the increasing rabble, overhauled me. but finally, when a policeman had joined his following, i let out all my links. i twisted and turned, and i swear i ran at least twenty blocks on the straight away. and i never saw that chinaman again. the hat was a dandy, a brand-new stetson, just out of the shop, and it was the envy of the whole push. furthermore, it was the symbol that i had delivered the goods. i wore it for over a year. road-kids are nice little chaps--when you get them alone and they are telling you "how it happened"; but take my word for it, watch out for them when they run in pack. then they are wolves, and like wolves they are capable of dragging down the strongest man. at such times they are not cowardly. they will fling themselves upon a man and hold on with every ounce of strength in their wiry bodies, till he is thrown and helpless. more than once have i seen them do it, and i know whereof i speak. their motive is usually robbery. and watch out for the "strong arm." every kid in the push i travelled with was expert at it. even french kid mastered it before he lost his legs. i have strong upon me now a vision of what i once saw in "the willows." the willows was a clump of trees in a waste piece of land near the railway depot and not more than five minutes walk from the heart of sacramento. it is night-time and the scene is illumined by the thin light of stars. i see a husky laborer in the midst of a pack of road-kids. he is infuriated and cursing them, not a bit afraid, confident of his own strength. he weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds, and his muscles are hard; but he doesn't know what he is up against. the kids are snarling. it is not pretty. they make a rush from all sides, and he lashes out and whirls. barber kid is standing beside me. as the man whirls, barber kid leaps forward and does the trick. into the man's back goes his knee; around the man's neck, from behind, passes his right hand, the bone of the wrist pressing against the jugular vein. barber kid throws his whole weight backward. it is a powerful leverage. besides, the man's wind has been shut off. it is the strong arm. the man resists, but he is already practically helpless. the road-kids are upon him from every side, clinging to arms and legs and body, and like a wolf at the throat of a moose barber kid hangs on and drags backward. over the man goes, and down under the heap. barber kid changes the position of his own body, but never lets go. while some of the kids are "going through" the victim, others are holding his legs so that he cannot kick and thresh about. they improve the opportunity by taking off the man's shoes. as for him, he has given in. he is beaten. also, what of the strong arm at his throat, he is short of wind. he is making ugly choking noises, and the kids hurry. they really don't want to kill him. all is done. at a word all holds are released at once, and the kids scatter, one of them lugging the shoes--he knows where he can get half a dollar for them. the man sits up and looks about him, dazed and helpless. even if he wanted to, barefooted pursuit in the darkness would be hopeless. i linger a moment and watch him. he is feeling at his throat, making dry, hawking noises, and jerking his head in a quaint way as though to assure himself that the neck is not dislocated. then i slip away to join the push, and see that man no more--though i shall always see him, sitting there in the starlight, somewhat dazed, a bit frightened, greatly dishevelled, and making quaint jerking movements of head and neck. drunken men are the especial prey of the road-kids. robbing a drunken man they call "rolling a stiff"; and wherever they are, they are on the constant lookout for drunks. the drunk is their particular meat, as the fly is the particular meat of the spider. the rolling of a stiff is ofttimes an amusing sight, especially when the stiff is helpless and when interference is unlikely. at the first swoop the stiff's money and jewellery go. then the kids sit around their victim in a sort of pow-wow. a kid generates a fancy for the stiff's necktie. off it comes. another kid is after underclothes. off they come, and a knife quickly abbreviates arms and legs. friendly hoboes may be called in to take the coat and trousers, which are too large for the kids. and in the end they depart, leaving beside the stiff the heap of their discarded rags. another vision comes to me. it is a dark night. my push is coming along the sidewalk in the suburbs. ahead of us, under an electric light, a man crosses the street diagonally. there is something tentative and desultory in his walk. the kids scent the game on the instant. the man is drunk. he blunders across the opposite sidewalk and is lost in the darkness as he takes a short-cut through a vacant lot. no hunting cry is raised, but the pack flings itself forward in quick pursuit. in the middle of the vacant lot it comes upon him. but what is this?--snarling and strange forms, small and dim and menacing, are between the pack and its prey. it is another pack of road-kids, and in the hostile pause we learn that it is their meat, that they have been trailing it a dozen blocks and more and that we are butting in. but it is the world primeval. these wolves are baby wolves. (as a matter of fact, i don't think one of them was over twelve or thirteen years of age. i met some of them afterward, and learned that they had just arrived that day over the hill, and that they hailed from denver and salt lake city.) our pack flings forward. the baby wolves squeal and screech and fight like little demons. all about the drunken man rages the struggle for the possession of him. down he goes in the thick of it, and the combat rages over his body after the fashion of the greeks and trojans over the body and armor of a fallen hero. amid cries and tears and wailings the baby wolves are dispossessed, and my pack rolls the stiff. but always i remember the poor stiff and his befuddled amazement at the abrupt eruption of battle in the vacant lot. i see him now, dim in the darkness, titubating in stupid wonder, good-naturedly essaying the role of peacemaker in that multitudinous scrap the significance of which he did not understand, and the really hurt expression on his face when he, unoffending he, was clutched at by many hands and dragged down in the thick of the press. "bindle-stiffs" are favorite prey of the road-kids. a bindle-stiff is a working tramp. he takes his name from the roll of blankets he carries, which is known as a "bindle." because he does work, a bindle-stiff is expected usually to have some small change about him, and it is after that small change that the road-kids go. the best hunting-ground for bindle-stiffs is in the sheds, barns, lumber-yards, railroad-yards, etc., on the edges of a city, and the time for hunting is the night, when the bindle-stiff seeks these places to roll up in his blankets and sleep. "gay-cats" also come to grief at the hands of the road-kid. in more familiar parlance, gay-cats are short-horns, _chechaquos_, new chums, or tenderfeet. a gay-cat is a newcomer on the road who is man-grown, or, at least, youth-grown. a boy on the road, on the other hand, no matter how green he is, is never a gay-cat; he is a road-kid or a "punk," and if he travels with a "profesh," he is known possessively as a "prushun." i was never a prushun, for i did not take kindly to possession. i was first a road-kid and then a profesh. because i started in young, i practically skipped my gay-cat apprenticeship. for a short period, during the time i was exchanging my 'frisco kid monica for that of sailor jack, i labored under the suspicion of being a gay-cat. but closer acquaintance on the part of those that suspected me quickly disabused their minds, and in a short time i acquired the unmistakable airs and ear-marks of the blowed-in-the-glass profesh. and be it known, here and now, that the profesh are the aristocracy of the road. they are the lords and masters, the aggressive men, the primordial noblemen, the _blond beasts_ so beloved of nietzsche. when i came back over the hill from nevada, i found that some river pirate had stolen dinny mccrea's boat. (a funny thing at this day is that i cannot remember what became of the skiff in which nickey the greek and i sailed from oakland to port costa. i know that the constable didn't get it, and i know that it didn't go with us up the sacramento river, and that is all i do know.) with the loss of dinny mccrea's boat, i was pledged to the road; and when i grew tired of sacramento, i said good-by to the push (which, in its friendly way, tried to ditch me from a freight as i left town) and started on a _passear_ down the valley of the san joaquin. the road had gripped me and would not let me go; and later, when i had voyaged to sea and done one thing and another, i returned to the road to make longer flights, to be a "comet" and a profesh, and to plump into the bath of sociology that wet me to the skin. two thousand stiffs a "stiff" is a tramp. it was once my fortune to travel a few weeks with a "push" that numbered two thousand. this was known as "kelly's army." across the wild and woolly west, clear from california, general kelly and his heroes had captured trains; but they fell down when they crossed the missouri and went up against the effete east. the east hadn't the slightest intention of giving free transportation to two thousand hoboes. kelly's army lay helplessly for some time at council bluffs. the day i joined it, made desperate by delay, it marched out to capture a train. it was quite an imposing sight. general kelly sat a magnificent black charger, and with waving banners, to the martial music of fife and drum corps, company by company, in two divisions, his two thousand stiffs countermarched before him and hit the wagon-road to the little burg of weston, seven miles away. being the latest recruit, i was in the last company, of the last regiment, of the second division, and, furthermore, in the last rank of the rear-guard. the army went into camp at weston beside the railroad track--beside the tracks, rather, for two roads went through: the chicago, milwaukee, and st. paul, and the rock island. our intention was to take the first train out, but the railroad officials "coppered" our play--and won. there was no first train. they tied up the two lines and stopped running trains. in the meantime, while we lay by the dead tracks, the good people of omaha and council bluffs were bestirring themselves. preparations were making to form a mob, capture a train in council bluffs, run it down to us, and make us a present of it. the railroad officials coppered that play, too. they didn't wait for the mob. early in the morning of the second day, an engine, with a single private car attached, arrived at the station and side-tracked. at this sign that life had renewed in the dead roads, the whole army lined up beside the track. but never did life renew so monstrously on a dead railroad as it did on those two roads. from the west came the whistle of a locomotive. it was coming in our direction, bound east. we were bound east. a stir of preparation ran down our ranks. the whistle tooted fast and furiously, and the train thundered at top speed. the hobo didn't live that could have boarded it. another locomotive whistled, and another train came through at top speed, and another, and another, train after train, train after train, till toward the last the trains were composed of passenger coaches, box-cars, flat-cars, dead engines, cabooses, mail-cars, wrecking appliances, and all the riff-raff of worn-out and abandoned rolling-stock that collects in the yards of great railways. when the yards at council bluffs had been completely cleaned, the private car and engine went east, and the tracks died for keeps. that day went by, and the next, and nothing moved, and in the meantime, pelted by sleet, and rain, and hail, the two thousand hoboes lay beside the track. but that night the good people of council bluffs went the railroad officials one better. a mob formed in council bluffs, crossed the river to omaha, and there joined with another mob in a raid on the union pacific yards. first they captured an engine, next they knocked a train together, and then the united mobs piled aboard, crossed the missouri, and ran down the rock island right of way to turn the train over to us. the railway officials tried to copper this play, but fell down, to the mortal terror of the section boss and one member of the section gang at weston. this pair, under secret telegraphic orders, tried to wreck our train-load of sympathizers by tearing up the track. it happened that we were suspicious and had our patrols out. caught red-handed at train-wrecking, and surrounded by twenty hundred infuriated hoboes, that section-gang boss and assistant prepared to meet death. i don't remember what saved them, unless it was the arrival of the train. it was our turn to fall down, and we did, hard. in their haste, the two mobs had neglected to make up a sufficiently long train. there wasn't room for two thousand hoboes to ride. so the mobs and the hoboes had a talkfest, fraternized, sang songs, and parted, the mobs going back on their captured train to omaha, the hoboes pulling out next morning on a hundred-and-forty-mile march to des moines. it was not until kelly's army crossed the missouri that it began to walk, and after that it never rode again. it cost the railroads slathers of money, but they were acting on principle, and they won. underwood, leola, menden, avoca, walnut, marno, atlantic, wyoto, anita, adair, adam, casey, stuart, dexter, carlham, de soto, van meter, booneville, commerce, valley junction--how the names of the towns come back to me as i con the map and trace our route through the fat iowa country! and the hospitable iowa farmer-folk! they turned out with their wagons and carried our baggage; gave us hot lunches at noon by the wayside; mayors of comfortable little towns made speeches of welcome and hastened us on our way; deputations of little girls and maidens came out to meet us, and the good citizens turned out by hundreds, locked arms, and marched with us down their main streets. it was circus day when we came to town, and every day was circus day, for there were many towns. in the evenings our camps were invaded by whole populations. every company had its campfire, and around each fire something was doing. the cooks in my company, company l, were song-and-dance artists and contributed most of our entertainment. in another part of the encampment the glee club would be singing--one of its star voices was the "dentist," drawn from company l, and we were mighty proud of him. also, he pulled teeth for the whole army, and, since the extractions usually occurred at meal-time, our digestions were stimulated by variety of incident. the dentist had no anaesthetics, but two or three of us were always on tap to volunteer to hold down the patient. in addition to the stunts of the companies and the glee club, church services were usually held, local preachers officiating, and always there was a great making of political speeches. all these things ran neck and neck; it was a full-blown midway. a lot of talent can be dug out of two thousand hoboes. i remember we had a picked baseball nine, and on sundays we made a practice of putting it all over the local nines. sometimes we did it twice on sundays. last year, while on a lecturing trip, i rode into des moines in a pullman--i don't mean a "side-door pullman," but the real thing. on the outskirts of the city i saw the old stove-works, and my heart leaped. it was there, at the stove-works, a dozen years before, that the army lay down and swore a mighty oath that its feet were sore and that it would walk no more. we took possession of the stove-works and told des moines that we had come to stay--that we'd walked in, but we'd be blessed if we'd walk out. des moines was hospitable, but this was too much of a good thing. do a little mental arithmetic, gentle reader. two thousand hoboes, eating three square meals, make six thousand meals per day, forty-two thousand meals per week, or one hundred and sixty-eight thousand meals per shortest month in the calendar. that's going some. we had no money. it was up to des moines. des moines was desperate. we lay in camp, made political speeches, held sacred concerts, pulled teeth, played baseball and seven-up, and ate our six thousand meals per day, and des moines paid for it. des moines pleaded with the railroads, but they were obdurate; they had said we shouldn't ride, and that settled it. to permit us to ride would be to establish a precedent, and there weren't going to be any precedents. and still we went on eating. that was the terrifying factor in the situation. we were bound for washington, and des moines would have had to float municipal bonds to pay all our railroad fares, even at special rates, and if we remained much longer, she'd have to float bonds anyway to feed us. then some local genius solved the problem. we wouldn't walk. very good. we should ride. from des moines to keokuk on the mississippi flowed the des moines river. this particular stretch of river was three hundred miles long. we could ride on it, said the local genius; and, once equipped with floating stock, we could ride on down the mississippi to the ohio, and thence up the ohio, winding up with a short portage over the mountains to washington. des moines took up a subscription. public-spirited citizens contributed several thousand dollars. lumber, rope, nails, and cotton for calking were bought in large quantities, and on the banks of the des moines was inaugurated a tremendous era of shipbuilding. now the des moines is a picayune stream, unduly dignified by the appellation of "river." in our spacious western land it would be called a "creek." the oldest inhabitants shook their heads and said we couldn't make it, that there wasn't enough water to float us. des moines didn't care, so long as it got rid of us, and we were such well-fed optimists that we didn't care either. on wednesday, may , , we got under way and started on our colossal picnic. des moines had got off pretty easily, and she certainly owes a statue in bronze to the local genius who got her out of her difficulty. true, des moines had to pay for our boats; we had eaten sixty-six thousand meals at the stove-works; and we took twelve thousand additional meals along with us in our commissary--as a precaution against famine in the wilds; but then, think what it would have meant if we had remained at des moines eleven months instead of eleven days. also, when we departed, we promised des moines we'd come back if the river failed to float us. it was all very well having twelve thousand meals in the commissary, and no doubt the commissary "ducks" enjoyed them; for the commissary promptly got lost, and my boat, for one, never saw it again. the company formation was hopelessly broken up during the river-trip. in any camp of men there will always be found a certain percentage of shirks, of helpless, of just ordinary, and of hustlers. there were ten men in my boat, and they were the cream of company l. every man was a hustler. for two reasons i was included in the ten. first, i was as good a hustler as ever "threw his feet," and next, i was "sailor jack." i understood boats and boating. the ten of us forgot the remaining forty men of company l, and by the time we had missed one meal we promptly forgot the commissary. we were independent. we went down the river "on our own," hustling our "chewin's," beating every boat in the fleet, and, alas that i must say it, sometimes taking possession of the stores the farmer-folk had collected for the army. for a good part of the three hundred miles we were from half a day to a day or so in advance of the army. we had managed to get hold of several american flags. when we approached a small town, or when we saw a group of farmers gathered on the bank, we ran up our flags, called ourselves the "advance boat," and demanded to know what provisions had been collected for the army. we represented the army, of course, and the provisions were turned over to us. but there wasn't anything small about us. we never took more than we could get away with. but we did take the cream of everything. for instance, if some philanthropic farmer had donated several dollars' worth of tobacco, we took it. so, also, we took butter and sugar, coffee and canned goods; but when the stores consisted of sacks of beans and flour, or two or three slaughtered steers, we resolutely refrained and went our way, leaving orders to turn such provisions over to the commissary boats whose business was to follow behind us. my, but the ten of us did live on the fat of the land! for a long time general kelly vainly tried to head us off. he sent two rowers, in a light, round-bottomed boat, to overtake us and put a stop to our piratical careers. they overtook us all right, but they were two and we were ten. they were empowered by general kelly to make us prisoners, and they told us so. when we expressed disinclination to become prisoners, they hurried ahead to the next town to invoke the aid of the authorities. we went ashore immediately and cooked an early supper; and under the cloak of darkness we ran by the town and its authorities. i kept a diary on part of the trip, and as i read it over now i note one persistently recurring phrase, namely, "living fine." we did live fine. we even disdained to use coffee boiled in water. we made our coffee out of milk, calling the wonderful beverage, if i remember rightly, "pale vienna." while we were ahead, skimming the cream, and while the commissary was lost far behind, the main army, coming along in the middle, starved. this was hard on the army, i'll allow; but then, the ten of us were individualists. we had initiative and enterprise. we ardently believed that the grub was to the man who got there first, the pale vienna to the strong. on one stretch the army went forty-eight hours without grub; and then it arrived at a small village of some three hundred inhabitants, the name of which i do not remember, though i think it was red rock. this town, following the practice of all towns through which the army passed, had appointed a committee of safety. counting five to a family, red rock consisted of sixty households. her committee of safety was scared stiff by the eruption of two thousand hungry hoboes who lined their boats two and three deep along the river bank. general kelly was a fair man. he had no intention of working a hardship on the village. he did not expect sixty households to furnish two thousand meals. besides, the army had its treasure-chest. but the committee of safety lost its head. "no encouragement to the invader" was its programme, and when general kelly wanted to buy food, the committee turned him down. it had nothing to sell; general kelly's money was "no good" in their burg. and then general kelly went into action. the bugles blew. the army left the boats and on top of the bank formed in battle array. the committee was there to see. general kelly's speech was brief. "boys," he said, "when did you eat last?" "day before yesterday," they shouted. "are you hungry?" a mighty affirmation from two thousand throats shook the atmosphere. then general kelly turned to the committee of safety:-- "you see, gentlemen, the situation. my men have eaten nothing in forty-eight hours. if i turn them loose upon your town, i'll not be responsible for what happens. they are desperate. i offered to buy food for them, but you refused to sell. i now withdraw my offer. instead, i shall demand. i give you five minutes to decide. either kill me six steers and give me four thousand rations, or i turn the men loose. five minutes, gentlemen." the terrified committee of safety looked at the two thousand hungry hoboes and collapsed. it didn't wait the five minutes. it wasn't going to take any chances. the killing of the steers and the collecting of the requisition began forthwith, and the army dined. and still the ten graceless individualists soared along ahead and gathered in everything in sight. but general kelly fixed us. he sent horsemen down each bank, warning farmers and townspeople against us. they did their work thoroughly, all right. the erstwhile hospitable farmers met us with the icy mit. also, they summoned the constables when we tied up to the bank, and loosed the dogs. i know. two of the latter caught me with a barbed-wire fence between me and the river. i was carrying two buckets of milk for the pale vienna. i didn't damage the fence any; but we drank plebian coffee boiled with vulgar water, and it was up to me to throw my feet for another pair of trousers. i wonder, gentle reader, if you ever essayed hastily to climb a barbed-wire fence with a bucket of milk in each hand. ever since that day i have had a prejudice against barbed wire, and i have gathered statistics on the subject. unable to make an honest living so long as general kelly kept his two horsemen ahead of us, we returned to the army and raised a revolution. it was a small affair, but it devastated company l of the second division. the captain of company l refused to recognize us; said we were deserters, and traitors, and scalawags; and when he drew rations for company l from the commissary, he wouldn't give us any. that captain didn't appreciate us, or he wouldn't have refused us grub. promptly we intrigued with the first lieutenant. he joined us with the ten men in his boat, and in return we elected him captain of company m. the captain of company l raised a roar. down upon us came general kelly, colonel speed, and colonel baker. the twenty of us stood firm, and our revolution was ratified. but we never bothered with the commissary. our hustlers drew better rations from the farmers. our new captain, however, doubted us. he never knew when he'd see the ten of us again, once we got under way in the morning, so he called in a blacksmith to clinch his captaincy. in the stern of our boat, one on each side, were driven two heavy eye-bolts of iron. correspondingly, on the bow of his boat, were fastened two huge iron hooks. the boats were brought together, end on, the hooks dropped into the eye-bolts, and there we were, hard and fast. we couldn't lose that captain. but we were irrepressible. out of our very manacles we wrought an invincible device that enabled us to put it all over every other boat in the fleet. like all great inventions, this one of ours was accidental. we discovered it the first time we ran on a snag in a bit of a rapid. the head-boat hung up and anchored, and the tail-boat swung around in the current, pivoting the head-boat on the snag. i was at the stern of the tail-boat, steering. in vain we tried to shove off. then i ordered the men from the head-boat into the tail-boat. immediately the head-boat floated clear, and its men returned into it. after that, snags, reefs, shoals, and bars had no terrors for us. the instant the head-boat struck, the men in it leaped into the tail-boat. of course, the head-boat floated over the obstruction and the tail-boat then struck. like automatons, the twenty men now in the tail-boat leaped into the head-boat, and the tail-boat floated past. the boats used by the army were all alike, made by the mile and sawed off. they were flat-boats, and their lines were rectangles. each boat was six feet wide, ten feet long, and a foot and a half deep. thus, when our two boats were hooked together, i sat at the stern steering a craft twenty feet long, containing twenty husky hoboes who "spelled" each other at the oars and paddles, and loaded with blankets, cooking outfit, and our own private commissary. still we caused general kelly trouble. he had called in his horsemen, and substituted three police-boats that travelled in the van and allowed no boats to pass them. the craft containing company m crowded the police-boats hard. we could have passed them easily, but it was against the rules. so we kept a respectful distance astern and waited. ahead we knew was virgin farming country, unbegged and generous; but we waited. white water was all we needed, and when we rounded a bend and a rapid showed up we knew what would happen. smash! police-boat number one goes on a boulder and hangs up. bang! police-boat number two follows suit. whop! police-boat number three encounters the common fate of all. of course our boat does the same things; but one, two, the men are out of the head-boat and into the tail-boat; one, two, they are out of the tail-boat and into the head-boat; and one, two, the men who belong in the tail-boat are back in it and we are dashing on. "stop! you blankety-blank-blanks!" shriek the police-boats. "how can we?--blank the blankety-blank river, anyway!" we wail plaintively as we surge past, caught in that remorseless current that sweeps us on out of sight and into the hospitable farmer-country that replenishes our private commissary with the cream of its contributions. again we drink pale vienna and realize that the grub is to the man who gets there. poor general kelly! he devised another scheme. the whole fleet started ahead of us. company m of the second division started in its proper place in the line, which was last. and it took us only one day to put the "kibosh" on that particular scheme. twenty-five miles of bad water lay before us--all rapids, shoals, bars, and boulders. it was over that stretch of water that the oldest inhabitants of des moines had shaken their heads. nearly two hundred boats entered the bad water ahead of us, and they piled up in the most astounding manner. we went through that stranded fleet like hemlock through the fire. there was no avoiding the boulders, bars, and snags except by getting out on the bank. we didn't avoid them. we went right over them, one, two, one, two, head-boat, tail-boat, head-boat, tail-boat, all hands back and forth and back again. we camped that night alone, and loafed in camp all of next day while the army patched and repaired its wrecked boats and straggled up to us. there was no stopping our cussedness. we rigged up a mast, piled on the canvas (blankets), and travelled short hours while the army worked over-time to keep us in sight. then general kelly had recourse to diplomacy. no boat could touch us in the straight-away. without discussion, we were the hottest bunch that ever came down the des moines. the ban of the police-boats was lifted. colonel speed was put aboard, and with this distinguished officer we had the honor of arriving first at keokuk on the mississippi. and right here i want to say to general kelly and colonel speed that here's my hand. you were heroes, both of you, and you were men. and i'm sorry for at least ten per cent of the trouble that was given you by the head-boat of company m. at keokuk the whole fleet was lashed together in a huge raft, and, after being wind-bound a day, a steamboat took us in tow down the mississippi to quincy, illinois, where we camped across the river on goose island. here the raft idea was abandoned, the boats being joined together in groups of four and decked over. somebody told me that quincy was the richest town of its size in the united states. when i heard this, i was immediately overcome by an irresistible impulse to throw my feet. no "blowed-in-the-glass profesh" could possibly pass up such a promising burg. i crossed the river to quincy in a small dug-out; but i came back in a large riverboat, down to the gunwales with the results of my thrown feet. of course i kept all the money i had collected, though i paid the boat-hire; also i took my pick of the underwear, socks, cast-off clothes, shirts, "kicks," and "sky-pieces"; and when company m had taken all it wanted there was still a respectable heap that was turned over to company l. alas, i was young and prodigal in those days! i told a thousand "stories" to the good people of quincy, and every story was "good"; but since i have come to write for the magazines i have often regretted the wealth of story, the fecundity of fiction, i lavished that day in quincy, illinois. it was at hannibal, missouri, that the ten invincibles went to pieces. it was not planned. we just naturally flew apart. the boiler-maker and i deserted secretly. on the same day scotty and davy made a swift sneak for the illinois shore; also mcavoy and fish achieved their get-away. this accounts for six of the ten; what became of the remaining four i do not know. as a sample of life on the road, i make the following quotation from my diary of the several days following my desertion. "friday, may th. boiler-maker and i left the camp on the island. we went ashore on the illinois side in a skiff and walked six miles on the c.b. & q. to fell creek. we had gone six miles out of our way, but we got on a hand-car and rode six miles to hull's, on the wabash. while there, we met mcavoy, fish, scotty, and davy, who had also pulled out from the army. "saturday, may th. at . a.m. we caught the cannonball as she slowed up at the crossing. scotty and davy were ditched. the four of us were ditched at the bluffs, forty miles farther on. in the afternoon fish and mcavoy caught a freight while boiler-maker and i were away getting something to eat. "sunday, may th. at . a.m. we caught the cannonball and found scotty and davy on the blind. we were all ditched at daylight at jacksonville. the c. & a. runs through here, and we're going to take that. boiler-maker went off, but didn't return. guess he caught a freight. "monday, may th. boiler-maker didn't show up. scotty and davy went off to sleep somewhere, and didn't get back in time to catch the k.c. passenger at . a.m. i caught her and rode her till after sunrise to masson city, , inhabitants. caught a cattle train and rode all night. "tuesday, may th. arrived in chicago at a.m...." * * * * * and years afterward, in china, i had the grief of learning that the device we employed to navigate the rapids of the des moines--the one-two-one-two, head-boat-tail-boat proposition--was not originated by us. i learned that the chinese river-boatmen had for thousands of years used a similar device to negotiate "bad water." it is a good stunt all right, even if we don't get the credit. it answers dr. jordan's test of truth: "will it work? will you trust your life to it?" bulls if the tramp were suddenly to pass away from the united states, widespread misery for many families would follow. the tramp enables thousands of men to earn honest livings, educate their children, and bring them up god-fearing and industrious. i know. at one time my father was a constable and hunted tramps for a living. the community paid him so much per head for all the tramps he could catch, and also, i believe, he got mileage fees. ways and means was always a pressing problem in our household, and the amount of meat on the table, the new pair of shoes, the day's outing, or the text-book for school, were dependent upon my father's luck in the chase. well i remember the suppressed eagerness and the suspense with which i waited to learn each morning what the results of his past night's toil had been--how many tramps he had gathered in and what the chances were for convicting them. and so it was, when later, as a tramp, i succeeded in eluding some predatory constable, i could not but feel sorry for the little boys and girls at home in that constable's house; it seemed to me in a way that i was defrauding those little boys and girls of some of the good things of life. but it's all in the game. the hobo defies society, and society's watch-dogs make a living out of him. some hoboes like to be caught by the watch-dogs--especially in winter-time. of course, such hoboes select communities where the jails are "good," wherein no work is performed and the food is substantial. also, there have been, and most probably still are, constables who divide their fees with the hoboes they arrest. such a constable does not have to hunt. he whistles, and the game comes right up to his hand. it is surprising, the money that is made out of stone-broke tramps. all through the south--at least when i was hoboing--are convict camps and plantations, where the time of convicted hoboes is bought by the farmers, and where the hoboes simply have to work. then there are places like the quarries at rutland, vermont, where the hobo is exploited, the unearned energy in his body, which he has accumulated by "battering on the drag" or "slamming gates," being extracted for the benefit of that particular community. now i don't know anything about the quarries at rutland, vermont. i'm very glad that i don't, when i remember how near i was to getting into them. tramps pass the word along, and i first heard of those quarries when i was in indiana. but when i got into new england, i heard of them continually, and always with danger-signals flying. "they want men in the quarries," the passing hoboes said; "and they never give a 'stiff' less than ninety days." by the time i got into new hampshire i was pretty well keyed up over those quarries, and i fought shy of railroad cops, "bulls," and constables as i never had before. one evening i went down to the railroad yards at concord and found a freight train made up and ready to start. i located an empty box-car, slid open the side-door, and climbed in. it was my hope to win across to white river by morning; that would bring me into vermont and not more than a thousand miles from rutland. but after that, as i worked north, the distance between me and the point of danger would begin to increase. in the car i found a "gay-cat," who displayed unusual trepidation at my entrance. he took me for a "shack" (brakeman), and when he learned i was only a stiff, he began talking about the quarries at rutland as the cause of the fright i had given him. he was a young country fellow, and had beaten his way only over local stretches of road. the freight got under way, and we lay down in one end of the box-car and went to sleep. two or three hours afterward, at a stop, i was awakened by the noise of the right-hand door being softly slid open. the gay-cat slept on. i made no movement, though i veiled my eyes with my lashes to a little slit through which i could see out. a lantern was thrust in through the doorway, followed by the head of a shack. he discovered us, and looked at us for a moment. i was prepared for a violent expression on his part, or the customary "hit the grit, you son of a toad!" instead of this he cautiously withdrew the lantern and very, very softly slid the door to. this struck me as eminently unusual and suspicious. i listened, and softly i heard the hasp drop into place. the door was latched on the outside. we could not open it from the inside. one way of sudden exit from that car was blocked. it would never do. i waited a few seconds, then crept to the left-hand door and tried it. it was not yet latched. i opened it, dropped to the ground, and closed it behind me. then i passed across the bumpers to the other side of the train. i opened the door the shack had latched, climbed in, and closed it behind me. both exits were available again. the gay-cat was still asleep. the train got under way. it came to the next stop. i heard footsteps in the gravel. then the left-hand door was thrown open noisily. the gay-cat awoke, i made believe to awake; and we sat up and stared at the shack and his lantern. he didn't waste any time getting down to business. "i want three dollars," he said. we got on our feet and came nearer to him to confer. we expressed an absolute and devoted willingness to give him three dollars, but explained our wretched luck that compelled our desire to remain unsatisfied. the shack was incredulous. he dickered with us. he would compromise for two dollars. we regretted our condition of poverty. he said uncomplimentary things, called us sons of toads, and damned us from hell to breakfast. then he threatened. he explained that if we didn't dig up, he'd lock us in and carry us on to white river and turn us over to the authorities. he also explained all about the quarries at rutland. now that shack thought he had us dead to rights. was not he guarding the one door, and had he not himself latched the opposite door but a few minutes before? when he began talking about quarries, the frightened gay-cat started to sidle across to the other door. the shack laughed loud and long. "don't be in a hurry," he said; "i locked that door on the outside at the last stop." so implicitly did he believe the door to be locked that his words carried conviction. the gay-cat believed and was in despair. the shack delivered his ultimatum. either we should dig up two dollars, or he would lock us in and turn us over to the constable at white river--and that meant ninety days and the quarries. now, gentle reader, just suppose that the other door had been locked. behold the precariousness of human life. for lack of a dollar, i'd have gone to the quarries and served three months as a convict slave. so would the gay-cat. count me out, for i was hopeless; but consider the gay-cat. he might have come out, after those ninety days, pledged to a life of crime. and later he might have broken your skull, even your skull, with a blackjack in an endeavor to take possession of the money on your person--and if not your skull, then some other poor and unoffending creature's skull. but the door was unlocked, and i alone knew it. the gay-cat and i begged for mercy. i joined in the pleading and wailing out of sheer cussedness, i suppose. but i did my best. i told a "story" that would have melted the heart of any mug; but it didn't melt the heart of that sordid money-grasper of a shack. when he became convinced that we didn't have any money, he slid the door shut and latched it, then lingered a moment on the chance that we had fooled him and that we would now offer him the two dollars. then it was that i let out a few links. i called him a son of a toad. i called him all the other things he had called me. and then i called him a few additional things. i came from the west, where men knew how to swear, and i wasn't going to let any mangy shack on a measly new england "jerk" put it over me in vividness and vigor of language. at first the shack tried to laugh it down. then he made the mistake of attempting to reply. i let out a few more links, and i cut him to the raw and therein rubbed winged and flaming epithets. nor was my fine frenzy all whim and literary; i was indignant at this vile creature, who, in default of a dollar, would consign me to three months of slavery. furthermore, i had a sneaking idea that he got a "drag" out of the constable fees. but i fixed him. i lacerated his feelings and pride several dollars' worth. he tried to scare me by threatening to come in after me and kick the stuffing out of me. in return, i promised to kick him in the face while he was climbing in. the advantage of position was with me, and he saw it. so he kept the door shut and called for help from the rest of the train-crew. i could hear them answering and crunching through the gravel to him. and all the time the other door was unlatched, and they didn't know it; and in the meantime the gay-cat was ready to die with fear. oh, i was a hero--with my line of retreat straight behind me. i slanged the shack and his mates till they threw the door open and i could see their infuriated faces in the shine of the lanterns. it was all very simple to them. they had us cornered in the car, and they were going to come in and man-handle us. they started. i didn't kick anybody in the face. i jerked the opposite door open, and the gay-cat and i went out. the train-crew took after us. we went over--if i remember correctly--a stone fence. but i have no doubts of recollection about where we found ourselves. in the darkness i promptly fell over a grave-stone. the gay-cat sprawled over another. and then we got the chase of our lives through that graveyard. the ghosts must have thought we were going some. so did the train-crew, for when we emerged from the graveyard and plunged across a road into a dark wood, the shacks gave up the pursuit and went back to their train. a little later that night the gay-cat and i found ourselves at the well of a farmhouse. we were after a drink of water, but we noticed a small rope that ran down one side of the well. we hauled it up and found on the end of it a gallon-can of cream. and that is as near as i got to the quarries of rutland, vermont. when hoboes pass the word along, concerning a town, that "the bulls is horstile," avoid that town, or, if you must, go through softly. there are some towns that one must always go through softly. such a town was cheyenne, on the union pacific. it had a national reputation for being "horstile,"--and it was all due to the efforts of one jeff carr (if i remember his name aright). jeff carr could size up the "front" of a hobo on the instant. he never entered into discussion. in the one moment he sized up the hobo, and in the next he struck out with both fists, a club, or anything else he had handy. after he had man-handled the hobo, he started him out of town with a promise of worse if he ever saw him again. jeff carr knew the game. north, south, east, and west to the uttermost confines of the united states (canada and mexico included), the man-handled hoboes carried the word that cheyenne was "horstile." fortunately, i never encountered jeff carr. i passed through cheyenne in a blizzard. there were eighty-four hoboes with me at the time. the strength of numbers made us pretty nonchalant on most things, but not on jeff carr. the connotation of "jeff carr" stunned our imagination, numbed our virility, and the whole gang was mortally scared of meeting him. it rarely pays to stop and enter into explanations with bulls when they look "horstile." a swift get-away is the thing to do. it took me some time to learn this; but the finishing touch was put upon me by a bull in new york city. ever since that time it has been an automatic process with me to make a run for it when i see a bull reaching for me. this automatic process has become a mainspring of conduct in me, wound up and ready for instant release. i shall never get over it. should i be eighty years old, hobbling along the street on crutches, and should a policeman suddenly reach out for me, i know i'd drop the crutches and run like a deer. the finishing touch to my education in bulls was received on a hot summer afternoon in new york city. it was during a week of scorching weather. i had got into the habit of throwing my feet in the morning, and of spending the afternoon in the little park that is hard by newspaper row and the city hall. it was near there that i could buy from pushcart men current books (that had been injured in the making or binding) for a few cents each. then, right in the park itself, were little booths where one could buy glorious, ice-cold, sterilized milk and buttermilk at a penny a glass. every afternoon i sat on a bench and read, and went on a milk debauch. i got away with from five to ten glasses each afternoon. it was dreadfully hot weather. so here i was, a meek and studious milk-drinking hobo, and behold what i got for it. one afternoon i arrived at the park, a fresh book-purchase under my arm and a tremendous buttermilk thirst under my shirt. in the middle of the street, in front of the city hall, i noticed, as i came along heading for the buttermilk booth, that a crowd had formed. it was right where i was crossing the street, so i stopped to see the cause of the collection of curious men. at first i could see nothing. then, from the sounds i heard and from a glimpse i caught, i knew that it was a bunch of gamins playing pee-wee. now pee-wee is not permitted in the streets of new york. i didn't know that, but i learned pretty lively. i had paused possibly thirty seconds, in which time i had learned the cause of the crowd, when i heard a gamin yell "bull!" the gamins knew their business. they ran. i didn't. the crowd broke up immediately and started for the sidewalk on both sides of the street. i started for the sidewalk on the park-side. there must have been fifty men, who had been in the original crowd, who were heading in the same direction. we were loosely strung out. i noticed the bull, a strapping policeman in a gray suit. he was coming along the middle of the street, without haste, merely sauntering. i noticed casually that he changed his course, and was heading obliquely for the same sidewalk that i was heading for directly. he sauntered along, threading the strung-out crowd, and i noticed that his course and mine would cross each other. i was so innocent of wrong-doing that, in spite of my education in bulls and their ways, i apprehended nothing. i never dreamed that bull was after me. out of my respect for the law i was actually all ready to pause the next moment and let him cross in front of me. the pause came all right, but it was not of my volition; also it was a backward pause. without warning, that bull had suddenly launched out at me on the chest with both hands. at the same moment, verbally, he cast the bar sinister on my genealogy. all my free american blood boiled. all my liberty-loving ancestors clamored in me. "what do you mean?" i demanded. you see, i wanted an explanation. and i got it. bang! his club came down on top of my head, and i was reeling backward like a drunken man, the curious faces of the onlookers billowing up and down like the waves of the sea, my precious book falling from under my arm into the dirt, the bull advancing with the club ready for another blow. and in that dizzy moment i had a vision. i saw that club descending many times upon my head; i saw myself, bloody and battered and hard-looking, in a police-court; i heard a charge of disorderly conduct, profane language, resisting an officer, and a few other things, read by a clerk; and i saw myself across in blackwell's island. oh, i knew the game. i lost all interest in explanations. i didn't stop to pick up my precious, unread book. i turned and ran. i was pretty sick, but i ran. and run i shall, to my dying day, whenever a bull begins to explain with a club. why, years after my tramping days, when i was a student in the university of california, one night i went to the circus. after the show and the concert i lingered on to watch the working of the transportation machinery of a great circus. the circus was leaving that night. by a bonfire i came upon a bunch of small boys. there were about twenty of them, and as they talked with one another i learned that they were going to run away with the circus. now the circus-men didn't want to be bothered with this mess of urchins, and a telephone to police headquarters had "coppered" the play. a squad of ten policemen had been despatched to the scene to arrest the small boys for violating the nine o'clock curfew ordinance. the policemen surrounded the bonfire, and crept up close to it in the darkness. at the signal, they made a rush, each policeman grabbing at the youngsters as he would grab into a basket of squirming eels. now i didn't know anything about the coming of the police; and when i saw the sudden eruption of brass-buttoned, helmeted bulls, each of them reaching with both hands, all the forces and stability of my being were overthrown. remained only the automatic process to run. and i ran. i didn't know i was running. i didn't know anything. it was, as i have said, automatic. there was no reason for me to run. i was not a hobo. i was a citizen of that community. it was my home town. i was guilty of no wrong-doing. i was a college man. i had even got my name in the papers, and i wore good clothes that had never been slept in. and yet i ran--blindly, madly, like a startled deer, for over a block. and when i came to myself, i noted that i was still running. it required a positive effort of will to stop those legs of mine. no, i'll never get over it. i can't help it. when a bull reaches, i run. besides, i have an unhappy faculty for getting into jail. i have been in jail more times since i was a hobo than when i was one. i start out on a sunday morning with a young lady on a bicycle ride. before we can get outside the city limits we are arrested for passing a pedestrian on the sidewalk. i resolve to be more careful. the next time i am on a bicycle it is night-time and my acetylene-gas-lamp is misbehaving. i cherish the sickly flame carefully, because of the ordinance. i am in a hurry, but i ride at a snail's pace so as not to jar out the flickering flame. i reach the city limits; i am beyond the jurisdiction of the ordinance; and i proceed to scorch to make up for lost time. and half a mile farther on i am "pinched" by a bull, and the next morning i forfeit my bail in the police court. the city had treacherously extended its limits into a mile of the country, and i didn't know, that was all. i remember my inalienable right of free speech and peaceable assemblage, and i get up on a soap-box to trot out the particular economic bees that buzz in my bonnet, and a bull takes me off that box and leads me to the city prison, and after that i get out on bail. it's no use. in korea i used to be arrested about every other day. it was the same thing in manchuria. the last time i was in japan i broke into jail under the pretext of being a russian spy. it wasn't my pretext, but it got me into jail just the same. there is no hope for me. i am fated to do the prisoner-of-chillon stunt yet. this is prophecy. i once hypnotized a bull on boston common. it was past midnight and he had me dead to rights; but before i got done with him he had ponied up a silver quarter and given me the address of an all-night restaurant. then there was a bull in bristol, new jersey, who caught me and let me go, and heaven knows he had provocation enough to put me in jail. i hit him the hardest i'll wager he was ever hit in his life. it happened this way. about midnight i nailed a freight out of philadelphia. the shacks ditched me. she was pulling out slowly through the maze of tracks and switches of the freight-yards. i nailed her again, and again i was ditched. you see, i had to nail her "outside," for she was a through freight with every door locked and sealed. the second time i was ditched the shack gave me a lecture. he told me i was risking my life, that it was a fast freight and that she went some. i told him i was used to going some myself, but it was no go. he said he wouldn't permit me to commit suicide, and i hit the grit. but i nailed her a third time, getting in between on the bumpers. they were the most meagre bumpers i had ever seen--i do not refer to the real bumpers, the iron bumpers that are connected by the coupling-link and that pound and grind on each other; what i refer to are the beams, like huge cleats, that cross the ends of freight cars just above the bumpers. when one rides the bumpers, he stands on these cleats, one foot on each, the bumpers between his feet and just beneath. but the beams or cleats i found myself on were not the broad, generous ones that at that time were usually on box-cars. on the contrary, they were very narrow--not more than an inch and a half in breadth. i couldn't get half of the width of my sole on them. then there was nothing to which to hold with my hands. true, there were the ends of the two box-cars; but those ends were flat, perpendicular surfaces. there were no grips. i could only press the flats of my palms against the car-ends for support. but that would have been all right if the cleats for my feet had been decently wide. as the freight got out of philadelphia she began to hit up speed. then i understood what the shack had meant by suicide. the freight went faster and faster. she was a through freight, and there was nothing to stop her. on that section of the pennsylvania four tracks run side by side, and my east-bound freight didn't need to worry about passing west-bound freights, nor about being overtaken by east-bound expresses. she had the track to herself, and she used it. i was in a precarious situation. i stood with the mere edges of my feet on the narrow projections, the palms of my hands pressing desperately against the flat, perpendicular ends of each car. and those cars moved, and moved individually, up and down and back and forth. did you ever see a circus rider, standing on two running horses, with one foot on the back of each horse? well, that was what i was doing, with several differences. the circus rider had the reins to hold on to, while i had nothing; he stood on the broad soles of his feet, while i stood on the edges of mine; he bent his legs and body, gaining the strength of the arch in his posture and achieving the stability of a low centre of gravity, while i was compelled to stand upright and keep my legs straight; he rode face forward, while i was riding sidewise; and also, if he fell off, he'd get only a roll in the sawdust, while i'd have been ground to pieces beneath the wheels. and that freight was certainly going some, roaring and shrieking, swinging madly around curves, thundering over trestles, one car-end bumping up when the other was jarring down, or jerking to the right at the same moment the other was lurching to the left, and with me all the while praying and hoping for the train to stop. but she didn't stop. she didn't have to. for the first, last, and only time on the road, i got all i wanted. i abandoned the bumpers and managed to get out on a side-ladder; it was ticklish work, for i had never encountered car-ends that were so parsimonious of hand-holds and foot-holds as those car-ends were. i heard the engine whistling, and i felt the speed easing down. i knew the train wasn't going to stop, but my mind was made up to chance it if she slowed down sufficiently. the right of way at this point took a curve, crossed a bridge over a canal, and cut through the town of bristol. this combination compelled slow speed. i clung on to the side-ladder and waited. i didn't know it was the town of bristol we were approaching. i did not know what necessitated slackening in speed. all i knew was that i wanted to get off. i strained my eyes in the darkness for a street-crossing on which to land. i was pretty well down the train, and before my car was in the town the engine was past the station and i could feel her making speed again. then came the street. it was too dark to see how wide it was or what was on the other side. i knew i needed all of that street if i was to remain on my feet after i struck. i dropped off on the near side. it sounds easy. by "dropped off" i mean just this: i first of all, on the side-ladder, thrust my body forward as far as i could in the direction the train was going--this to give as much space as possible in which to gain backward momentum when i swung off. then i swung, swung out and backward, backward with all my might, and let go--at the same time throwing myself backward as if i intended to strike the ground on the back of my head. the whole effort was to overcome as much as possible the primary forward momentum the train had imparted to my body. when my feet hit the grit, my body was lying backward on the air at an angle of forty-five degrees. i had reduced the forward momentum some, for when my feet struck, i did not immediately pitch forward on my face. instead, my body rose to the perpendicular and began to incline forward. in point of fact, my body proper still retained much momentum, while my feet, through contact with the earth, had lost all their momentum. this momentum the feet had lost i had to supply anew by lifting them as rapidly as i could and running them forward in order to keep them under my forward-moving body. the result was that my feet beat a rapid and explosive tattoo clear across the street. i didn't dare stop them. if i had, i'd have pitched forward. it was up to me to keep on going. i was an involuntary projectile, worrying about what was on the other side of the street and hoping that it wouldn't be a stone wall or a telegraph pole. and just then i hit something. horrors! i saw it just the instant before the disaster--of all things, a bull, standing there in the darkness. we went down together, rolling over and over; and the automatic process was such in that miserable creature that in the moment of impact he reached out and clutched me and never let go. we were both knocked out, and he held on to a very lamb-like hobo while he recovered. if that bull had any imagination, he must have thought me a traveller from other worlds, the man from mars just arriving; for in the darkness he hadn't seen me swing from the train. in fact, his first words were: "where did you come from?" his next words, and before i had time to answer, were: "i've a good mind to run you in." this latter, i am convinced, was likewise automatic. he was a really good bull at heart, for after i had told him a "story" and helped brush off his clothes, he gave me until the next freight to get out of town. i stipulated two things: first, that the freight be east-bound, and second, that it should not be a through freight with all doors sealed and locked. to this he agreed, and thus, by the terms of the treaty of bristol, i escaped being pinched. i remember another night, in that part of the country, when i just missed another bull. if i had hit him, i'd have telescoped him, for i was coming down from above, all holds free, with several other bulls one jump behind and reaching for me. this is how it happened. i had been lodging in a livery stable in washington. i had a box-stall and unnumbered horse-blankets all to myself. in return for such sumptuous accommodation i took care of a string of horses each morning. i might have been there yet, if it hadn't been for the bulls. one evening, about nine o'clock, i returned to the stable to go to bed, and found a crap game in full blast. it had been a market day, and all the negroes had money. it would be well to explain the lay of the land. the livery stable faced on two streets. i entered the front, passed through the office, and came to the alley between two rows of stalls that ran the length of the building and opened out on the other street. midway along this alley, beneath a gas-jet and between the rows of horses, were about forty negroes. i joined them as an onlooker. i was broke and couldn't play. a coon was making passes and not dragging down. he was riding his luck, and with each pass the total stake doubled. all kinds of money lay on the floor. it was fascinating. with each pass, the chances increased tremendously against the coon making another pass. the excitement was intense. and just then there came a thundering smash on the big doors that opened on the back street. a few of the negroes bolted in the opposite direction. i paused from my flight a moment to grab at the all kinds of money on the floor. this wasn't theft: it was merely custom. every man who hadn't run was grabbing. the doors crashed open and swung in, and through them surged a squad of bulls. we surged the other way. it was dark in the office, and the narrow door would not permit all of us to pass out to the street at the same time. things became congested. a coon took a dive through the window, taking the sash along with him and followed by other coons. at our rear, the bulls were nailing prisoners. a big coon and myself made a dash at the door at the same time. he was bigger than i, and he pivoted me and got through first. the next instant a club swatted him on the head and he went down like a steer. another squad of bulls was waiting outside for us. they knew they couldn't stop the rush with their hands, and so they were swinging their clubs. i stumbled over the fallen coon who had pivoted me, ducked a swat from a club, dived between a bull's legs, and was free. and then how i ran! there was a lean mulatto just in front of me, and i took his pace. he knew the town better than i did, and i knew that in the way he ran lay safety. but he, on the other hand, took me for a pursuing bull. he never looked around. he just ran. my wind was good, and i hung on to his pace and nearly killed him. in the end he stumbled weakly, went down on his knees, and surrendered to me. and when he discovered i wasn't a bull, all that saved me was that he didn't have any wind left in him. that was why i left washington--not on account of the mulatto, but on account of the bulls. i went down to the depot and caught the first blind out on a pennsylvania railroad express. after the train got good and under way and i noted the speed she was making, a misgiving smote me. this was a four-track railroad, and the engines took water on the fly. hoboes had long since warned me never to ride the first blind on trains where the engines took water on the fly. and now let me explain. between the tracks are shallow metal troughs. as the engine, at full speed, passes above, a sort of chute drops down into the trough. the result is that all the water in the trough rushes up the chute and fills the tender. somewhere along between washington and baltimore, as i sat on the platform of the blind, a fine spray began to fill the air. it did no harm. ah, ha, thought i; it's all a bluff, this taking water on the fly being bad for the bo on the first blind. what does this little spray amount to? then i began to marvel at the device. this was railroading! talk about your primitive western railroading--and just then the tender filled up, and it hadn't reached the end of the trough. a tidal wave of water poured over the back of the tender and down upon me. i was soaked to the skin, as wet as if i had fallen overboard. the train pulled into baltimore. as is the custom in the great eastern cities, the railroad ran beneath the level of the streets on the bottom of a big "cut." as the train pulled into the lighted depot, i made myself as small as possible on the blind. but a railroad bull saw me, and gave chase. two more joined him. i was past the depot, and i ran straight on down the track. i was in a sort of trap. on each side of me rose the steep walls of the cut, and if i ever essayed them and failed, i knew that i'd slide back into the clutches of the bulls. i ran on and on, studying the walls of the cut for a favorable place to climb up. at last i saw such a place. it came just after i had passed under a bridge that carried a level street across the cut. up the steep slope i went, clawing hand and foot. the three railroad bulls were clawing up right after me. at the top, i found myself in a vacant lot. on one side was a low wall that separated it from the street. there was no time for minute investigation. they were at my heels. i headed for the wall and vaulted it. and right there was where i got the surprise of my life. one is used to thinking that one side of a wall is just as high as the other side. but that wall was different. you see, the vacant lot was much higher than the level of the street. on my side the wall was low, but on the other side--well, as i came soaring over the top, all holds free, it seemed to me that i was falling feet-first, plump into an abyss. there beneath me, on the sidewalk, under the light of a street-lamp was a bull. i guess it was nine or ten feet down to the sidewalk; but in the shock of surprise in mid-air it seemed twice that distance. i straightened out in the air and came down. at first i thought i was going to land on the bull. my clothes did brush him as my feet struck the sidewalk with explosive impact. it was a wonder he didn't drop dead, for he hadn't heard me coming. it was the man-from-mars stunt over again. the bull did jump. he shied away from me like a horse from an auto; and then he reached for me. i didn't stop to explain. i left that to my pursuers, who were dropping over the wall rather gingerly. but i got a chase all right. i ran up one street and down another, dodged around corners, and at last got away. after spending some of the coin i'd got from the crap game and killing off an hour of time, i came back to the railroad cut, just outside the lights of the depot, and waited for a train. my blood had cooled down, and i shivered miserably, what of my wet clothes. at last a train pulled into the station. i lay low in the darkness, and successfully boarded her when she pulled out, taking good care this time to make the second blind. no more water on the fly in mine. the train ran forty miles to the first stop. i got off in a lighted depot that was strangely familiar. i was back in washington. in some way, during the excitement of the get-away in baltimore, running through strange streets, dodging and turning and retracing, i had got turned around. i had taken the train out the wrong way. i had lost a night's sleep, i had been soaked to the skin, i had been chased for my life; and for all my pains i was back where i had started. oh, no, life on the road is not all beer and skittles. but i didn't go back to the livery stable. i had done some pretty successful grabbing, and i didn't want to reckon up with the coons. so i caught the next train out, and ate my breakfast in baltimore. none this ebook was produced by jim weiler, xooqi.com the motor boys on the pacific or the young derelict hunters by clarence young preface dear boys: i believe it is not necessary to introduce the motor boys to most of my readers, as they have made their acquaintance in the previous books of this series. to those, however, who take up this volume without having previously read the ones that go before, i take pleasure in presenting my friends, jerry, ned and bob. they are booked for quite a long trip, this time; across the continent to the pacific coast, where they are destined to have some stirring adventures, searching for a mysterious derelict. those of you who know the motor boys from their past performances know that they will meet emergencies in the right spirit, and that they will do their level best to accomplish what they set out to do. whether they did so in this case i leave it for you to determine by reading the book. though their own motor boat, the dartaway, was destroyed in a train wreck, they managed to get the use of a powerful craft, in which they made a cruise on the pacific ocean. their old friend, professor snodgrass was with them, and, if you care to learn of his search for a horned toad, you will find the details set down here. yours very truly, clarence young. _________________________________________________________________ chapter i some bad news "well, she is smashed this time, sure!" exclaimed jerry hopkins, to his chums, ned slade and bob baker. "what's smashed?" asked ned. "who's the letter from'?" for jerry had a slip of paper in his hand. "it isn't a letter. it's a telegram." "a telegram!" exclaimed bob. "what's up, jerry?" "she's smashed, i tell you. busted, wrecked, demolished, destroyed, slivered to pieces, all gone!" "who?" "our motor boat, the dartaway!" "not the dartaway!" and ned and bob crowded closer to jerry. "that's what she is. there's no mistake about it this time, i'm afraid. you know we thought once before she had gone to flinders, but it wasn't so. this time it is." "how did it happen?" asked ned. "yes, tell us, can't you?" cried bob. "what are you so slow about?" "say, chunky," remarked jerry, looking at his fat chum, "if you'll give me a chance i'll tell you all i know. i just got this telegram from the florida coast railway company. it says: "'jerry hopkins. motor boat dartaway, shipped by you from. st. augustine in freight wreck just outside jacksonville. boat total loss, buried under several freight cars. will write further particulars. j. h. maxon, general freight agent." "that's all there is to it," added jerry, folding up the telegram. "all there is to it! i guess not much!" exclaimed bob. "aren't you going to sue 'em for damages, jerry?" "well, there's no use being in such a rush," observed jerry. "maybe they'll pay the claim without a suit. i'll have to make some inquiries." "let's go down to the freight once here and see mr. hitter," suggested ned. "he can tell us what to do. the poor dartaway! smashed!" "and in a land wreck, too!" put in jerry. "it wouldn't be so bad if she had gone down on the atlantic, chasing after a whale, or in pursuit of a shark--" "or with the flag flying, out in a storm, with salt water sam," interrupted ned. "but to think of her being buried under a lot of freight cars! it's tough, that's what it is!" "that's right," agreed bob. "just think of it! no more rides in her! say, we ought to get heavy damages! she was a fine boat!" "come on then," cried ned. "don't let's stand here chinning all day. let's go see mr. hitter. he has charge of all the freight that comes to cresville, and he can tell us how to proceed to collect damages." "yes, i guess that's all that's left for us to do," decided jerry, and the three lads started for the railroad depot. they lived in the town of cresville, mass., a thriving community, and had been chums and inseparable companions ever since they could remember. bob baker was the son of a wealthy banker, while jerry hopkins's mother was a widow, who had been left considerable property, and ned slade's father owned a large department store. you boys who have read the previous volumes of this "motor boys series" do not need to be reminded of the adventures the three chums had together. to those of you who read this book first, i will say that, in the first volume, called "the motor boys," there was related a series of happenings that followed the winning of a certain bicycle race in cresville. after their victory in this contest the boys got motorcycles, and, by winning a race on them, won a touring car. in this automobile they had many adventures, and several narrow escapes. they incurred the enmity of noddy nixon, a town bully, and his crony, bill berry. the three chums then took a long trip overland in their automobile, as related in the second book of this series and, incidentally, managed to locate a rich mine belonging to a prospector, who, to reward them, gave them a number of shares. while out west the boys met a very learned gentleman, professor uriah snodgrass, who was traveling in the interests of science. he persuaded the boys to go with him in their automobile to search for a certain ancient, buried city, and this they found in mexico, where they had a number of surprising adventures. returning from that journey, they made a trip across the plains, on which they discovered the hermit of lost lake. arriving home they decided, some time later, to get a motor boat, and, in the fifth volume of the series, entitled, "the motor boys afloat," there was set down what happened to them on their first cruise on the river, during which they solved a robbery mystery. finding they were well able to manage the boat they took a trip on the atlantic ocean, and, after weathering some heavy storms they reached home, only to start out again on a longer voyage, this time to strange waters amid the everglades of florida. they had recently returned from that queer region, and, as they had done on their journey to that locality, they shipped their boat by rail from st. augustine to cresville. or, rather, they saw it safely boxed at the freight station in st. augustine, and came on up north, trusting that the dartaway would arrive in due season, and in good condition. they had been home a week now, and as there was no news of their boat, jerry had become rather anxious and had written to the railroad officials in st. augustine. in response he got the telegram which brought consternation to the hearts of the motor boys. "it doesn't seem possible," remarked bob, as the three lads hurried on toward the freight office. "i guess it's good-bye to the dartaway this trip," said jerry. "too bad! she was a fine boat." "well, we'll make the railroad pay for it, and we'll get a better boat," spoke up bob. "we couldn't get any better boat than the dartaway, chunky," said ned. "we might get a larger one, and a more powerful one, but never a better one, she served us well. to think of her being crushed under a lot of freight cars! it makes me mad!" "no use feeling that way," suggested jerry. "just think of the good times we had in her, not only on this last trip, but on the previous cruises." "this last was the best," remarked bob, with something like a sigh. "it was lovely down there in florida." "i guess he's thinking of the seabury girls," put in ned, with a wink at jerry. "no more than you are!" exclaimed bob. "i guess you were rather sweet on olivia, yourself." "or was it rose or nellie?" asked jerry with a laugh. "they were all three nice-- very nice." "that's right," said ned, fervently. the three young ladies the boys referred to were daughters of a mr. nathan seabury, whom the boys met while cruising about the everglades and adjacent rivers and lakes. he was in his houseboat wanderer, traveling for his health. mr. seabury owned a large hotel in florida and his meeting with the boys, especially with jerry, was a source of profit to mrs. hopkins. she owned some land in florida; but did not consider it of any value. it developed that it adjoined mr. seabury's hotel property and, as he wished it to enlarge his building, he purchased the lot for a goodly sum. the three boys, after the return of the dartaway and wanderer from the strange waters, had stopped for a week at mr. seabury's hotel, before journeying north. "i'd like to see them again," said bob, after a pause, during which the boys turned into the street leading to the depot. "who?" asked ned. "the seabury family." "mr. seabury-- or-- er-- the girls?" asked jerry. "all of 'em," replied bob quickly. "i had a letter the other day," remarked jerry quietly. "you did!" exclaimed ned. "from them?" asked bob eagerly. "well, it wasn't exactly a family letter," answered jerry, with just the suspicion of a blush. "it was from nellie, and she said she, her sisters and father were going to lower california." "to california?" exclaimed bob and ned. "yes; for mr. seabury's health. you know they said they expected to when we parted from them. the climate of florida did not do him any good, and they are going to try what california will do. she asked us to call and see them, if we were ever in that neighborhood." "i guess our chances of going to california are pretty slim," remarked bob. "our motor boat's gone now, and we can't make any more cruises." "i don't see what that's got to do with it," declared ned. "we couldn't very well cross the continent in her, even if we had the dartaway, and she was rather too small to make the trip by water, even if the panama canal was finished." "oh, well, you know what i mean," retorted bob, who did not exactly know himself. "we can't go anywhere right away. school opens soon, and it's buckle down and study all winter i suppose. but--" bob's remarks were interrupted by the arrival of the boston express, which rumbled into the cresville station, where the boys now were and, after a momentary stop, steamed on again. a man leaped from the steps of a parlor car and ran into the freight office, first, however, looking up and down the length of the train to see if any other passengers got off. "he seems in a hurry," observed ned. "yes, and he must have some pull with the railroad, for the boston express never stops here," said jerry. "maybe he's the president of the road." the boys kept on to the freight office. when they reached it they found the stranger in conversation with mr. hitter, the agent. the chums could not help overhearing the talk. "have you several packages here, addressed to x. y. z., to he held until called for?" the stranger asked. "there they be," replied the agent, pointing to several small boxes, piled near the door. "that's good," and the man seemed much relieved. "now i want them shipped by fast freight to san francisco, and i want to prepay them so there will be no delay. how much is it?" and he pulled out a pocketbook, disclosing a roll of bills. as he did so he hurried to the door and looked up and down the depot platform, as if afraid of being observed. he saw the three boys, and, for a moment, seemed as if he was about to hurry away. then, with an obvious effort, he remained, but turned into the freight office and shut the door. "he acts as if he was afraid we would steal something from him," said bob. "or as if he didn't want us to hear any more about those boxes," supplemented jerry. "he's a queer customer, he is." "well, it's none of our affair," remarked ned, but neither he nor his chums realized how, a little later, they were to take part in an adventure in which the mysterious man and the queer boxes were to figure importantly. in a short time the man came out of the freight office. he did not look at the boys, but hurried off down the street, putting some papers into his pocket book, which, the boys could not help noticing as he passed them, was not so full of money as it had been. "let's go in and ask mr. hitter what to do about our boat," suggested ned. they found the agent counting over a roll of bills. "been robbing a bank?" asked bob cheerfully. "guess i'd better tell dad to look out for his money." "that was paid by the man who was just in in here," replied the agent. "queer chap. seemed as if he didn't want to be found out. first he was going to ship his stuff by fast freight, and then he concluded it would be better by express, though it cost a lot more. but he had plenty of money." "who was he?" asked jerry. "that's another funny part of it. he didn't tell me his name, though i hinted i'd have to have it to give him a receipt. he said to make it out x. y. z., and i done it. that's the way them boxes come, several days ago, from boston. they arrived by express, consigned to x. y. z., and was to be called for. i thought of everybody in town, but there ain't nobody with them initials. i was just wondering what to do with 'em when in be comes an' claims 'em." "what's in em?" asked jerry. "blessed if i know," responded mr. hitter. "i couldn't git that out of him, either, though i hinted that i ought to know if it was dynamite, or anything dangerous." "what did he say?" inquired ned. "he said it wasn't dynamite, but that's all he would say, an' i didn't have no right to open 'em. he paid me the expressage, and seemed quite anxious to know just when i could ship the boxes, and when they'd arrive in san francisco. i could tell him the first, but not the last, for there's no tellin' what delays there'll be on the road. "he was a queer man-- a very queer man. i couldn't make him out. an' he went off in a hurry, as if he was afraid some one would see him. an' he shut the door, jest as if you boys would bother him,-- well, it takes all sorts of people to make a world. i don't s'pose you or i will ever meet him again." mr. hitter was not destined to, but the boys had not seen the last of the strangely acting man, who soon afterward played a strange part in their lives. "what you chaps after, anyhow?" went on the freight agent, when he had put the money in the safe. "our motor boat's smashed!" exclaimed bob. "we want damages for her! how are we going to get 'em?" "not guilty, boys!" exclaimed the agent holding up his hands, as if he thought wild-west robbers were confronting him. "you can search me. nary a boat have i got, an' you can turn my pockets inside out!" and he turned slowly around, like an exhibition figure in a store show window. chapter ii a desperate race "well," remarked mr. hitter, after a pause, during which the boys, rather surprised at his conduct, stood staring at him, "well, why don't you look in my hip pocket. maybe i've got a boat concealed there." "i didn't mean to go at you with such a rush," apologized jerry. "but you see--" "that's all right," interrupted the freight agent. "can i put my hands down now? the blood's all runnin' out of 'em, an' they feel as if they was goin' to sleep. that'll never do, as i've got a lot of way-bills to make out," and he lowered his arms. "do you know anything about this?" asked jerry, handing mr. hitter the telegram. "what's that? the dartaway smashed!" the agent exclaimed, reading the message. "come now, that's too bad! how did it happen?" the boys explained how they had shipped the craft north. "of course the accident didn't happen on the line of railroad i am agent for," said mr. hitter, after reading the telegram again. "if it had, we'd be responsible." "what can we do?" asked bob. "we want to get damages." "an' i guess you're entitled to 'em," replied the agent. "come on inside, and i'll tell you what to do. you'll have to make a claim, submit affidavits, go before a notary public and a whole lot of rig-ma-role, but i guess, in the end you'll get damages. they can't blame you because the boat was smashed. it's too bad! i feel like i'd lost an old friend." mr. hitter had had several rides in the dartaway for he had done the boys many favors and they wished to return them, so he was given a chance to get intimately acquainted with the speedy craft. taking the boys into his office, mr. hitter instructed them how to write a letter to the claim department of the florida coast railway, demanding damages for the smashing of the boat. "be respectful, but put it good and strong," he said. "i'll write on my own account to the general freight agent. he's a friend of mine, and we have business dealings together-- that is his road and my road," and mr. hitter spoke as though he owned the line of which he was the cresville agent. "that'll be good," said bob. "maybe it will hurry matters up. we're much obliged to you, mr. hitter." "that's what we are," chimed in jerry and ned. the boys lost no time in sending in their claim. then there was nothing to do but to wait. they knew it would take some days, and they did not expect an answer in less than a week, while mr. hitter told them that if they got money in payment for the destroyed boat within three months they would be lucky. "well, since the dartaway's gone, i guess we'll have to go back to the automobile for a change," suggested jerry one afternoon, early in september, about a week before school was to open. "let's take a little jaunt out in the country, stay a couple of days, and come back, all ready to pitch in and study." "fine!" cried bob. "we'll stay at a hotel where they have good dinners--" "of course!" retorted ned. "that's chunky's first idea-- something to eat. i've been waiting for him to say something like that." the boys were at jerry's house, talking over various matters. the auto was kept in an unused barn back of his home, but, since the advent of the motor boat, had not seen much service, though occasionally the boys went out in it. now, it was likely to come into active use again. "let's look the machine over," proposed jerry. "it may need some repairs. it got pretty hard usage, especially in our trips to mexico and across the plains." the boys soon found that, beyond two tires which needed repairs, and some minor adjustments to the engine, the car was in good shape. it was in running order and, at bob's suggestion, they got in it and made a trip to the town garage, where they intended to leave it to be overhauled. as they were turning a corner, near the automobile shop, they heard a sudden "honk-honk!" that startled them. jerry, who was at the steering wheel, shut off the power and applied the emergency brake. and it was only just in time for, a moment later, from a cross street, there shot out a big green touring car, very powerful, as they could tell by the throbbing of the engine. it almost grazed the mudguards of the machine in which the three boys were, and, skidded dangerously. then, with what seemed an impudent, warning toot of the horn, it swung around and sped off down the road. "that was a close shave!" remarked jerry, as he released the brake. "i should say yes," agreed bob. "that was a six-cylinder car. bur-r-r-r! if she'd hit us--" he did not finish, but the boys knew what he meant. they proceeded to the garage, leaving their machine to be repaired. it would be ready for them the next day, the man said, and they arranged to call for it, and go for a trip in the country. "let's go to riverton," suggested bob, naming a summer resort about a hundred miles away. "the season is just about to close there, and, as it isn't crowded, we can get better attention and--" "better meals, he means," finished ned. "all right, chunky, we'll go." "it wouldn't be a bad idea," agreed jerry. "we could make it in one day easily, and wouldn't have to hurry. we could stay there a couple of days, making little side strips, and come back saturday. that would put us in good shape for monday, when school opens." there was no dissension from this plan, and, having secured the consent of their parents, the boys, early the next day, started off on their journey. it was a short one, compared to those they had been in the habit of taking, but they did not have time for a longer jaunt. they arrived at riverton in the afternoon, having stopped on the road for dinner. they found the place rather livelier than they expected, for there had been an automobile meet the day previous, including a big race, and several lovers of the sport still remained, for the weather was very pleasant. the sheds about the hotel were filled with all sorts of cars, so that the boys had hardly room to store their machine. "this is a little more exciting than we counted on," remarked jerry, as he and his chums entered the hotel to register. "i'm afraid we'll not get such good attention as bob thought." "oh, it's all the better," was the answer of the stout youth. "they'll have all the more to eat, with this crowd here." "chunky can argue it any way he likes," declared ned. "no use trying to corner him, jerry." "no, i guess not. but i'm hungry enough to eat almost anything." as they were turning away from the clerk's desk, having been assigned to rooms, the boys saw a youth, about their own age, standing near a bulletin board fastened on the side wall. the youth was tacking up a notice and, as he turned, having finished, jerry exclaimed in a whisper: "noddy nixon! what's he doing here?" at the same moment, noddy, the long-time enemy of the motor boys, saw them. his face got red, and he swung quickly aside to avoid speaking to the three chums. the last they had seen of the bully was when he started to accompany them back to cresville, after his disastrous attempt to make money from a florida cocoanut grove. noddy was wanted as a witness by the government authorities, in connection with the attempted wreck of a vessel, in which bill berry was concerned; but, after the motor boys had rescued noddy from an unpleasant position in florida, and he had agreed to return to cresville, he suddenly disappeared in the night. this was the first they had seen of him since. they had learned that the government no longer desired his testimony. "let's see what notice he put up," suggested ned. "maybe he has lost something." they walked over to the bulletin board. there, in noddy's rather poor handwriting, was a challenge. it was to the effect that he would race, on the track near the hotel, any automobilist who would choose to compete with him, for money, up to five hundred dollars, or merely for fun. "noddy must have a new car," remarked ned. "his old one couldn't go for a cent. we beat it several times." "what's the matter with trying again?" asked jerry, a light of excitement coming into his eyes. "i'd like to have a race. maybe several cars will enter, and we can have some fun out of it. our machine has a lot of 'go' left in it yet." "that's the stuff!" exclaimed bob. "i'm with you. but let's get supper first, maybe--" "i guess he's afraid there won't be any left," remarked jerry. "but come on, i can eat a bit myself." as the boys left the office of the hotel, they saw several men reading the notice noddy had tacked up. "a race on this circular track here!" exclaimed one man to a friend as the boys passed him. "it's very risky! the turns are not banked enough. i wouldn't do it, but i suppose some will take the chance." "yes, it will be a dangerous race," responded the other. "who is this noddy nixon?" "a son of that rich nixon over in cresville, i believe. his father made a lot of money in stocks lately, and, i guess the son is helping spend it. he has a powerful car." the motor boys did not stay to hear more, but went to their rooms to change their clothes, and were soon eating supper. there was talk of nothing but automobile topics in the hotel corridors and office that evening. many motorists were planning to leave the next day, but some said they would stay and see if the nixon race would amount to anything. "let's accept the challenge," suggested jerry. "i don't want to have anything to do with noddy," objected ned. "we don't have to," replied bob, "i was talking to the clerk about it. all we have to do is register our names, and the name of the car. it's an informal affair, only for fun. they won't race for money. come on, let's go in it." hearing this, ned agreed, and the boys put their names down. as noddy had stipulated there must be four passengers in each car it would necessitate the motor boys getting some one else to ride with them. this the clerk agreed to arrange. there were six entries in the race, which was to take place the next day. early in the morning, before breakfast, ned, jerry and bob went out in their car to try the course. when they were half way around it they heard a car coming behind them. in a moment it had passed them, and they recognized it as the same machine that had nearly collided with them in cresville. "look who's in it!" cried bob. "who?" asked ned. "noddy nixon. if that's his car, we haven't any show." "humph! i'm afraid not," answered jerry rather ruefully. "still, i'm not going to give up now. he's got a new car, but maybe we can beat him. he's a poor driver." several other autos soon appeared on the track to have a "tryout," and, though none of them seemed as speedy as noddy's new machine, there was no talk of dropping out on the part of those who had entered. that gave the boys more courage, and they decided to stick, even though their chances were not good. noddy did not speak to them, though he passed them several times. nor did he appear very popular with the other autoists. he had several young men with him, and they made things rather lively about the hotel, occasionally giving what seemed to be college yells. "they're regular 'rah-rah' boys," said bob, in contempt. early that afternoon just before the race bob, jerry and ned spent an hour in going over their car, making some adjustments, and seeing that the tires were in good shape. almost at the last minute jerry decided to put the non-skidding chains on the rear wheels. "those turns, which are not banked much, are dangerous," he said, "i'm not going to take any chances. we don't want to turn turtle." there was much activity about the hotel as the hour for the contest arrived. noddy's car seemed the finest of the six that lined up at the starting tape. the motor boys had drawn a position next to the bully and his cronies. noddy glanced contemptuously at them. "you must think it's winter, putting chains on," he remarked to jerry, who had been chosen to steer. "it may be a cold day for somebody before we get through," was all jerry replied. "you haven't the ghost of a show," called one of noddy's companions. "you'll think you're standing still when we start." the others laughed at this joke, and noddy seemed pleased. there was a short consultation among the judges and other officials, and, a moment later, a white puff of smoke was seen hovering above the uplifted revolver of the starter. then came a sharp crack, and the panting machines, the engines of which had been put in motion some time previous, started off together, as the drivers threw in the high speed gears. the race, which was truly a dangerous contest, was on, and, with eager eyes the motor boys looked ahead on the course. chapter iii news from the west the track was a half-mile one, and, as the length of the race was five miles it would be necessary to make ten laps or circuits. the course was in the shape of an ellipse, with rather sharp turns at either end, where the contestants, if they did not want a spill, or a bad skid, must slacken their pace. it was on the two straight stretches that speed could be made. at the report of the pistol noddy's car shot off as an arrow from a bow, the explosions of the cylinders sounding like a small battery of quick-firing guns in action. but the others were after him, the five cars bunched together, that of the motor boys a little behind the other four. "we've got to catch him, jerry," whispered bob. "easier said than done," replied jerry, as he shoved the gasolene lever over a trifle, and advanced the spark, thereby increasing the speed of the car. "noddy's got a powerful machine." "they should have had a handicap on this race," said tom jennings, the young man whom the hotel clerk had asked to be a fourth passenger in the motor boys' car, so that the conditions of the contest would be met. "it's not fair to have a high power auto race one of two cylinders." "ours has four," spoke ned. "of course its not as up-to-date as noddy's is, but--" "we'll beat him!" exclaimed bob. "we've done it before and we can do it again." "i'm afraid not," went on tom. "that big green car of his will go ahead of anything on this track." and so it seemed, for noddy was spinning around the course at fearful speed, his car looking like a green streak. "let's see how he takes the turn," suggested bob. "he'll have to slow up if he doesn't want a spill." noddy was wise enough to do this, though even at the reduced speed at which he went around the bank, his rear wheels skidded rather alarmingly. but jerry was not idle during this time. as he found his car responding to the increase of gasolene and the advanced spark, he shoved the levers still further over. the auto shot forward, distancing the yellow car immediately in front of it, passing one with an aluminum body and closely approaching a purple auto which was behind noddy. suddenly a loud explosion sounded back of the motor boys. "there goes a tire!" exclaimed bob. "hope it isn't one of yours," said tom. "if it was you'd be sliding along the track on your face instead of sitting here," responded bob. "no, it's one on the aluminum car. she's out of the race," he added as he gave a quick glance back. a few minutes later there was another noise-- a crashing sound-- and the motor boys, by a quick glance, saw that the rearmost car in the race had, by injudicious steering, been sent through a frail fence which surrounded the track. the radiator was broken and, though no one was hurt the car was put out of business. that left but four cars-- noddy's green one, the yellow, the red one of the motor boys', and a purple affair. they were speeding along in that order, and, a few seconds later something went wrong with one of the cylinders of the purple machine, leaving but three contestants. then the yellow car shot ahead of the red one containing the motor boys. by this time one circuit of the track had been completed, and a start made on the second lap. "think we're catching up?" asked bob, as jerry cautiously fed the engine a little more gasolene. "well, we're holding our own," was the answer of the steersman, "and i think we're catching up to the yellow car again. if we pass that i'm not so sure but what we can come in a close second to noddy." "i don't want to come in second," spoke up ned. "i want to beat him." "so do i," replied jerry, "but it's not going to be so easy. our car's doing well, but we can't expect wonders of it." "the race isn't over until you're at the finish tape," said tom jennings. "keep on, boys, i'd like to see that nixon chap beaten. he thinks he owns the earth." for two miles there was no change in the position of the cars. then slowly, very slowly, jerry saw that his red machine was overtaking the yellow car. inch by inch it crept up, the steersman of the rival car doing his best but failing to get more speed out of the engine. "too bad we have to pass you!" cried jerry, as he careened past the yellow machine. "that's all right," sung out the steersman good-naturedly. "beat that other one, if you can." "we're going to try!" yelled ned, above the noise of the exploding cylinders. they were on a straight stretch then and, as noddy looked back and saw the red car closer to him than it had been before, he put on more speed. his green auto shot forward but jerry still had something in reserve, and he let his machine out another notch. "he's got to slow up for the turn!" cried ned. "maybe we can pass him!" "yes, but we've got to slacken up too, if we don't want a spill," replied bob. "that's so," admitted ned. noddy did slow up, but not much, and his car skidded worse than at any time yet. it looked as if it was going over, and a cry from the spectators showed that they, too, anticipated this disaster. but, with a sharp wrench of the steering wheel, noddy brought the car back toward the center of the track. jerry swung around the turn at reduced speed, and, because of the chains, his machine did not skid more than a few inches. "good thing you have those chains on," commented tom. "they may come in handy at the finish." "that's what i put them there for," answered jerry. for another mile there was little change in the relative position of the cars of noddy and the motor boys. jerry thought he had cut the bully's lead somewhat, but he still felt that he was far from having a good chance to win the race. still, he was not going to give up. "two laps more and it's all over," said bob, as they began on the final mile. "can't you hit it up a bit more, jerry?" "i'll try." just a degree faster came the explosions of the cylinders of the red car. but also, still faster, came the reports from noddy's auto. he was not going to be beaten if he could help it. around the two machines swung, the yellow car having given up and dropped out. there was a confused shouting from the spectators, and bob could distinguish cheers for the red auto. "we've just got to win!" he cried. "win, jerry! win!" try as he did, by "nursing" the engine, jerry could not gain an inch on noddy's car. the red machine was fifty feet behind the green one, both going at top speed. only an accident, it seemed, could make the motor boys win. as they swung into the last lap ned cried: "noddy isn't going to slow down for the turn!" "neither are we!" cried jerry fiercely. "quick boys! all of you get out on the inside step! crouch down! that will help hold us as we go around the bank, or, otherwise, we'll go over." they all knew what he meant. by hanging out on the runboard or step, nearest the inside of the track, more weight would be added to that side of the car. it was what automobilists call "shifting the center of gravity," and aids in preventing spills. giving one glance to see that the boys were in their places, jerry grasped the steering wheel firmly, and sent the car at the dangerous turn at full speed. noddy was doing the same, but he had not thought of having any of his passengers hang out on the step. "look out now, boys!" called jerry, as they took the turn. "swing out as far as you can, boys, but hang down low!" called tom jennings, who had been in races before. even with this precaution, and aided as they were by the chains on the rear wheels, the red car skidded or slewed so that jerry thought it was going over. but it did not. by the narrowest margin it kept on the bank. not so, however, with noddy's green dragon. as soon as his car struck the turn it began to skid. he would not shut off his power, but kept on the high gear, and with the engine going at top speed. there was a cry of alarm, and then the green car left the track, mounted the bank, slid over the top, and came to a halt in a pool of mud and water on the other side of the field. it went fifty yards before noddy could stop it. "go on! go on!" yelled ned. "we win! we win!" jerry had all he could do to hold the steering wheel of his slewing car, but, by gripping it desperately, he swung it into place, and the red machine started up the home stretch, crossing the tape a winner, for it was the only car left on the track. a burst of cheers greeted it, and men crowded up to shake hands with the plucky boys. "glad you beat the 'mud lark,'" said the owner of the yellow machine, thus giving noddy's car a name that stuck to it for some time. "that nixon chap thought he was going to walk over every one. you taught him a much-needed lesson." nothing was talked of in the hotel that night but the race, and the motor boys were the heroes of the occasion. noddy did not appear, and it was learned that he had to hire men and teams to get his car out of the mud. the motor boys started for home the next day, and thought they were going to make it in good time, but they had a tire accident on the road, when about twenty-five miles away, and decided to stay in the nearest village over night, as they had no spare shoe for the wheel. as they left their car by the roadside, and tramped into the town, to send word to the nearest garage, they saw a cloud of dust approaching. "here comes a car," said bob. "maybe we can get help." as the machine drew nearer they saw that it was painted green, and, a moment later, noddy nixon had brought his auto to a stop, and was grinning at them. "had a break-down, eh?" he asked. "that's a fine car you have, ain't it?" "we can beat you!" exclaimed ned. "yes you can! not in a thousand years if i hadn't gone off the track! want any help? well, you'll not get it, see? bye-bye! i'll tell 'em you're coming," and, with an ugly leer, the bully started off. "i wouldn't take help from him if i had to walk ten miles without my supper," said bob firmly, and that was a strong saying for the stout youth. the motor boys found a good hotel in the village, and the next day, when their car had been repaired, they resumed their journey, arriving at home about noon. "there's some mail for you, jerry," said mrs. hopkins, as her son came in, after putting the auto in the barn. "it's from california. i didn't know you knew any one out there." "neither did i, mother. we'll see who it's from." he tore open the letter, read it hurriedly, and gave a cry of mingled delight and surprise. "it's from nellie seabury!" he said. "she says they are in lower california, traveling about, looking for a good place to stay at for a few months for their father's health. when they locate she wants-- that is mr. seabury-- wants us to come out and see them. oh, i wish i could go-- i wish we could all go!" "perhaps you can," suggested his mother with a smile. "california is not so far away. but i suppose you'll have to wait until next vacation." "yes, i suppose so," admitted jerry. "and that's a long ways off-- a long ways." "the time will soon pass," said his mother. "but tell me about your auto trip. did you have a good time?" "fine, and we beat noddy nixon in a great race." "i wish you wouldn't have anything to do with that young man," said mrs. hopkins. "you have nothing but trouble when you do." "i guess he'll not want much more to do with us," returned jerry. "we manage to beat him every time. but i must go find the boys. this will be great news for them-- this letter from the seabury family." "i thought it was from-- nelly." "so it is-- but it's all the same," answered jerry with a blush. chapter iv more letters jerry found ned, his nearest chum, at home, and told him of the news from the west. "that's fine!" cried ned. "come on and tell bob." "don't have to," said jerry. "here he comes now." the stout youth was, at that moment, walking along the street toward ned's house. "come on in!" cried ned, as he opened the door while his chum was still on the steps. "that's what i was going to do," responded chunky. "did you think i was going to sit out here? of course i'm coming in. what's the matter?" for he saw by ned's face that something unusual had occurred. "jerry's got a letter from nellie seabury-- they're in lower california-- we're going-- i mean they want us to come and pay them a visit-- i mean--" "say, for mercy sakes stop!" cried bob, holding both hands over his ears. "i guess ned's a little excited," suggested jerry. "you guess so-- well, i know so," responded bob. "are you all done?" and he cautiously removed his hands from his ears. "tell him about it, jerry," said ned, and jerry told the news. "it would be fine to go out there," said bob, reflectively. "but there's school. we can't get out of that." they all agreed they could not, and decided the only thing to do was to wait until the following summer. "too bad," remarked bob with a sigh. "winter is the best time of the year out there, too." in spite of the fact that they knew, under the present circumstances, they could not go for several months, the boys spent an hour or more discussing what they would do if they could go to california. "oh, what's the use!" exclaimed ned, when jerry had spoken of how fine it would be to hire a motor boat and cruise along the pacific coast. "don't get us all worked up that way, jerry. have some regard for our feelings!" "well, let's talk about school. it opens monday." "don't mention it!" cried ned. "i say-- hello, there's the postman's whistle. he's coming here." he went to the door, and returned carrying a letter, the envelope of which he was closely examining. "you can find out from who it is by opening it," suggested jerry. "here's a funny thing," spoke ned. "this letter is addressed to my father, but, down in one corner it says, 'may be opened by ned, in case of necessity.'" "well, then, open it," suggested bob. "this is a case of necessity. where's it from?" "boston, but i don't recognize the writing." "open it," called jerry. ned did so, and, as he read, he uttered a cry of astonishment. "well if this isn't a queer thing," he said. "did you ever see such a coincidence? this letter is from professor uriah snodgrass, and listen to what he says: 'dear mr. slade, or ned. i write thus as i want one of you to read it in a hurry, and one of you may be away from home. you remember the last i saw of you and your chums (this part is for ned) was in florida. there i secured the rare butterfly i was looking for, and, through that success i was able to obtain a position with a boston museum, to travel all over the world for them, collecting valuable specimens. i have been here for only a few weeks, but i already have a commission. i am soon to start for california, in search of a cornu batrachian.'" "a 'cornu batrachian'!" exclaimed bob. "for the love of tripe, what's that?" "california!" murmured jerry. "i guess the fates want to pile it up on us." "say, is that 'cornu batrachian' anything like a mountain lion?" asked bob. "wait," counseled ned. "he explains. 'the cornu batrachian,' he says, 'is what is commonly called a horned toad. i must get several fine specimens, and i thought you boys might be making another trip, and could go with me. i would be very glad of your company. please let me hear from you. my regards to mrs. slade.'" "well, wouldn't that tickle your teeth!" exclaimed bob, more forcibly than elegantly. "and we can't go!" he added with a groan. "think of the fun we'll miss by not being with professor snodgrass," went on ned. "and with the seabury family," chimed in jerry. "it's tough!" exclaimed ned. "and school opens monday!" at that moment there was a whistle out in the street and a ring at the door bell. "the postman again," said ned. "i wonder what he wants?" he went to the door. "here's a letter i forgot to give you," said the mailcarrier. "it got out of place in my bundle, and i didn't discover it until i was quite a way up the street." "that's all right," answered ned good-naturedly. "from the board of education," he murmured, as he looked at the printing in the upper left hand corner. "i wonder what they are writing to me about?" he opened it and drew out a printed circular. as he re-entered the room where his chums were he gave a cry of delight. "listen to this!" he called, and he read: "'to the pupils of the cresville academy. it has been discovered, at the last moment, that a new heating boiler will be needed in the school. the tubes of the old one are broken. it has been decided to replace it at once, and, as it will be necessary to do considerable work about the building, thereby interfering with the proper conducting of studies, the school will not open for another month, or six weeks, depending on the length of time required to install a new boiler. "'therefore pupils will kindly not report on monday morning, as originally intended, but will hold themselves in readiness to begin their school work shortly after the receipt of another circular, which will be sent out as soon as the building is in proper shape. the faculty earnestly recommends that all pupils apply themselves diligently to their studies during this unlooked-for, unfortunate, but wholly necessary lengthening of the vacation season. by applying to their respective teachers pupils will learn what studies to continue.'" "whoop!" yelled bob. "o-la-la!" cried ned after the fashion of some eastern dervish. "say! that's great!" exclaimed jerry. "a month more of vacation!" "now we can go to california with professor snodgrass, and help him catch horned toads!" added ned. "and visit the seabury family," supplemented jerry. "oh, boys, this is simply immense! things are coming our way after all!" chapter v professor uriah snodgrass the sudden and unexpected news that they need not begin their school studies on monday morning fairly startled the boys, at first. they read the circular over again, to make sure they were not mistaken. "why didn't i get one?" asked bob, rather suspiciously. "probably it's at your home now," suggested ned. "and i ought to have one, too," said jerry. "you came away before the letter carrier arrived," went on ned. "maybe you'd better go see. it might-- it might be a mistake-- or a joke." "don't say that!" exclaimed bob. "i'm going to see if i have a letter like yours." "so am i," decided jerry. "it might, as you say, ned, be a joke, though it looks genuine." to make sure, jerry and bob hurried to their homes. there they found awaiting them circulars, similar to the one ned had. to further convince them, as jerry and bob were returning to ned's house, they met andy rush, a small chap, but as full of life as an electric battery. "hello!" he exclaimed-- "great news-- no school-- boiler busted-- thousands of teachers killed-- great calamity-- fine-- horrible-- terrible-- don't have to study-- longer vacation-- steam pipes blown out-- clouds of steam-- no heat-- freeze up-- burn to death-- great-- whoope-e-e!" "did you ever take anything for that?" asked jerry calmly, when andy had finished. "dasn't! if i did i'd blow up! but say-- it's great, isn't it? did you get a circular too?" and andy showed one. "it's fearful-- terrible-- no school--" "come on," urged jerry to bob. "he'll give us nervous prostration if we listen to him any longer," but they need not have hurried, for andy, so full of news that he could not keep still, had rushed off down the street, hopping, skipping and jumping, to spread the tidings, which nearly every academy pupil in cresville knew by that time. now the motor boys could discuss a californian trip in earnest, for they knew their parents would let them go, especially after mr. seabury's invitation, and the letter from professor snodgrass. in the course of a few days jerry received another missive from nellie seabury. this letter informed jerry, and, incidentally, his two chums, that she, with her sisters and father, had settled in a small town near the coast, not far from santa barbara, and on a little ocean bay, which, nellie said, was a much nicer place than any they had visited in florida. "father likes it very much here," she wrote, "and he declares he feels better already, though we have been here only a week. he says he knows it would do him good to see you boys, and he wishes-- in fact we all wish-- you three chums could come out here for a long visit, though i suppose you cannot on account of school opening. but, perhaps, we shall see you during the next vacation." "she's going to see us sooner than that," announced bob, when jerry had read the letter to him and ned. "did you write and tell her we were coming?" asked ned, his two friends having called at his house to talk over their prospective trip. "no, i thought we'd wait and see what professor snodgrass had planned. perhaps he isn't going to that part of california." "that's so," admitted bob. "guess we'll have to wait and find out. i wish he'd call or write. have you heard anything more about damages for our smashed boat, jerry?" "no, i saw mr. hitter the other day, and he advised me to wait a while before writing again. something queer happened while i was in his office, too." "what was it'?" "well, you remember the man who got off the boston express that day, and acted so strange about his boxes of stuff he wanted shipped to the pacific coast?" "sure," replied ned and bob at once. "well, through some mistake one of the boxes was left behind. mr. hitter, had it in his office, intending to ship it back to the man, for it wasn't worth while to send one box away out west, but it fell and burst partly open. the box was in one corner of the room, and, while i was there mr. hitter's dog went up to it and began sniffing at it. all at once the dog fell over, just as if he'd been shot. he stiffened out, and we thought he was dead, from having eaten something poisoned he found on the floor." "was he?" "no, after a while he seemed to come to, and was all right, but he looked sick. mr. hitter said there must be something queer in that box, to make the dog act that way, and he and i smelled of it, taking care not to get too close." "what was in it?" asked ned. "i don't know. it was something that smelled rather sweet, and somewhat sickish. mr. hitter said it might be some queer kind of poison that acted on animals, but not on human beings, and he put the box up on a high shelf where his dog couldn't get at it. but i thought it was rather queer stuff for a man to be sending away out to the coast." "it certainly was," agreed bob. "that man acted in a strange manner, too, as if he was afraid some one would see him. i wonder if there is any mystery connected with him?" there came a time when the boys had good reason to remember this incident of the box filled with a strange substance, for they were in great danger from it. "well, i don't know that it concerns us," mused ned. "i guess we'll not get any damages from the railroad company in time to use the money on our california trip, so we might as well take some cash out of our saving fund. i do wish we'd hear from the professor. it's several days since i wrote to him, saying we would go with him." "i suppose he is so busy catching a new kind of flea, or a rare specimen of mud turtle, that he has forgotten all about writing," suggested bob. "if he doesn't--" what bob intended saying was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. the bell had rung a few seconds before, and the servant maid had answered it. now the boys heard her voice raised in protest: "stop! stop!" she cried. "don't do that! you are a crazy man! i'll call the police!" and, in reply came these words: "calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear young lady. all i desire is to capture that spider crawling on your left arm. it is a very valuable variety of the red spotted species, and i must have it for my collection. now just stand still a moment--" "professor snodgrass has arrived!" cried ned, as he made a rush for the door. chapter vi a strange conversation what the boys saw made them stop short in amazement, and they had hard work not to burst into laughter at the sight of the professor, but they knew he would be offended if they made fun of him. professor uriah snodgrass had dropped his valise on the doorstep, and the impact had caused it to open, thereby liberating a number of toads and lizards which were crawling about the steps. in his hand the scientist held a large magnifying glass, through which he was staring at something on the arm of the servant. she had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, for she had been busy sweeping when she answered the door bell. "let me go!" cried the young woman. "you are crazy! i'll call the police!" "one moment! one moment!" pleaded the professor eagerly. "i must have that spider. there!" and with a sudden motion he captured the small insect and transferred it to a tiny glass box. "i have it! oh, this is a most fortunate day for me. the museum will be very glad to get this. it is a perfect specimen," and he peered at it through his magnifying glass, as it crawled around, a captive in the box. "hello, professor!" greeted ned. "glad to see you." "oh, ned, how are you?" asked the scientist, without glancing up from his inspection of the spider. "luck seems to be with me as soon as i arrive at your house. i have a spider--" "yes, but you'll not have any of those other specimens long, if you don't get busy," put in bob. "they're all hopping or crawling away!" "oh, my goodness!" cried professor snodgrass, as he glanced down at the liberated toads and lizards. "oh, my goodness! that is too bad. i brought them with me to compare with the horned toads and web-footed lizards i hope to secure. now they are getting away. please, my dear young lady, help me to save them!" but the servant maid had fled into the house as soon as the scientist released her arm. she was convinced that she had just escaped the clutches of a madman. "come on, boys!" called ned. "help the professor!" "here are some small butterfly nets," the scientist said, producing them from his pocket. "don't injure the toads or lizards." the boys were glad enough of these aids in catching the professor's specimens, that were rapidly seeking hiding places about the stoop and sidewalk. though they had acquired a certain familiarity with strange insects and reptiles, from seeing the museum collector handle them, they did not fancy picking up a toad or lizard bare-handed. with the nets, however, they managed, with the assistance of the scientist, to capture most of the specimens, returning them to their cases in the valise. "there!" exclaimed mr. snodgrass, when, after a close scrutiny of the porch he could see no more of the creatures, "i think we have them all. now boys, permit me to ask how you are. i am sorry my visit was attended with such excitement, but i could not miss the chance of getting that spider. that young woman may consider herself in the light of having advanced science several degrees. there are very few persons a red spider of that variety will get on." "for which we ought all to be very thankful," announced jerry. "i beg to be excused from helping the cause of science in that way. but, professor, we're glad to see you. are you all ready for your trip to california?" "i could start to-night," was the answer. "i suppose you have matters all arranged?" "nearly so," returned ned. "we thought of starting at the end of this week," and he explained how they hoped the destination of the scientist would be such that they might visit the seaburys. "that locality suits me all right," declared mr. snodgrass. "i am not particular where i go, as long as i can get a specimen of a horned toad, and some web-footed lizards. i understand there are some to be had in the southern part of california, and so i will go there. i see no reason why you boys can not go with me, and also visit your friends. only i should like to start as soon as possible. the toads may disappear." "hope not," said bob, "for your sake. i haven't any use for them, myself." "oh, my dear young friend!" exclaimed the professor. "some day you will see the real beauty of a horned toad. it is a most wonderful creature!" "i'll take your word for it," murmured bob. "but now come in and let's see about our arrangements." the professor, who had been invited to be a guest at ned's house, pending the start for the west, entered, placing his valise of specimens in a safe place in the hall. then he and the boys discussed matters. mr. slade came in, soon after the arrival of the scientist, and announced that he had, in accordance with a previous arrangement, purchased the boys' tickets. "all you've got to do is to pack up and start," said mr. slade. "i'm not going to give you any advice, for you ought to be able to take care of yourselves by this time. i know you will be safe as long as you are with the professor." "thank you," said the scientist with a bow. the professor's arrangements for the western trip were complete and it did not take the boys long to get ready. by the end of the week the last valise had been packed, trunks were checked on ahead and, one morning, the boys started. they were to proceed to los angeles, and from there were to go down the coast by land to the small town of san felicity, where mr. seabury and his daughters had rented a bungalow. "now for a good time!" exclaimed ned, as the train pulled out of the cresville depot. "i've always wanted to visit california, and now i'm going to." "we certainly ought to enjoy ourselves," agreed jerry. the travelers made good time to chicago, little of incident occurring on the trip. when they got to the windy city, they found they would have to wait several hours for a connecting train, and they put in the time seeing the sights. when they returned to the depot they found the professor busy over some scientific book, sitting as undisturbed in the station, filled as it was with shifting crowds, as if he was in his quiet study at the museum. "the train will be here in about fifteen minutes," he informed the boys. "better sit down and wait." the three chums were rather tired, and were glad enough to take their places on the comfortable benches. "chicago is a great place," announced bob. "that restaurant, where we had dinner--" "can't you say something that hasn't got any eating in it?" asked ned. "you're the limit, you are." "well," said bob, "they certainly had fine pie in that place. i wish--" he stopped suddenly, as jerry help up his hand to indicate silence. "what's the matter?" asked ned in a whisper, as he leaned forward. "see some new kind of a bug for the professor?" "i overheard that man back of us speaking," replied jerry in a low tone, nodding his head to indicate where he meant. the benches were arranged so that travelers occupying them sat back to back. "his voice sounded like one i've heard before, but i can't place it. i thought maybe you'd remember. we may have met him on our travels. i can't see his face until he turns around." as he finished speaking, the man to whom he referred said something to his companion beside him. there came a momentary lull in the noises of the depot, and the boys heard him remark in low, but clear tones: "we can make everything look regular. derelicts are not uncommon, and i think we'll be able to fool him so that the cargo--" "hush!" cautioned the other man. "not so loud!" the noise in the station again drowned what the two men were saying, but the boys had heard enough. all three of them knew at once that the man who had spoken was the stranger who had acted so queerly in the cresville freight office. if they had any doubts of it they were dispelled a moment later when the doorman called out: "all aboard for the western express!" as the man and his companion arose, the boys saw he was the same individual who had been so particular about the boxes of stuff he shipped to san francisco. before the three chums could make any comment the man and his companion were lost in the crowd that thronged to the door. "come, boys," said the professor, closing his book. "that's our train." chapter vii a bad break "that was queer, wasn't it?" said jerry to his chums when they were seated in the train, moving swiftly toward the great west. "i wonder what he meant, and what he was doing out here?" "and i guess you can keep on wondering, for all the good it will do," commented bob. "i couldn't make anything out of what they said, except that some ship might be lost. that's common enough." "i wonder what that stuff was that he shipped from the freight office?" mused jerry. "rat poison, maybe," replied ned with a laugh. "i've heard there are lots of rats on ships, and maybe he has a patent stuff for getting rid of 'em." "it might be," agreed jerry. "well, as bob says, there's no use wondering. say, but this is pretty nice scenery," and he pointed to the view from the window, as they were passing along the shores of a lake. "fine!" exclaimed ned. "it ought to have some mountains around it, and it would look just like lost lake, where we found the hermit, that time." "seems as if that was a good while ago," commented bob, "but it wasn't so very." for several hours the boys discussed their past adventures, some of which were brought to their minds by views of the western country through which they were passing. professor snodgrass took no interest in anything except a big book which he was studying carefully, at times making notes on slips of paper, which had a tendency to drop into the aisle, or under the seat when he was not looking. in consequence the car, in the vicinity of where the professor sat, looked as though a theatrical snow-storm had taken place. one morning the boys awakened to find the train making fast time over a level stretch of country, with rolling hills here and there, covered with tall grass. occasionally glimpses could be had of herds of cattle. "we're on the prairies!" exclaimed bob, as he went to the lavatory to get ready for breakfast. "say, now we're in the wild and woolly west, all right." "well, it's not the first time," replied jerry. "still it does look good to see it again. it's a little different, traveling this way, than it was scooting along in our auto." "yes, and i think i prefer the auto to this," spoke up ned, yawning and stretching. "this is too lazy a way of journeying. i'd like to rough it a bit." "rough it!" exclaimed bob. "wait until we get out in california, and we can sleep out doors, while the folks back home are tending the furnace fire." the three boys were just about to enter the lavatory when the train gave a sudden lurch, and then it began bumping along over the ties, swaying from side to side. every window in the car rattled as if it would break, and the boys were so shaken up, that, to steady themselves, they had to grasp whatever was nearest. "we're off the track!" cried ned. "this-- is-- roughing-- it-- all right!" said jerry, the words coming out in jerks. "there's-- been-- an-- accident!" "a-- whole-- lot-- of-- 'em-- by-- the-- way-- it-- feels to-- me," declared jerry. "i-- wonder--" just then the train came to a stop, the car the boys were in being tilted at quite an angle. "let's see what happened," suggested bob, going to the door. his companions followed him, and, from various berths the passengers began emerging, in different stages of undress. they looked frightened. "well, at any rate, none of us are killed," said professor snodgrass, as he came down the aisle, fully dressed, for he had arisen early to continue his reading about horned toads. "what is the matter, boys?" "we're just going to find out," said jerry, as he went down the steps and walked along the track toward the engine, about which a crowd of passengers and train men were gathered. "what's the trouble?" asked bob of a brakeman who was running toward the rear end of the train with a red flag. "i don't know exactly. something wrong with the engine; i guess. i heard the conductor say it was a bad break." "come on," said jerry to his chums. "there doesn't seem to be anybody hurt, but it looks as if we were in for a long wait," and he pointed to several cars that were off the track, the wheels resting on the wooden ties. chapter viii hemmed in the boys found a group of worried trainmen gathered about the engine, and it needed but a glance to show what the trouble was. the piston rod had broken while the ponderous engine was going at full speed, and the driving rods, which had broken off from where they were fastened to the wheels, had been driven deep into the ground. this had served to fairly lift the engine from the rails, and, in its mad journey it had pulled several cars with it. the piston rod, threshing about with nothing to hold it, had broken several parts of the engine, and some pieces of the driving rods had been hurled up into the cab, narrowly missing the engineer. "it sure is a bad break," said the fireman as he got down from the cab, after opening the door of the fire box, so that the engine would cool down. "never saw a worse." "me either," fairly growled the conductor. "why couldn't it have held off a couple of hours more and we'd been near some place where we could telegraph for help." "you don't mean to say we are away out on the prairies not near a telegraph station, do you?" asked an excited man. "that's just what i do mean to say," replied the conductor. "i've got to send a brakeman on foot eight miles to wire the news of this accident." "you ought to have a telegraph instrument on the train," said the excited man. "this delay is a bad thing for me. if i don't arrive on time i'll sue the road. why don't you have a telegraph instrument on the train?" "i don't know," replied the conductor wearily, for he realized he was now in for a cross-fire of all sorts of questions. "how long will we have to wait here?" asked another man. "it's hard to say. the brakeman will go as fast as he can, but it will take some time to get the wrecking crew here with a new engine, and then it will take some time to get all the cars back on the track." "railroads oughtn't to have such accidents!" declared the excitable man. "i'll sue 'em, that's what i'll do. what made the piston rod break, conductor?" "oh-- i guess it got tired of going in and out of the cylinder," retorted the conductor, starting towards the baggage car. "humph! i'll report you for impertinence!" declared the now angry passenger, taking out his notebook and making a memorandum lest he forget the conductor's retort. "it's a disgrace the way this road is managed," he went on to the crowd of passengers that had gathered. "i'm going to write to the newspapers about it. they're always having accidents. why, only last week, they run over a steer, somewhere in this locality, the engine was derailed, two cars smashed, the road bed torn up, baggage and express stuff scattered all over, everything upside down, topsy-turvy and--" "was the steer killed?" asked a little boy, who was listening with opened mouth and eyes to the story the excited passenger was telling. "what!" fairly roared the man, and then, as he saw who had asked the question, he turned away, and there was a general laugh. "do you think we'll be here long?" asked bob of the colored porter of the sleeping car they had occupied. "oh, yes, indeedy!" exclaimed the attendant, "if we gits on de move befo' night we'll be mighty lucky." "then we've got to stay out here on the prairie all day," exclaimed jerry. "dat's what," spoke the negro as cheerfully as though that was the regular program. the other passengers were returning to their berths to finish dressing, and soon the excitement that followed the accident had almost disappeared. breakfast was served, and there was nothing to do but to wait for the arrival of the wrecking crew. "what's the matter with taking a stroll across the prairie?" suggested jerry, when the boys and the professor had finished their morning meal. "there's no fun sitting here in the car all day." "good idea!" exclaimed ned. "i'm with you. maybe chunky will be afraid to come, for fear train robbers will carry off the dining car while he's gone." "oh, you let up!" retorted bob. "you like to eat as much as i do." "not quite as much, chunky, but i admit i like my three square meals a day." "where are you going, boys?" asked the professor, looking up from his book, as he saw the three chums leaving the car. "out for a walk across the prairie," replied ned. "wait, and i'll go with you. i might get some new specimens. i must never waste an opportunity," and, placing in his pockets several small boxes to hold any possible captives he might get in his butterfly net, the scientist was ready. it was pleasant on the vast plain that stretched away in every direction from the derailed train. the sun was shining brightly, but not too warm, and there was a gentle breeze. "this is fine!" exclaimed jerry. the boys and the professor strolled on for several miles, the three chums enjoying the walk very much, while mr. snodgrass was continually finding some new insect, or a flower, until his specimen boxes were full. "well, we've come quite a distance," said ned, as they got on top of a small hill and looked about. "we can't see the train anywhere. i guess we'd better be thinking of starting back." "maybe we had," agreed jerry. "but what's that dark line out there?" and he pointed to the horizon. "a cloud isn't it?" asked bob. "it's too low, and it doesn't move like a cloud," objected jerry. they watched it for some time, as it got larger and larger. "why it's all around us!" suddenly exclaimed bob. and so it was. the travelers were hemmed in by a peculiar, moving ring, that seemed to get smaller and smaller. "what do you think it is, professor?" asked ned. "that? why-- er that is-- um-- curious, i can't just say what it is," replied mr. snodgrass. "i have a small telescope," said ned, producing it from his pocket, "we'll take a look through it," and he adjusted it, focusing it on the dark ring, that was, every moment, growing closer and closer to the little group on the hill. chapter ix a lucky escape "what do you make it to be?" asked jerry, as ned was staring through the glass. "cattle!" "cattle?" "yes, steers. thousands of 'em. and they seem to be headed this way." "let me take a look," said jerry. "you're right," he added, after an inspection. "they seem to be coming on rather fast, too. i guess we'd better get out of here. cattle on the prairies don't like to see persons who are not on horseback. they are not used to a man unless he's mounted, and i've read that a man on foot may cause a stampede." "i hope they don't run in this direction," remarked bob. "it's going to be unpleasant for us if they do." "we'd better get out of here," advised ned. "come on, fellows." "that's easier said than done," retorted jerry. "the cattle are all around us. i don't see how we're going to get through them. if we go too close we may stampede 'em at once, whereas, if we stay here, they may pass by us, or change their direction." "what's the matter with the cowboys?" asked rob. "why don't they head the animals the other way when they see we're right in the path?" "probably the cattlemen are on the outer edges of the herd," said jerry. "the cowboys can't see us, and they're simply driving the steers on." "but what makes them go in a circle?" asked bob. "probably the men are driving them all in to a central point to take account of stock, or something like that," was jerry's answer. "but, instead of standing here talking of it we'd better be doing something. what do you advise, professor?" uriah snodgrass, who had discovered some queer kind of a jumping bug in the grass, had lost all interest in the approaching steers, but, at this question, he looked up. "what did you ask?" he said, making a grab for the bug, and catching it. "what do you think we'd better do?" asked ned. "this is getting serious." "what is? oh, the steers. why, they are getting a little too close, aren't they?" they were, for a fact, and the animals in the foremost ranks, catching sight of the little party on the hill, broke into awkward gallop. as far as the boys could see, they beheld nothing but waving tails, heaving heads, armed with long sharp horns, and the movement of brown bodies, as the thousands of steers came on with a rush. "we'd better--" began the professor, who was walking slowly along, his eyes fixed on the ground, in search for another of the queer bugs. "look out!" he suddenly cried. "stand back boys!" hardly had he spoken than there sounded, high and shrill above the dull rumble of the oncoming cattle, a queer, buzzing noise. "rattlesna " exclaimed ned. "yes, a whole nest of them, in a prairie dog's hole," added the professor. "i nearly stepped into them. there must be thirty or forty." the boys looked to where he pointed. there, in a sort of depression, near a little hollow, on the edge of what is called a prairie dog village, they saw an ugly wiggling mass, which, as their eyes became more used to the colorings, was seen to be a number of the deadly rattlesnakes. several were coiled to strike, and had, in accordance with their habit, sounded their rattles. this had aroused the whole den, many snakes appearing from under ground, or crawling from beneath stones. "come on! they'll chase us!" cried bob. "nonsense," replied the professor. "rattlesnakes never attack man unless they are first disturbed. it wouldn't be advisable to go too close, but, as long as we don't molest them, we have nothing to fear from the snakes. i'd like to get a few specimens if i had the proper appliances for extracting their fangs. but i never saw so many in one place, before. it is quite interesting to watch--" the professor broke off suddenly, for the thunderous noise of the approaching steers was now louder. "they're coming right at us!" exclaimed jerry. "yes, and they've stampeded!" cried ned. "we're in for it now!" the situation of the boys and the professor was extremely perilous. they were right in the path of the now frightened steers. the circle had been broken, by many animals, which had been approaching from the rear of the travelers, joining the beasts on either side, so that now a compact, dark mass of cattle, nearly a quarter of a mile wide, was surging ahead with great speed. "run!" called ned. "there's an opening at our backs now!" "you couldn't go a hundred feet before they'd overtake you!" shouted jerry. "let's see if we can't frighten 'em. take off your hats, jump up and down, and yell like mad. if we can force 'em to separate and go on either side of us, we'll be all right!" he started to swing his hat in the air, and prepared to let out a series of yells in imitation of an indian war-whoop. "don't!" cried the professor quickly. "why not?" asked jerry. "it's the only way to stop 'em." "i know a better, and a surer way," replied the scientist. "get the rattlesnakes between ourselves and the cattle! those steers will never go near a rattlesnake den, no matter how frightened they are, nor how badly stampeded! quick! here they come!" the cattle were scarcely two hundred feet away, and were maddened by the sight of unmounted persons, something to which they were unaccustomed, and which thoroughly frightened them. the ground was trembling with their hoof-beats, and the rattle of the horns, as they clashed together, was like the murmur of cannibal tom-toms. the professor grabbed bob, who was nearest him, and swung the boy around, so as to get the nest of rattlesnakes between them and the steers. ned and jerry followed. the snakes, now all aroused, were rattling away like half a hundred electric batteries working at once. would the professor's ruse succeed? would the steers be afraid to come over the deadly reptiles, to trample down the little group, which the animals probably took for some new species of enemy? these were questions which the boys waited anxiously to have answered. nor did they have to wait long. the foremost of the steers came within a few feet of the rattlers. then something seemed to stiffen the cattle. they tried to stop short, but the press of the beasts behind them would not permit of this. for a few seconds it looked as if the impetus of the cattle in the rear would shove the others on, in spite of their desire to stop. but now more of the foremost steers became aware of the den of snakes. their instinct, their sense of smell, and, above all, hearing the rattling, told them the terrible danger that was in their path. more of the animals braced their forelegs to bring themselves to a stop, and all bellowed in terror. then, almost as though an order had been given by some one in command, the ranks of steers parted, right at the point where the snakes were reared ready to strike. to right and left the cattle passed, increasing their speed as they became aware of the danger they were escaping. the boys and the professor stood on the little eminence of land, as if they were on an island in a sea of cattle. the angry snakes hissed and rattled, but did not glide away, or what had proved a source of safety for the travelers, might have been instrumental in their death. right past them rushed the cattle, raising a dust that was choking. the four were enveloped in a yellow haze, as they stood huddled together. then, the last of the steers galloped past, with a band of excited cowboys in the rear, vainly endeavoring to understand the cause of the stampede, and halt it. as they rode on like the wind, they waved their hands to the boys and mr. snodgrass. "well, i guess we can move on now," said jerry, as the last of the steers and cowboys was lost in a cloud of dust that accompanied them. "i've seen all the beef i want to for a long time." "that's the first time i ever knew rattlesnakes were good for anything," remarked ned, as he backed away, with his eyes on the den of reptiles, as if afraid they would spring at him. "they are more feared by animals than any other snake in this country, i believe," said the professor. "luck was certainly with us to-day." the professor successfully resisted a desire to capture some of the snakes for specimens, and soon, with the three boys, he was on his way back to the stalled train, though he did not make very fast progress for he was continually stopping to gather in some strange insect. it was long past dinner-time when the travelers got back, but they found they were not the only ones in this predicament, for a number of the passengers had beguiled the tediousness of the wait by going off across the prairie. "let's get the porter to get us some sandwiches, and then we'll watch 'em get the train back on the track," suggested jerry. chapter x at the seaburys' the wrecking crew had arrived shortly before the boys and the professor got back, and there was a big crowd of passengers and train men around the laborers. "never mind eating," called ned. "come on, watch 'em. we can get a bite afterward." "not for mine," sung out bob, as he made a dive for the dining car. "i'll be with you pretty soon." "there he goes again," remarked ned with a sigh. "i couldn't eat when there's any excitement going on. i want to see how they get the cars on the track." "so do i." said jerry. they pressed on to where, by means of powerful hydraulic jacks, men were busy raising up the engine, which, because of its weight, had sunk quite deeply into the ground. the jacks were small, but one man worked the handle, which pumped water from one part of it to another, and elevated a piston, that, in turn was forced up with terrible pressure, thus raising one end of the ponderous locomotive. when the wheels were clear of the earth other men slipped under them some peculiar shaped pieces of iron, so arranged that when the locomotive was pulled or pushed ahead by another engine, the wheels would slip upon the rails. in turn each of the wheels of the engine and tender were so fixed. then word was given the engineer of the relief train to back down and haul the derailed locomotive back on to the track. "all ready?" called the foreman of the wrecking crew. "all ready," replied the engineer. jerry and ned, in common with scores of others, were straining forward to watch every detail of the task. they wanted to see whether the locomotive would take to the rails, or slip off the inclined irons, and again settle down upon the ground. "let her go, bill," called the foreman to the engineer of the wrecking crew. there was a warning whistle, a straining of heavy chains, creakings and groanings from the derailed engine as if it objected to being pulled and hauled about, then the ponderous driving wheels began to turn slowly. "stand clear, everybody!" cried the foreman. at that moment bob came running up, using the back of his hand as a napkin for his lips. "there she goes!" was the loud cry. as the crowd looked, they saw the derailed and helpless engine give a sort of shudder and shake, mount the inclined pieces of iron, and then slide upon the rails, settling down where it belonged. "hurrah!" cried the passengers, in recognition of a hard task well accomplished. "well, i'm glad that's over," announced the foreman. "now boys, hustle, and we'll get the cars on, and the line will be clear." it did not take long to get the cars on the rails, as they were lighter. the damaged engine was switched off to one side, some rails, which had been displaced when the train bumped off, were spiked down, and the wreck was a thing of the past. "all aboard!" called the conductor. "all aboard! step lively now!" the relief engine was not a fast one, being built more for power than speed, and the train had to proceed along rather slowly. but the boys did not mind this, as they had plenty to talk about, and they were interested in the country through which they were traveling. they arrived at los angeles somewhat behind their schedule, and did not leave there as soon as they expected to, as professor snodgrass wanted to call on a scientific friend, to learn something about the best place to hunt for horned toads. "it's all right, boys," he announced, when he returned to the los angeles hotel, where the three chums had put up. "my friend says the vicinity of san felicity, where you are going to call on the seaburys, is a grand place for horned toads. come, we will start at once." they found, however, that they would have to wait until the next day for a train. they started early the following morning, traveling through a stretch of country where it seemed as if it was always summer. back home there had already been evidences of fall, before they left, but here there seemed to be no hint of approaching winter. "oh, isn't this fine!" exclaimed ned, breathing in the sweetly-scented air, as he stuck his head from the car window. "it's like reading about some fairy story!" "it's better than reading it," said jerry. "it's the real thing." they arrived at san felicity, shortly before noon. it was a very hot day, though the morning had been cool, and the boys began to appreciate the fact that they had come to a southern climate. there seemed to be no one at the little railroad station, at which they were the only passengers to leave the train. the train baggage man piled their trunks and valises in a heap on the platform, the engine gave a farewell toot, and the travelers were thus left alone, in what appeared a deserted locality. "there doesn't seem to be much doing," observed jerry. "let's see now, nellie wrote that we were to take a stage to get to their house, but i don't see any stage. wonder where the station agent is?" "hark!" said the professor, raising his hand for silence. "what noise is that? it sounds as if it might be a horned toad grunting. they make a noise just like that." "i would say it sounded more like some one snoring," ventured ned. "it is!" exclaimed bob. "here's the station agent asleep in the ticket office," and he looked in an open window, on the shady side of the platform. from the interior came the sounds which indicated a person in deep slumber. "bless my soul!" exclaimed the professor. "i took him for a horned toad! i hope he didn't hear me." "no danger," remarked jerry. "he's sound asleep. even the train didn't wake him up." the four gazed in on the slumbering agent. perhaps there was some mysterious influence in the four pairs of eyes, for the man suddenly awakened with a start, stared for a moment at the travelers gazing in on him, and then sat up. "good day, señors!" he exclaimed, and they saw that he was a mexican. "do you wish tickets? if you do, i regret to inform you that the only train for the day has gone. there will be none until to-morrow," and he prepared to go to sleep again. "here!" cried jerry. "we don't want any, tickets! we want to find the way to mr. nathan seabury's house, and to learn if there's a stage which goes there." "there is, señor," replied the agent, yawning, "but i doubt if the driver is here. he seldom comes to meet the train, as there are very few travelers. will it not do to go to señor seabury's to-morrow, or next day, or the day after?" "hardly," replied jerry, who, as did the other boys, began to appreciate the mexican habit of saying "mananna" which means "to-morrow," for the mexicans have a lazy habit of putting off until to-morrow whatever they have to do to-day. "we want to go to-day, right away, at once, now!" "ah, the señors are americanos-- always in a hurry," answered the agent, but in no unfriendly manner. "very well, i will see if hop sing has his stage here." "hop sing?" questioned ned. "yes, señor, he is a chinaman. you will find him a very slow and careful driver." "slow? i guess everything's slow down here," said ned in a low voice. the agent came leisurely from his office, walked to the end of the platform, and, pointing toward a low shed, remarked: "that is where the stage is kept. i will call, and see if hop sing is there." then he called, but in such a low tone, as if he was afraid he might strain his voice, that it did not seem as if he could be heard ten feet away. jerry stood it as long as he could and then said: "i guess hop sing must be taking his noon nap. i'll go over and wake him up." "ah, the señor is in a hurry," and the mexican agent smiled as though that was a strange thing. "if he would wait an hour, or perhaps two, hop sing might awaken. besides, to-morrow--" "not for ours," said ned. "we've got to go to-day." the agent shrugged his shoulders, and went back into his little office to resume his nap. jerry walked over to the shed. "hey! hop sing!" he called, as he approached. "where's the stage?" "want stage? take lide? all lite! me come! chop-chop! give number one, top-slide lide!" exclaimed a voice, and a small chinaman jumped down from the stage seat, where, under the shade of the shed he had been sleeping, and began to untie the halters of the mules that were attached to the ram-shackle old vehicle. "be lite out!" hop sing went on. "me glive you click lide. me go fast! you see! chop-chop!" "all right, if the old shebang doesn't fall apart on the way," said jerry with a laugh, as he saw the stage which the celestial backed out of the shed. certainly it looked as if it could not go many miles. "come on!" called jerry to ned, bob and the professor, who had remained on the platform. "i guess it's safe. the mules don't look as if they would run away." they piled into the aged vehicle, and hop sing, with a quickness that was in surprising contrast to the indolence of the mexican agent, put their trunks and valises on top. "now we glow click, you sabe?" he said, smiling from ear to ear. "me know mlister seablury. him number one man, top-slide," which was hop sing's way of saying that anything was the very best possible. the boys soon found that while hop sing might be a slow and careful driver, it was due more to the characters of the mules, than to anything else. the chinese yelled at them in a queer mixture of his own language, mexican and american. he belabored them with a whip, and yanked on the reins, but the animals only ambled slowly along the sunny road, as if they had a certain time schedule, and were determined to stick to it. "can't they go any faster?" asked ned. "flaster?" asked hop, innocently. "they mlexican mules. no go flast. me go flast, mules not," and he began jumping up and down in his seat, as if that would help matters any. he redoubled his yells and shouts, and made the whip crack like a pistol, but the mules only wagged their ears and crawled along. "i guess you'll have to let matters take their course while you're here," suggested the professor. "you can't change the habits of the people, or the animals." they did manage, after strenuous efforts on hop's part, to get to the seabury bungalow. it was in the midst of a beautiful garden, and a long walk led up to the house, around which was an adobe wall, with a red gate. over the gate was a roof, making a pleasant shade, and there were seats, where one might rest. in fact some one was resting there as the stage drove up. he was a colored man, stretched out on his back, sound asleep. "well, i wonder if they do anything else in this country but sleep?" asked jerry. "why-- that's ponto, mr. seabury's negro helper," said ned. "hello, ponto. all aboard the wanderer!" "what's dat? who done call me?" and the colored man sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes. "who says wanderer? why dat boat--" then he caught sight of the travelers. "why, i 'clar' t' gracious!" he exclaimed. "ef it ain't dem motor boys an' perfesser snowgrass!" "how are you, ponto?" sang out bob. "fine, sah! dat's what i is! fine. i 'clar' t' gracious i'se glad t' see yo'! git down offen dat stage! it'll fall apart in anoder minute! go long outer heah, yo' yellow trash!" and ponto shook his fist at hop sing. "wha' fo' yo' stan' 'round heah, listen' t' what yo' betters sayin'." "i guess i'd better pay him," said jerry, and settled with the celestial, who drove slowly off. "now come right in!" exclaimed ponto. "i were-- i were jest thinkin' out dar on dat bench-- yais, sah, i were thinkin', an' fust thing i knowed i was 'sleep. it's a turrible sleepy country, dat's what 'tis, fer a fact. i'se gittin' in turrible lazy habits sence i come heah. but come on in. massa seabury, he'll be powerful glad t' see yo'. so'll th' young ladies. dey was sayin' only las' night, dat it seemed laik dem boys nevah goin' t' come. but heah yo' be! yais, sah, i were jest thinkin' out on dat bench--" but panto's rambling talk was suddenly interrupted by a glad cry from the shrubbery. then there came a rush of skirts, and the boys saw three girls running toward them. "here they are, dad!" called nellie. "here are the boys and professor snodgrass! oh, we're so glad you came! welcome to 'the next day'! that's what we've christened our bungalow, in honor of this lazy country. come on in," and she ran up to jerry, holding out her hands. chapter xi after horned toads olivia and rose, as had nellie, warmly welcomed the boys and professor snodgrass, and, mr. seabury coming up a moment later, from his usual stroll about the garden, added his greetings. "we're very glad to see you," said the gentleman. "come right in and make yourselves comfortable. we have more room than we had on the houseboat wanderer. i'll have your baggage-- where is that black rascal, ponto?-- ponto!" "yais, sah, i'se coming," called a voice, and ponto who had gone back to the gate appeared, rubbing his eyes. "ponto, take these-- why, you-- you've been asleep again, i do believe-- ponto--" "i-- i done gone an' jest dozed off fo' a minute, massa seabury," said ponto. "i 'clar' t' goodness, dis am de most sleepiest climate i eber see. peers laik i cain't do nuffin, but shet mah eyes an'--" "well if you don't do something mighty quick with this baggage i'll find some way of keeping you awake," spoke mr. seabury, but he was laughing in spite of himself. "yais, sah, i'se goin' t' take keer of it immejeet, sah," and the colored man went off in search of a wheelbarrow, on which to bring the trunks and valises up to the house from where they had been put off the stage. "i never saw such a chap," said mr. seabury. "before we came down here he was as spry as i could wish, but now he does just as the mexicans do. he sleeps every chance he gets. but come on in. i know you must be tired and hungry." "bob is," said jerry. "i heard him say a while ago--" "no, you didn't hear me say anything," exclaimed bob quickly, fearful lest he might be put to shame before the girls. "i'm not a bit hungry." "fibber!" whispered ned, though not so low but what they all heard, and the girls burst into laughter. "never mind," spoke olivia. "come on, bob. i'll take care of you. the cook and i are great friends," and the girl and bob walked on ahead. "i suppose you came out here to study some new kind of plant or flowers, didn't you?" asked mr. seabury, of the professor. "not exactly," replied the scientist, "though i shall examine them with much interest. what i came down for was to secure some specimens of horned toads for the museum. i--" "horned toads!" exclaimed nellie, who was walking with jerry, while rose had volunteered to show ned the beauties of the mexican garden. "horned toads! ugh! the horrible things. i hope you don't bring them around where i am, professor. horned toads! why don't you search after something beautiful, like the wonderful butterfly you found in florida?" "a horned toad is just as beautiful as a butterfly," said mr. snodgrass gravely. "the only difference is, people don't appreciate the toad. i do, and, some day, i hope to write a history of that creature. i have my notes ready for the first volume, which will be a sort of introduction." "how many volumes do you expect to write?" asked mr. seabury, curiously. "twelve," replied the scientist calmly. "even then i will have to omit much that is of interest. but i hope, in twelve, large books, to be able to convey some idea of horned toads, as well as some information about the other species." "twelve volumes! i should hope so!" murmured mr. seabury. by this time the travelers were at the bungalow. it was a well-arranged affair, quite large, and set in the midst of a beautiful garden, with rambling paths, and shady bowers, while the whole place was enclosed by a mud or adobe wall. all around the bungalow was a wide veranda, and in the center courtyard was a small fountain, with a jet of water spurting up from the middle of a large shell. "isn't this fine!" exclaimed jerry, and the other boys agreed it was. "yes, we like 'the next day' very much," said nellie. "it was my idea to call it that. from the very moment we arrived, and wanted something done, about the only answer we could get was 'to-morrow,' 'mananna' or 'the next day,' so i decided that would be a good name for the bungalow." "indeed it is," declared the professor. "but you have a most delightful place, and i should like to spend many 'next days' here. i hope your health is better, mr. seabury?" "considerably so, sir. i find the air here agrees with my nerves and rheumatism much better than in florida. i have hopes of entirely recovering. but let us go inside, i think luncheon is ready." it was and, in the cool dining-room, within sound of the tinkling fountain, they ate a hearty meal, bob demonstrating in his usual fashion that he was quite hungry. the girls took turns in explaining their experiences since coming to california. the bungalow, which they rented, was on the outskirts of the village of san felicity, which was part of what had once been an old mexican town. it was located on the shores of a secluded bay, and the bungalow was about ten minutes' walk from the water. "do you think there are any horned toads around here?" asked the professor, when the meal was finished, and they had gone out on the veranda. "i don't know, i'm sure," replied mr. seabury. "i'll ask ponto, he knows everything there is to be known about this place. ponto! i say, ponto!" "yais, sah, i'se comin' sah!" and from somewhere in the depths of the garden the voice sounded. a moment later the colored man appeared, trying to hide a broad yawn. "ponto, do you know-- well, i declare, if you haven't been asleep again!" "i-- i-- er-- i jest was weedin' de garden, massa seabury, an' i done felt so warm dat i jest closed mah eyes, jest fo' a second, not a minute longer, no sah, not a minute. guess i knows better dan t' go t' sleep when yo' got company sah!" and ponto looked very much hurt at the accusation. "well, ponto, i suppose you can't help it. do you happen to know where there are any horned toads?" "horned toads! good lan', massa seabury! no sah! i ain't got none!" "i didn't suppose you had. do you know whether there are any around here?" "well, i doan know ef dey has horns or not, but de oder day, when i were comin' home from goin' t' ole mexican pete's shanty after some red peppers, i seen some horrible kind of thing hoppin' along ober de sand. i-- i didn't stop t' look an' see ef he had horns, but i s'pects he had, cause he were kind of diggin' in de sand." "that's the toad all right!" exclaimed the professor, joyfully. "where is the place? take me out there right away, ponto." "take you out dere, perfesser?" "yes, right away." "i-- i s'pects i'd better go back an' 'tend t' mah weedin'!" exclaimed ponto, looking as pale as a colored man can. look. "weeds grow powerful fast in dis climate. dey'll choke de flowers in about an hour. i'se got t' 'tend t' 'em immejeet, sah. i ain't got no time t' go huntin' horned toads. i hopes you'll 'scuse me, sah," and with that ponto was gone, walking faster than he had at any time since the travelers arrived. "he's afraid," said rose, with a laugh. "i'm not. come on, professor, i'll show you where ponto means, and maybe we can find some horned toads." "let's all go," proposed jerry. "i will, if you'll promise not to let the horrible things come near me," said nellie, and jerry promised. mr. seabury declared he would rather rest on the veranda than hunt horned toads, so the three boys and the trio of girls, with the professor, who armed himself with specimen boxes and a small net, set off after the curious reptiles. a short distance from the bungalow there was a sort of sandy stretch, where little grew in the way of vegetation, and there, rose explained, was probably where ponto had seen the toads. they headed toward it, the scientist eagerly looking on the ground, for a first sight of the specimens he had come so far to seek. chapter xii a strange meeting "i guess ponto must have been asleep when he was walking along here, and dreamed he saw those toads," commented ned, after the party had covered a considerable part of the sandy stretch without getting a glimpse of the ugly reptiles. "that's too bad!" exclaimed the professor. "i had hopes of finding one here." "oh!" suddenly screamed rose. "there's one!" "where?" asked the scientist eagerly. "right there, by that stone. i saw it jump. oh, girls, i'm going to run!" "and she said she wasn't afraid of them!" cried nellie. the professor cautiously approached with his net outstretched. with a long stick he turned the boulder over, and made a quick movement with his net, imprisoning something beneath it. "i've got it!" he cried. "i have the horned toad!" holding his captive down beneath the net, he leaned forward on his knees, to get a better view. over his face came a look of disappointment. "it's only a harmless lizard," he said, "and not one of the web-footed variety, either. that's too bad. i thought i had my toad." "i'm glad, professor," said rose. "oh, no," she added quickly, "i'm sorry for you, but i'm glad it wasn't a horned toad so close to me." the professor raised the net and the lizard scurried away, probably very much frightened, and wondering what all the excitement was about. "let's go over this way," suggested ned. "that looks as if it might be a good place for toads," and he pointed to where there was a clump of trees. "can you tell where horned toads like to stay?" asked olivia. "no," replied ned, in a low voice, "but it's shady over there, and this sun, beating down on the sand, is very hot. i wanted to get where it's cool, and, anyhow, there's just as liable to be horned toads there as anywhere. if he doesn't find a toad he'll find something else that will make him nearly as happy, so it's all the same." "isn't he a queer man," said olivia, as they followed along behind mr. snodgrass, who was walking ahead, closely scanning the ground. "he is, but he's a good friend of ours," replied ned. "he is very much in earnest over his collection of insects and reptiles, and, though he acts queerly at times, he is one of the best men in the world." "i'm sure he must be," agreed olivia. "i like him very much. i hope he stays a long time, and i hope you boys do also. it's quite lonesome here, with nothing but mexicans and chinese for the main part of the population." "we'll stay as long as you let us," said ned. "we can have fine times," went on the girl. "we can go boating on the little bay, and take trips off into the country. we, ourselves, haven't seen much of it yet, as papa was not feeling well when we first came, and we had to stay home and care for him. but he is better now, and we can go on little excursions. ned's harmless trick to get the party to a shady spot was successful. the professor headed for the little clump of trees looking, the while, for a horned toad, but he saw none of the queer creatures. "my, but it's hot!" exclaimed bob, as he sat down on the ground. "oh, it will be worse than this, some days," said rose. "we are getting used to it. but suppose we go down to the seashore? it's not far, and there is a very pretty view." "perhaps i can get a horned toad there," put in the professor hopefully. after a short rest in the shade the little party headed for the beach. as they came in sight of it from a small hill, the boys uttered exclamations of delight, for a beautiful expanse of water was stretched out before them,-- the pacific ocean sparkling blue in the sun. "oh, for our motor boat!" exclaimed jerry. "oh, for the dartaway! couldn't we have fine sport in her, out on that bay!" "don't speak of it!" said ned with a groan. "what, is the dartaway lost?" asked rose. "gone! busted! smashed!" exclaimed bob, and the boys all tried to talk at once, telling of the disaster that had befallen their craft. "it's too bad," declared olivia. "but never mind. we have a couple of rowboats, and maybe you can hire a little sailing skiff." "it wouldn't be the dartaway," answered bob, with a sigh. "that boat had the nicest little kitchen in it--" "so, that's all you cared about her for-- the kitchen-- where you could cook something to eat!" exclaimed jerry. "chunky, i'm ashamed of you; that's what i am!" "well, i-- er-- i--" began bob. "oh, come on," he continued, and led the way down to the beach, where there were some bathing pavilions and several houses. the professor was walking along behind, in the vain hope of yet discovering a horned toad, perhaps on its way to get a dip in the surf or drink some salt water. "i think you'll like some chocolate," said nellie, as the boys were in front of a little refreshment booth. "it is made by a mexican--" she stopped, for she saw that the boys were not listening to her. their attention was drawn to a man who was just coming from the place they were going in. the boys could not help staring at him, for he was the man who had acted so strangely in the freight depot at cresville. chapter xiii a queer story for several seconds the boys and the man stared at one another. the stranger did not seem to be the least bit embarrassed but, on the contrary, was smiling in a genial manner. "is he a friend of yours?" asked nellie, of jerry. "well, not exactly what you could call a friend," was the answer. "we don't even know his name," and he spoke in a low voice. "we saw him back in cresville, just before we started out west, and he was acting in a strange manner. we thought--" "excuse me," suddenly interrupted the strange man, advancing toward the group of boys and girls, "but haven't i seen you lads before? your faces are very familiar." "we saw you in the cresville freight office," declared ned boldly. "exactly! i knew it was somewhere. i remember now. i was there attending to some goods that had to be shipped in a hurry. i'm glad you remembered me. to think that i should meet you away out here! it's a small world, isn't it?" and he smiled, but there was something in his smile, in his looks and in his manner that the boys did not like. neither did the girls, for, as nellie said afterward, he acted as though he wanted to make friends so you would not be suspicious of him. "shake hands, won't you?" asked the man, advancing closer to the boys. "my name is carson blowitz, and though it sounds foreign i was born in this country. i travel around so much i can't give you any particular place as my residence." there was no way without being rude of avoiding shaking hands with the man, and, though there was something in his manner that caused the boys to feel a distrust of him, they were not going to be impolite on mere suspicion. they shook hands with mr. blowitz, and jerry introduced himself, his chums, the young ladies and professor snodgrass, and told, briefly, the object of their trip. "well isn't that nice, now," said mr. blowitz, when jerry had finished. "the professor comes out here to hunt horned toads, and you lads come to hunt adventures, mr. seabury comes out here in search of health and i-- well, i'm out here on a sort of hunt myself." "are you interested in science?" asked mr. snodgrass eagerly. "perhaps you and i might go off together after horned toads and web-footed lizards. or, if you care for snakes, or insects, i think i can show you where there are plenty." "no, no," said mr. blowitz, with a laugh, which he tried to make sound hearty by the mere noise of it. "no, i'm on a different sort of a search. in fact it's quite a queer story-- perhaps you would like to hear it. in fact, i'm hunting for a lost ship." "a lost ship!" exclaimed bob. "well, one that was abandoned just before she sank, and that's about the same thing. it was abandoned quite a way out, but off this part of the coast. there is a current setting in towards shore, at this point, i'm told, and i thought i might get some news of her, or find some of the wreckage floating in on the beach. that's why you find me here." "what ship is it?" asked ned, interested in spite of the aversion he and the others felt toward mr. blowitz. "it is a brig, rockhaven by name. but suppose we go inside'? it is rather warm out here in the sun, and i'm not quite used to this climate yet. won't you come in and have some chocolate with me? they have a very nice drink in here, and i--" "it's my treat," interrupted bob. "no; if i may be so bold as to insist, you must be my guests this time," went on mr. blowitz. "it is not often that i see lads away off east and meet them a little later, in california, so i must have the pleasure of their company for a little while. the young ladies too-- i'm very fond of young ladies," and mr. blowitz smiled in a manner that rose characterized later as "ugly," though just why she thought so she couldn't explain. there was no way of getting gracefully out of the invitation, and so the crowd of young people and the professor accompanied mr. blowitz into the refreshment booth. they went out into the shaded courtyard, where a fountain of splashing water at least gave the effect of coolness, if it did not really make it so. they sat at small tables, and were served with cold chocolate and sweet cakes, by a pretty mexican girl. bob wanted to pay for the treat but mr. blowitz would not hear of it. in fact he played the host in such a genial way, and seemed so anxious to make every one have a good time, that the boys were rather ashamed of their first opinion of him. even rose whispered to bob that "he was not so bad, when you got acquainted with him." "now i suppose you would like to hear the story of the abandoning of the brig rockhaven," said mr. blowitz, and the boys nodded. "i hope no one was drowned," exclaimed olivia. "not as far as we know," replied mr. blowitz. "the whole affair is rather mysterious, and i am seeking information about the fate of the ship as much as anything else." "i would like to ask you one question," said professor snodgrass, who had been more interested in the antics of a small bug, walking on the table, than he was in his chocolate. "what is it?" inquired mr. blowitz. "did you, or any of your men notice whether, just before the ship sank, that all the rats on board deserted it?" asked the scientist. "i have often heard that rats will desert a sinking ship, and i would like to know whether it is true. if you made any observations to that effect i wish you would tell me about them, and i can put them into a book i am writing about rats and mice." "i thought you were writing about horned toads," said bob. "so i am, but this is another book. this will be in seventeen volumes, with colored plates. i want to get all the information i can, about rats." "i'm sorry that i can't help you," replied mr. blowitz. "in fact i know little about the abandoning of the brig, except what i heard. i was not aboard, and i don't know whether the rats left it or not. all i know is that the vessel is lost, and with a fortune aboard." "a fortune aboard?" inquired ned. "yes, worth about a quarter of a million." "is it gold or diamonds?" asked rose, who was very fond of jewelry and precious stones. "neither one, my dear young lady," said mr. blowitz, with as happy a smile as he could assume. "it is valuable merchandise. of course there was some money, and some valuable papers, but the main part of the cargo was costly merchandise. i'll tell you how it happened. but first, let us have some more chocolate," and he called to the mexican girl waiter. when the cups had been filled mr. blowitz resumed his story. "i am interested in many enterprises," he said, "and i and some other men went into a venture to ship some valuable goods to the santa barbara islands, which are not far off this coast. i was the principal owner, having bought out my partner, and it looked as if i would make a large sum. "the vessel sailed from san francisco, and as the weather was fine, we looked for a quick trip. i was attending to some of my other business affairs, having just arrived on this coast from boston, when i received a telegram from the captain of the brig, telling me that she had been abandoned with everything on board. of course there must have been an accident. probably there was a collision, or fire on board, so that the brig was in a sinking condition. at any rate the captain, and, i suppose the crew, also, left her. that's why i can't tell whether they were all saved, though i assume so, as nothing was said about any one being lost. "the captain, it appears, was picked up by another vessel, and landed at a small coast town. he sent me the telegram from there, and i forwarded him money to come to san francisco, to meet me. but, for some reason, he did not arrive, and so i decided to come down here, and see if i could get any news of the ship and the valuable cargo. of course, if the ship sank at once that is the end of her, but, if she broke up, there is a chance of some parts of her, and perhaps some of the cargo, being washed ashore. at any rate i would like to get some news of her, that i might collect the insurance, if nothing else. "so that's why i'm here. i arrived yesterday, but, so far, i have been unable to obtain any news of the brig. i left word for the captain to join me here, and he may arrive at any time. i am glad to have met you, for it will not be so lonesome now." "i hope you have good luck," said nellie, as she arose to leave the place. "i think we must be going now," she added to her sisters. "papa might worry about us." "give mr. seabury my regards," said carson blowitz, "and tell him i shall do myself the honor of calling on him soon, to pay my respects. as for you young people, i shall see you again, i hope. i am going to hire a boat and cruise about in search of my brig-- if i don't get some news soon-- and perhaps you might like to go along." "perhaps," replied jerry, as he and his chums followed the girls out of the place. mr. blowitz remained in the courtyard, drinking chocolate, and, as the little party was leaving ned looked back. he saw their recent host pull a bundle of papers from his pocket, and, spreading them on the table in front of him, closely scan them. "i don't like that man," declared nellie, when they were out of hearing. she was very frank in her statements. "neither do i," said jerry, "though he was nice enough to us." "he has a strange manner," commented olivia. "and that was a queer story he told of the abandoning of the brig," went on bob. "i wonder if he made it up, or if it's true? it seems strange that the captain would leave his ship, and not give a reason for it." "there's some mystery back of it, i think," was the opinion of rose. "the less we have to do with mr. carson blowitz, the better it will be, i think." "well, we're not likely to see much of him." said jerry. but in this opinion he was mistaken. they were to see and hear much of him, as later events proved. chapter xiv in a motor boat several days after this, during which time the boys had, under the escort of the three girls, visited many places of interest, rose suggested they make a trip on the bay. "but what can we go in?" asked bob. "we haven't any boat." "we have several rowing skiffs," said nellie. "i know they are not as fine as your dartaway, but you can have a nice time. the fishing is good, and it is very pleasant on the water." "it would be pleasant wherever you girls were," said ned, with an attempt at gallantry. "thank you!" exclaimed nellie, making a low, bow. "you're improving, ned," remarked jeer, critically. "in time you'll be able to go out in polite society." "oh, is that so'?" remarked ned, sarcastically, "thank you." "you're welcome," retorted jerry, bowing low. "oh, stow that away for use at some future time," advised bob. "come on, if we're going out in a boat." there was a little wharf, at which the seaburys kept a couple of rowboats, and, as six were too many to go into one craft, nellie and jerry occupied the smaller, while bob and ned, olivia and rose, got into the other. "where shall we go?" asked ned. "oh, row around anywhere," replied jerry. "we'll have to get used to oars, we haven't handled 'em in quite a while." the boys soon found that the skill with which they had formerly used the ashen blades, before the era of their motor boat, was coming back to them, and they sent the skiffs around the bay at fairly good speed, the two crafts keeping close together. "this is something like work," announced jerry, as he rested on his oars, and let the boat drift with the tide, which was running in. "that's what it is," declared ned. "i wish--" "thank you!" exclaimed olivia. "i'm sure we're very sorry that we have given you so much work. we didn't know we were so heavy; did we girls?" "no, indeed!" chimed in rose. "if you will kindly row us back to shore, we'll get out and you boys can go where you please. work! the idea!" "oh, i say now!" cried ned, alarmed at the effect of his words. "i didn't mean-- jerry didn't mean-- we--" "of course not!" added jerry. "i only said--" "you said it was hard work to row us around," declared nellie in rather icy tones. "well i meant-- you see since we had a motor boat-- that is i-- we-- it's rather--" "now don't try to get out of it and make it worse," advised olivia. "we know what you said, and what you meant." "i didn't say anything," put in bob, with an air of virtue. "good reason," declared jerry. "you're so busy eating that cocoanut candy that you didn't have time to speak. besides you're not rowing." "oh, has he got cocoanut candy!" cried nellie. "give me some and we'll forgive you for the rude way you and ned spoke, jerry. won't we girls?" "of course," chorused olivia and rose. "i-- i didn't know you cared for cocoanut candy," declared bob, rather ashamed that he had not, before this, offered the girls some. "oh, don't we though!" exclaimed nellie. "just you pass some over and you'll see, bob," for the two boats had drifted close together. bob, who had purchased a big bag full of the confection, before they had started for the row, passed it over, and the girls helped themselves generously. "take it all," advised ned, who, perhaps, felt a little vindictive at bob, because of that youth's lucky escape from displeasing the girls by unfortunate remarks. "no, thank you, we don't want to rob him," said olivia. at that moment a shrill whistle sounded just behind the rowboats and the girls turned around to see what it was. ned and jerry, from the position in which they sat to handle the oars had seen a motor boat approaching, and they had stopped using the blades to watch its approach. "oh, that's the ripper!" exclaimed rose. "and charlie farson is all alone in her. maybe he'll give us a ride." "who is charlie farson?" asked jerry of nellie. "he's a friend of rose. he lives in san francisco, but he is staying with his uncle at a bungalow about two miles from where we are. he owns that motor boat, and it's the biggest and fastest on this part of the coast. sometimes he takes us out with him. i hope he does so now. he's headed right this way." "um," grunted jerry, not altogether pleased that a young fellow with a motor boat should come along, and claim the girls who, of course, would naturally prefer a power craft to one propelled by oars. rose waved her handkerchief and, in answer the captain of the ripper sent out three shrill blasts as a salute. "oh, isn't that fine! he's coming over here!" exclaimed rose. "i'll introduce you boys to him." neither ned nor bob looked very pleased at the prospect of meeting a youth who might be a rival in entertaining the girls, but there was no help for it. on came the ripper, and, as she approached, the motor boys could not help admiring her. the craft was powerful and swift, much more so than the dartaway had been. it was considerably larger, too, and had an enclosed cabin. "that's a dandy!" exclaimed jerry in spite of himself. "it's a peach!" was ned's half-spoken comment. "all to the mustard!" came bob's characteristic comment. "want a ride, or a tow?" called charlie farson, when he got within hailing distance, and he slowed down his craft. "i guess we'll ride, if you'll tow our boats," replied rose, for she knew the young fellow fairly well. "all right, come aboard." by this time the ripper was quite close, and, in another moment it had come alongside of the boat containing rose, olivia, ned and bob. "these are some friends of ours from the east," said rose, introducing ned and bob, "there's another one, in that boat with nellie," she went on, telling jerry's name. "i'm sure i'm glad to meet you all," said charlie farson, with such good nature, that the boys could feel no resentment toward him. "come aboard, and we'll go for a spin. i guess it will be best to anchor your two boats here and you can pick them up when we come back. we can make better time then." "oh, your boat always makes good time," complimented nellie, as she made her way to the cabin of the ripper. "that's the only objection i have. you run her so fast that if you ever hit anything it would sink your boat before you had time to jump overboard." "but i'm not going to hit anything," declared charlie. he tied the two rowboats together, the other boys helping him, and then anchored them with a small, spare kedge he carried on his craft. "all ready?" he asked, looking to see that his passengers were comfortably seated. "already, captain charlie," answered rose. "here we go then," and charlie threw in the dutch of the engine, that had not ceased working, the ripper fairly flew away, so suddenly that bob, who was near the stern, nearly toppled overboard. "look out!" cried charlie. "oh, i'm looking out now," said bob. "say, but she can go!" "yes, she has some speed," modestly admitted charlie. he turned on more gasolene and advanced the spark still further, so that the boat increased her rate, piling up waves of white foam on either side. they had a fine trip about the bay, the girls and boys thoroughly enjoying themselves, the latter being particularly interested in the engine part of the craft. the motor boys told the other lad of the dartaway and how the craft had been destroyed. "my, but i certainly would like to run this boat," announced jerry with a sigh. "she's a dandy!" "maybe you'll get the chance," said charlie. "the chance? how? what do you mean?" asked jerry, while his two chums eagerly waited for charlie's answer. chapter xv caught in the fog "well," replied charlie as he sent the ripper around in a big circle, "you see it's this way. i came down here expecting to stay with my uncle until spring. i was going to learn how to raise oranges. i received word this morning that i would have to go back to my home in san francisco. my father needs me there, because of a change in his business, and i've got to go." "that's too bad!" exclaimed rose. "i guess you are thinking more of his motor boat than you are of charlie," said nellie, with a laugh at her sister. "i was not!" declared rose, indignantly. "well, i've got to leave my boat here," went on charlie. "leave it here!" repeated olivia. "yes, and i'm looking for some one to take charge of it while i'm gone." "take charge of it!" exclaimed ned and bob at once, while a joyous look came into jerry's eyes. "what i mean," said charlie, "is that i would hire it out. i think that would be a better plan than merely to loan it to some one, for there is a chance that it might be damaged, and would have to be repaired, and, if i got a reasonable rent for it that would cover such a mishap." "would you hire it to us?" asked jerry anxiously. "i was thinking of that," answered the owner of the ripper. "i heard from my friend, rose," and he looked at the girl, "that you boys had had some experience with motor boats. i had rather hire mine out to some one who knew about machinery, than to persons who would have to learn. so, if we can make some deal, you may have a chance to run this boat. i've got to go to san francisco in about a week." "we'll take the boat," said jerry quickly, "that is--" "oh, you needn't be afraid i'll ask too much money for her," interposed charlie. "all i want is enough to pay for any possible damages, and for reasonable wear and tear. we'll talk it over later." "say, isn't that glorious!" whispered ned to bob. "think of having a motor boat, and cruising on the pacific! we're getting to be like sinbad the sailor, making voyages all over." "yes, but maybe he'll want a small fortune for the hire of the ripper," objected bob. "we haven't any too much money, for this trip was rather costly." "if we could get damages for the dartaway, we--" "yes, but 'if' is a big word, even though it only has two letters," replied bob quickly. "however, we'll do our best to get the ripper during our stay here, and we'll take the girls out for some nice rides." "that's what we will." charlie speeded his boat about the bay for some time longer, and then; as the girls said they thought they had better go home, he put back, picked up the anchored boats, and the motor boys and their hosts were soon rowing to shore. "come over any evening, charlie," called rose. "yes, come to-night," urged jerry. "we can talk over the boat proposition then." "i'll be there," replied the ripper's skipper, as he put about and went whizzing over the blue waters of the bay. when the young people entered the gateway they saw ponto stretched out on the bench in the shade, fast asleep. "wait a minute," said rose. "i'll play a trick on him." she stole softly up, and, with a long piece of grass tickled the old colored servant on the ear. he put up his hand and sat up with a start. "i 'clar' t' goodness!" he said, "i were jest waitin' fo' yo', an' i close mah eyes, jest fo' one little second, but dis atmosphere am so slumberous dat, 'fore i knows it, i'm sort of noddin'." "i guess you were more than nodding," said olivia. "but why were you waiting for us, ponto?" "'deed an' i didn't no mo' dan nod, miss olivia, dat's what i didn't. but i'se been waitin' heah a pow'ful long time, an' i jest natcherly done gone an' fell t' noddin'." "but what were you waiting for?" persisted olivia. "dis letter," replied the colored man. "massa seabury done tole me t' give it t' one ob de young gentlemen what had de motor boat. he say it come from cresville, an' it might be important, so i done set heah waitin', but i done forgot which young gentlemen he tole me t' gib it to." "let me see it," said rose, and she looked at the envelope. "it's for you, jerry," she declared, "and it's from some railroad company. it's been sent on here from cresville." "maybe it's about damages to our boat," said bob. and so it proved. the letter announced that an investigation had been made of the wreck in which the dartaway was smashed, that the claim department of the florida coast railway company admitted their liability, and were prepared to pay damages. they enclosed in the letter a check for the value of the boat, as declared by jerry at the time of the shipment. "hurrah!" cried ned. "that's the stuff!" "well, it's the end of the dartaway," observed jerry. "poor old boat! i suppose we had better accept this sum, and not sue, eh?" and he looked at his chums. "sure," replied bob. "if we sued it would take a good while to collect, and if we got a larger sum we'd have to pay the lawyers. let's take this money and hire the ripper." "i don't believe you'll need all that," interposed rose. "that's quite a sum, and charlie will surely not ask as much as that for the hire of his boat." "well, if he does we'll pay it," decided jerry. "i want to cruise on the pacific, and this seems to be the only way we can do it. we'll have a motor boat trip, even of the dartaway is out of commission." charlie came over to "the next day" bungalow that night and in a short time he and the motor boys had arrived at a business arrangement regarding the hiring of the ripper. charlie only asked a small sum as rental, much less than the amount of damages received, so that the travelers had plenty left for other purposes. "and now the boat is yours, as long as you stay here," said charlie, when the final details had been arranged. "i know you will take good care of her." "of course we will," answered jerry, "and, if you find, after you get to san francisco, that you have a chance to come back, we'll give her up to you." "there's no such good luck as my coming back this season," said charlie. early the next morning he brought the craft to the seabury dock, where it was run in the small boathouse. then, having explained to the boys some minor details of the engine, which was different and more powerful than the one they were used to, charlie took his departure, having had another letter from his father asking him to hurry to san francisco. "i hope you will have a good time," said the ripper's owner, as he bade the boys and girls good-bye. "don't get into any dangerous adventures, especially with the girls on board." "we'll not," promised jerry, but he did not know how soon charlie's warning was to be fulfilled. "well, what do you girls say to a ride?" asked jerry when charlie had gone, and they stood looking at the powerful boat. "do you think you boys can run her?" asked nellie. "run her? well, i guess we can," declared ned. "didn't we tackle the atlantic in the dartaway, a smaller boat than this?" asked bob, "and isn't the atlantic worse than the pacific?" "i don't believe it is, a bit," said olivia. "everyone thinks the pacific ocean is very peaceful, because the name indicates that. but old fishermen here have told me there are terrible storms, which come up quite unexpectedly, and that at times there are dreadful fogs." "well, we're not afraid," boasted bob. "are we fellows?" "oh, i guess we can manage to run the boat," replied jerry, who was critically examining the machinery. "if you girls want to go for a spin, i think i can guarantee to get you safely back." "oh, we're not afraid on a day like this," replied nellie. "there's no sign of a storm. come on girls." she and her sisters got in, followed by ned and bob. jerry was already in the small cabin, set aside for the engineer. he was testing various wheels and levers, seeing that the oil feed cups worked well, and looking to the sparking system. "all ready?" he asked. "let her go, captain jerry," called bob, as he cast off the lines, and the ripper, with her new commander and crew, started off. jerry found he could manage the engine about as well as the one that had been in the dartaway. he soon had the motor going almost at full speed, and the way the boat cut through the water was a revelation to the boys. they had never ridden so fast in a motor boat before. straight out to sea jerry headed the craft, and the weather was so pleasant, the water so calm, and the sense of swift motion so enthralling, that, before they knew it, they had gone several miles. "oh!" suddenly exclaimed rose, as she came from the small cabin, and glanced back toward the shore, "i can't see anything." "it is a bit hazy," admitted ned. "must have blown up a little fog," spoke jerry. "i guess we'll put back. it didn't look as it was going to be thick weather when we started." he swung the boat around and headed for what he supposed was the shore. as the boat speeded on the mist became thicker, until they could scarcely see two hundred feet ahead of them. "better slow down; hadn't you?" suggested bob. "we might hit something." "yes, for goodness, sake, don't have a collision," begged nellie. "we ought to be pretty near shore," remarked jerry. "i'll keep on a little longer, and we'll come pretty near the dock, i think." he tried to peer ahead into the fog, but it slowly settled down in lazy, curling wreaths, that made it as hard to see through as though a white blanket had been hung in front of him. "hark! what's that'?" asked olivia, holding up her hand. out of the mist there came the dismal clang of a bell. "dong! ding! dong!" "a vessel!" cried bob. "look out, jerry, or we'll be run down." "that isn't a vessel," said rose, with a worried look on her face. "that's the bell of the shoal buoy. we are quite a way out to sea!" "and lost in the fog," added nellie. chapter xvi on the rocks with a quick motion jerry shut off the power, and the ripper drifted through the mist, slowly losing headway. the sound of the bell became more distinct, and in a little while something dark loomed up before the anxious eyes of the boys and girls. "lookout! she's going to hit!" cried ned. "that's the buoy," declared nellie. "what's its location?" asked jerry. "can't we get our bearings from it?" "well, it's about eight miles off shore, i've heard the fishermen say," replied nellie, "and it's about four miles down the coast from san felicity." "it doesn't seem as if we came as far as that," said bob. "this is a very fast boat," commented rose. "is the buoy anchored to rocks?" asked ned. "no, it's on a dangerous shoal," answered olivia "but there is no harm from that source to be feared to this boat, as it doesn't draw much water." "it ought to be easy enough to start in the right direction for san felicity, with this buoy to guide us," suggested bob. "can't you, jerry." "i guess so, if you think it will be safe to travel in the fog." "no, don't," urged nellie. "i'm afraid we might have a collision. i don't know much about this bay, and there are dangerous places in it, i've heard the fishermen say. we had better stay here until the fog lifts." "that's what i think," agreed rose and olivia. bob and ned, however, were for going on, but jerry rather sided with the girls. "well," he finally said, in answer to the urging of his two chums, "which way would you say the dock was, ned?" "off there," and ned pointed over the port rail. "no, you're wrong," declared bob. "it's there," and he indicated the opposite direction. "there, you see," remarked jerry. "it can't be both ways. the fog has you puzzled, just as it has me. we should have looked at the compass when we started out. maybe the girls can advise us." but they, too, were equally at loss regarding in what direction san felicity lay. "we'll have to drift around a bit," decided jerry. "it's not very pleasant, but it's better than running any chances." in spite of their dismal situation the boys and girls managed to extract a good deal of fun out of their experience. they laughed, joked, told stories and sang songs. "well, well!" exclaimed jerry, looking at his watch. "here it is noon, and we're not home for dinner." "no, and not likely to be," added ned rather gloomily. "i'll admit i'm as bad as bob this time. i want something to eat." "do you?" asked the stout youth. "sure, chunky." "then, maybe you'll quit making fun of me," was bob's answer, as, from one of the lockers he drew out a bulky package. "what is it?" asked jerry. "sandwiches and cake. i bought 'em in the little booth where we had chocolate with mr. blowitz the other day. i thought we might be hungry, so i got 'em while you were tinkering with the engine. now, maybe you wish i hadn't." "not a bit of it, chunky," declared jerry heartily. "you're all right!" "it was very thoughtful to provide for us," said rose. there was fresh water in a cooler, and the young people made a merry meal. they ate everything to the last crumbs, and, as bob said, they could probably have gotten away with more, for the salt air gave them good appetites. "the fog's lifting!" exclaimed ned suddenly. "now we can start for home. i can just make out the coast." true enough, right ahead of them was a low, dark line. "well, if that isn't queer," remarked bob. "i would have said the shore was off there," and he pointed in the opposite direction. "i guess we must have turned around when we drifted," said jerry. "we're quite a way from the buoy now." once it began to lift, the fog dispersed rapidly, and jerry soon had the engine going, and the boat headed for the shore. he speeded the motor up to as high a pitch as was safe, in unfamiliar waters, and soon the town of san felicity came into view. "get near the shore," advised ned, "then, if the fog shuts down on us again, we'll know where we are." jerry decided this was good advice, and steered the ripper straight in, intending to run up along the coast to san felicity. it was well that he did so, for the lifting of the fog was only temporary. when they were about a quarter of a mile from the shore the white mist closed in again, worse than before. but jerry had his sense of direction now, and decided it would be safe to continue on at half speed, as there did not appear to be any other craft in sight, when he took a rapid survey of the bay just as the fog settled down. peering through the almost impenetrable white mass of vapor ahead of him, jerry sent the ripper slowly on her way. "you'll have to be careful," cautioned rose. "the tide is running out, and there's not much water along here at the ebb. i hope we don't go aground." "so do i," answered jerry. just then there was a shock, and the boat quivered, hesitated for an instant, and then resumed her course. "we struck bottom that time," said ned. "luckily it seemed to be mud." "there are rocks along here," declared nellie. "go slow, jerry." the steersman, who could manage the boat from the engine cockpit, as well as from the bow, further slowed down the motor, until the ripper was barely moving through the water. suddenly there was a grinding sound, the boat heeled over to one side, and came to a stop. "the rocks!" cried rose. "we're on the rocks!" "reverse!" yelled ned, and jerry did so, as quick as a flash, but it was too late. "we're aground," he announced grimly. "will we sink?" asked olivia in alarm. "i guess there's no danger of that," announced jerry, as he went forward, "but i hope we haven't stove a hole in her," he added, peering anxiously over the side. "how about it?" asked ned. "well, it might be worse," answered jerry. "we have run right on the cleft of a rock, and we're held there. can't get off until high tide, i suppose. say, we seem to be up against it on our first trip." "oh, as long as we're not sinking we're all right," said olivia. "we can wade ashore. it's not far." "yes, it's quite a way, and i don't want to spoil my shoes," objected nellie. "we should have brought our bathing suits. oh, dear! isn't it unfortunate? i'm afraid father will be worried about us." "one of us will wade or swim ashore, and tell him," said ned. "we can easily do it." "boat ahoy!" suddenly called a voice out of the mist. "who are you?" "the ripper," answered jerry. "who are you?" a moment later a rowboat appeared from behind the white curtain of fog, and the boys and girls saw. that mr. carson blowitz was in the craft. "well! well!" he exclaimed. "you're in trouble, aren't you?-- and i'm just in time to effect a rescue," and he smiled at the boat load of boys and girls. chapter xvii news of the brig "oh!" exclaimed rose, rather excitedly, "take us off please! our boat is sinking!" "no, it isn't," declared jerry. "we're all right only we're aground. can't get off until high tide i suppose." "then perhaps i had better take the young ladies ashore," proposed mr. blowitz. "i have a large boat here, and they will be more comfortable than sitting there waiting for the tide to rise. besides, you'll heel over quite a bit, i should judge by the way you're listing now." there was no doubt of this, as the ripper was, even now, far from being on an even keel. the boys did not relish having this man, whom they disliked, take off the girls, but there was no help for it. "say, we ought to go to some kindergarten and learn to run a motor boat," grumbled ned in a low voice, as the girls were getting into mr. blowitz's craft. "we're peaches, we are!" "it was my fault," admitted jerry, rather embarrassed over the accident. "not in particular," remarked bob. "any one of us would have done the same thing. lucky the boat isn't damaged any, but i hate to be under obligations to him," and he nodded toward mr. blowitz, who was helping nellie into his boat. "i don't like him," he went on in a low voice. "there's something queer about him." "we oughtn't to feel that way," said jerry. "he's doing us a favor." "of course," admitted bob. "i know it, and i suppose i shouldn't feel that way, but i do, and i can't help it. i don't want any favors from him. he's the kind, who, if he does something for you, will want you to do twice as much for him in return." "well, i'll be more careful next time i run this motor boat," said jerry. "it's too bad." "might be worse," said ned as cheerfully as he could. "don't you want to go ashore, boys?" called mr. blowitz. "i guess we'd better," murmured bob. "the water is quite deep except for the place where the ripper went on the rocks." "the motor boat will stay there all right until high tide," the man went on. "better anchor her well, however, it might come on to blow." jerry attended to this, throwing over a strong anchor which was aboard. then the three boys joined the others in the rowboat. "can you find your way to shore, through this fog?" asked rose. "oh, yes, we're not far from the beach," replied mr. blowitz. "i've been out to see an old fisherman, on business, and i was slowly coming back through the fog, when i saw your boat. i didn't know you owned that." "we don't," replied jerry shortly, for he did not want to get too friendly with mr. blowitz, even if that man did show a desire to do so. "we hired it." "i thought i'd seen it in the bay before," went on the man. "it's a fine boat. i suppose you could go out quite a way to sea in her." "you could," said bob. "it's big enough to weather quite a gale, and you could carry provisions enough for two weeks." "it certainly is a fine craft," went on mr. blowitz, as if he was thinking of something. "a fine craft." "did you ever hear anything more of your brig, the rockhaven?" asked nellie. "yes, i did," was the unexpected answer. "in fact that was why i went out rowing to-day. i had a telegram from the captain of the brig last night. it seems she did not sink as at first supposed, but is a derelict, drifting about somewhere off this coast." "has any one seen her?" asked ned. "yes, the captain of a fishing smack. he was the man i went to interview to-day. he says as he was cruising along, day before yesterday, he sighted what he took to be a small boat. when he got closer he saw it was an abandoned brig. from his description i knew it was the one i was interested in." "but if you only got a telegram from the captain of the brig last night, telling you it had not sunk, how did you know the fishing smack captain had sighted her, and how did you go out to see him to-day?" asked jerry, for he thought there was something queer in the story mr. blowitz told, while the man's manner did not favorably impress him. "oh, that," and mr. blowitz glanced sharply at jerry, and then resumed his rowing toward shore. the fog had lifted a bit, and the beach could be made out. "well, that was rather queer," admitted the man, slowly, as if searching about for a good answer. "you see i didn't know the fishing captain had seen the derelict. when i got the telegram, telling me the brig was still afloat, i thought it might be a good plan to go about among the fishermen, making inquiries." "and you happened to strike the right one?" asked jerry. "i-- that is-- well, i had inquired among several before i met captain deckton of the smack sea girl. he saw the derelict. but i'd like to have a talk with you boys, when you are at liberty," added mr. blowitz, quickly. "i have a proposition to make to you. i think you will be interested." "please put us ashore first, before you talk business," begged olivia. "it is long past noon, and i'm afraid my father will be worried about us." "we'll land at the dock in ten minutes," said mr. blowitz. "i'll talk to the boys later." "i wonder what he wants?" thought jerry. "something of a favor, i'll bet. i know his kind." "let me take the oars and relieve you," proposed ned, who saw that the man was having rather hard work with the boatload of young people. "thank you, there's another pair in the stern, if you want to try them," said mr. blowitz, and ned got them out. they made better time after that, and were soon at the dock. "we must hurry home," said rose. "perhaps you boys had rather talk with me later," suggested mr. blowitz. "there is no special hurry. some time this afternoon will do as well, and you might like to go home with the young ladies." "i guess it would be better," decided jerry. "where shall we see you?" "if you will call at the refreshment booth here about five o'clock this evening, i'll be taking my usual afternoon drink of chocolate there, and i'll be pleased to have you join me." "we will be here," promised jerry, as, with his chums, he followed the girls along the dock and toward the bungalow. "why didn't you ask him what he wanted?" inquired ned, when they were beyond hearing distance. "because, i want a chance to think some matters over," replied jerry. "i believe mr. blowitz is up to some game, and i want to see if i can't discover what it is." "it seems a mean thing to say," added rose, "but i don't like that man, in spite of the fact that he has been kind to us. i'm sure we ought to appreciate what he did for us to-day, in saving us a wetting, but i can't feel that he is sincere." "i, either," admitted olivia and nellie, while the latter added: "i hope you boys don't go into any business dealings with him. perhaps you had better consult with my father, before you do." "i guess it would be a good plan," said jerry. "i hope mr. seabury will not be angry at us for taking you out and getting fog-bound, as well as involving you in a shipwreck." "oh, no!" answered rose with a laugh. "he knows we are all right, for we have been on the water, more or less, all our lives. he sometimes worries a little, but, when we get home safe, he's so glad to see us that he never scolds." nor did he this time. he inquired about the trip, and expressed his regrets at the mishap to the ripper. "it will be all right if we don't get a storm before high tide," he said. "i'll inquire of ponto what the weather signs are. ponto! i say ponto! where are you?" "comin' massa seabury! i'se comin'," answered a sleepy voice and ponto came from the garden to the veranda, where mr. seabury, his daughters and the boys were. "do you think we are going to have a storm?" "storm? no, sah. no storm to-day." "how can you tell?" "easy, massa seabury. when it's goin' t' storm, i cain't never sleep well, an' now, i can fall asleep as easy as a baby." "i believe you. well, that's what i wanted to know. he's a very good weather prophet," he added in a low voice to the boys. "i guess the boat is safe. have you seen professor snodgrass lately, ponto?" "yais, sah, i done saw him 'bout half an hour ago. he were huntin' around de' lower end ob de garden, after some web-footed grasshoppers, i t'ink he said." "web-footed lizards," corrected ned. "yais, sah, dat's what it were. web-footed lizards an' horned toads. golly, i hopes he don't cotch none when i'se around!" the boys told mr. seabury of mr. blowitz, and their host advised them to be careful about entering into any arrangement with the man. "i don't know him," he said, "but i have heard from different persons here that there is something queer about him. however, he may only want some favor that you can easily do." shortly before five o'clock the three boys started to keep their appointment with carson blowitz. professor snodgrass had not succeeded in finding any horned toads, and announced his intention of making a search near the bed of a dried-up river that evening, as he had heard there were some there. the girls were too tired to care for further excursions that afternoon, and they remained on the shady veranda, as the boys started off. "i wonder what blowitz can want?" mused ned, as he and his chums neared the chocolate pavilion. "we'll soon know," said jerry. chapter xviii what mr. blowitz wanted the boys found mr. carson blowitz in the little courtyard of the pavilion, calmly sipping some cold chocolate. "ah, you are right on time, i see," he remarked, as pleasantly as he could. "that's what i like, boys. it shows your american spirit. bright, hustling lads, all of you. just the kind i have been looking for." "did you want to see us on business?" asked jerry, for he did not care for the man's too obvious flattery. "yes, i did, but first let me order some chocolate for you. it is a hot day and you'll feel better after it. i never talk business unless i am eating, or drinking something like chocolate or lemonade. it calms the nerves." jerry was about to refuse, as he wanted to get the interview over with as soon as possible, but he looked at bob, and that youth showed an evident desire to have some refreshment. "well, we'll take a little," jerry said. "i thought so. here!" and he clapped his hands to summon the waitress, who soon returned with some cups of cold chocolate. "now to business," went on mr. blowitz, after a pause. "did i understand you to say you had hired that large motor boat?" "we have; for several weeks," answered jerry, who, by consent of ned and bob, had been elected spokesman. "and do you think it could go to sea-- say for a couple of weeks?" "yes, i think so. but did you think of hiring her from us? because if you did i don't believe we can consider it, as we have no authority to let any one but ourselves run it." "oh, no, i was not thinking of running it," declared mr. blowitz. "i wouldn't know how if i wanted to. but i was thinking i might engage the motor boat and you with it, as a crew, to go on a cruise for me." "a cruise?" "yes, out on the pacific, but not too far from shore, say not more than twenty miles." "what for?" asked jerry. "to search for that derelict-- the brig rockhaven!" "the rockhaven!" exclaimed ned and bob together. "yes, as i told you it has a valuable cargo aboard, and, in addition a supply of gold, in money, and some important papers." "do you think we could find her?" asked ned. "i think so," answered mr. blowitz. "i made some particular inquiries of the captain of the fishing smack, whom i saw to-day, and i got her longitude and latitude, as near as he could give it to me. of course it would be a rather hard search, and might consume considerable time, but i would be willing to pay for that. what i want to know is, if you boys would care to go out in that boat, the ripper, and search for the derelict? if you find her i will pay you prize money." "if we found her, and she was quite a way out to sea, how would we get her in?" asked jerry. "you could tow her, unless there was a bad storm. that motor boat is very powerful." "then there isn't anyone on board now?" asked bob. "not a living soul," answered the man. "it's queer how they came to desert her, but i guess the captain and crew got scared and went off in a hurry, without making a proper investigation. the brig is a small one, and if she hit on a rock, or was in a collision, it would not take much to knock her out. "now here is my proposition. you are to take the ripper, get her in good shape for the cruise, and start out. the sooner the better. i will pay all expenses, such as for provisions and supplies. if you return with the brig i will pay you two thousand dollars. if you don't succeed in finding her, after say a two weeks' search, you are to return, and i will pay you five hundred dollars, and all expenses. what do you say?" "that sounds good to me," replied bob. "suppose we got the vessel, made fast to her, and started to tow her in and had to abandon her because of a storm?" asked jerry. "well, of course that might happen, though it's not likely, for we seldom have bad storms an this coast this time of year. still if you couldn't bring the derelict in, you couldn't that's all. but if you found her, you could get the papers and gold, and if you had to abandon her, you could go back after the storm was over. i think you boys could do what i want, and, as i say, i'm willing to pay well. i'd go with you, of course. what do you say?" mr. blowitz seemed quite anxious. in fact he was so anxious that jerry was suspicious. "i wonder why he doesn't hire some larger boat, or a small steam tug to go for that derelict?" thought jerry. "he could get men, who are regularly engaged in the business of saving vessels, to go out for that price. why should he prefer us, when we have had no experience in that line, and hardly know him? there is something back of all this, that he is not telling us. i wonder what we had better do?" "well?" asked mr. blowitz, as none of the boys spoke. ned and bob were waiting for jerry to reply and the latter was turning it over in his mind, seeking to find a reason for the strange request. "when would we have to start?" asked jerry, at. last. "i'd like you to go to-morrow, or the day after, at the farthest. it would not take long to provision the boat for the cruise." "will you put your offer in writing?" asked jerry. "in writing-- why, isn't my word good? well, of course-- oh, i see-- you think i am a stranger here and might-- oh, well, i have no objection to drawing up an agreement. perhaps that will be the best way." mr. blowitz looked a little annoyed that jerry should have suggested such a thing, but he quickly covered his confusion by speaking rapidly. "i'll draw up a paper right away," he said, taking a fountain pen from his pocket. "i'll have the waitress get me some blanks, and you can have them witnessed before a notary public, if you wish." "there's no hurry," said jerry. "suppose you draw up the papers, and we can meet you here to-morrow to talk things over further. i think we should take a little time to consider this. it is rather a queer proposition--" "oh, of course, i don't want to hurry you into it," declared mr. blowitz, in rather a nervous manner. "of course i could get some other boat and a regular crew, but i saw you boys, and i took a liking to you. i thought you might like to earn some money and, if you have good luck, it oughtn't to be hard work." "oh, we'd like the money all right enough," interposed bob. "we'll think it over," put in jerry quickly, for he was afraid ned or bob might say something that would commit them. "we'll meet you here to-morrow at ten o'clock and you can have the papers with you." "all right," agreed the man, and jerry thought he seemed disappointed that the matter was not settled at once. "don't forget now," he urged them, as they left the pavilion, mr. blowitz remaining there to drink more chocolate. "why didn't you agree to it, jerry?" asked bob, when they were outside. "that would be a swell cruise. just the thing! and think of getting two thousand dollars!" "that's just it," replied jerry. "we want time to think it over, and i guess we had better tell mr. seabury. boys, i believe there is something wrong back of all this, and we don't want to run into danger." "danger!" exclaimed ned. "do you think there is danger?" "i don't know, but i'm going to be on the safe side. i don't like mr. blowitz, but he may be all right. if we find he is, and mr. seabury advises it, we'll go on that cruise, and try to find the derelict. i asked him to make out the papers so we could have a chance to consider it." "well, maybe you're right," admitted ned. "but i do hope it's all right. it would be great, to take a voyage on the pacific in the ripper." the boys hurried back to the bungalow, intending to tell mr. seabury the result of their talk with mr. blowitz before mentioning it to the girls. "father has gone out," said rose. "he has gone to dine with a friend, and he'll not be back until late to-night. we'll have supper together, and go for a trip on the bay. it's going to be a nice moonlight night." "the very thing!" exclaimed ned. "but we must see to the ripper. she's on the rocks yet." "that's so," exclaimed jerry. "i nearly forgot about her. bob and i will get her and take her to the dock. she must be afloat by now." "it's almost supper-time," said nellie, "hurry back." "oh-- it's near supper-time, is it?" asked bob, with a woe-begone look on his face. "i-- er--" "come on, ned," called jerry. "bob's afraid he'll get left on the eating proposition. you come with me." ned and jerry rowed out to the motor boat. they found her floated, and riding easily, and, after towing her to the dock, they returned to the house. partaking of a hasty supper the young folks, leaving ponto and the servant in the bungalow, went down to the beach, and started for a moonlight ride in the ripper. chapter xix a cry for help "isn't this perfectly delightful," remarked nellie, as she reclined on some cushions in the little cabin. "i just love to be on the water!" "well, it's better than being out in the fog," admitted jerry, as he adjusted the oil feed on the engine, and glanced over the moonlit waves. "there don't seem to be many boats out tonight," observed olivia. "maybe the owners are afraid of a storm," suggested rose. "sometimes a storm will follow a fog. i wonder if it's safe for us to go out?" "we're not going far, and we'll keep near shore," replied jerry. "it does act as if it was going to blow a bit, but i guess it will not amount to much." there was quite a swell on as they got further out, and the ripper rolled some, but the boys and girls were too good sailors to mind that. "i wonder if we'll meet mr. blowitz again," came from nellie, after a period of silence. "he's always turning up most unexpectedly." "i don't believe we'll see him to-night," said ned. "what do you think he wanted of us? shall i tell 'em, jerry?" "might as well, i'm going to tell mr. seabury as soon as i see him." thereupon ned related the interview with carson blowitz, and the latter's desire to have the boys search for the derelict rockhaven. "i hope you don't go," spoke nellie. "why not?" asked bob. "because-- well, because," and she laughed a little uneasily. "that's just like a girl," remarked jerry, good-naturedly. "they don't want you to do a thing, but they can't tell you why." "well, it's just an uneasy feeling i have toward mr. blowitz, that's all," went on nellie. "i can't explain it, but i feel, whenever i am near him, that he is planning something mean, or that he is up to some trick." "well, it's just how i feel," declared rose, and olivia admitted that she, too, did not trust the man. "well, we haven't decided to go," said jerry, "and we're going to have a talk with your father about it. i admit i'd like to make the trip and find the brig, but, as you say, i don't quite trust blowitz." "oh!" suddenly exclaimed rose, as a wave, larger than any that had preceded it, sent a shower of spray over the boat. "don't go out any farther, jerry. it's getting quite rough." "yes, i guess it is," admitted the steersman, as he put the boat about. "there's quite a swell on. wouldn't wonder but we'd have a storm by morning, though it's bright enough overhead. i don't believe ponto is a good prophet." there were only a few clouds in the sky, and the moon was shining down like a big silver disk, making objects unusually bright, for the southern moonlight is wonderful. jerry put the boat over near shore, and steered along the coast, which, at that point was quite rocky, cliffs rising here and there to a considerable height above the water. "look out you don't run her on the rocks again," cautioned ned. "i'll be careful," replied jerry. "maybe you want to run her a while. i don't want to be the whole show." ned was glad of the chance to take the wheel, and he and jerry changed places. they were proceeding at slow speed, the girls occasionally humming the chorus of a song, and the boys joining in when they knew the air. the beauty of the night, the fine boat, and delight of moving along with scarcely a sound, had them all under a sort of magic spell, and they felt they could thus go on forever. it was when they came opposite a range of low cliffs, close to the water's edge, that bob suddenly called out in a low voice: "look at the men on the rocks!" "where?" asked jerry. "over there," and bob pointed. ned steered the boat nearer to where two black figures, sharply outlined in the moonlight, could be seen in bold relief on the cliff. "they are men, sure enough," replied jerry, "but you needn't get excited over it." "i'm not," went on bob. "only one of them is mr. blowitz, that's all." "mr. blowitz?" queried jerry sharply. "hush! he'll hear you," cautioned rose. "sounds carry very easily over water." "it is mr. blowitz," admitted jerry. "i wonder what he's doing out here." "probably getting some more information about the brig rockhaven," suggested ned. "maybe that's a seaman who has some news of her." by this time the motor boat was quite close to the two men, who, however, did not seem to notice the ripper. there was no question about the identity of mr. blowitz. the other man was a stranger to the boys and girls. the two were apparently talking earnestly, and, occasionally mr. blowitz could be seen to be gesticulating violently. "he's mad about something," declared ned. "it does look so," agreed rose. all at once the boys saw blowitz take a step toward the other man, who retreated, as if afraid. blowitz raised his hand as though to give a blow. "look out!" cried ned involuntarily, as if the man could hear him. "you'll go over the cliff!" with a quick motion he turned the boat, steering toward the foot of the rock, above which the men stood. at that instant a black cloud came over the moon and the scene was plunged in darkness. it was just as if it had been blotted out, and a murmur of surprise, at the suddenness of it, came from those in the ripper. at the same instant a cry rang out-- a man's cry-- and it seemed to be one for help. chapter xx blowitz is angry "quick!" called jerry. "put us over there, ned!" "i will! something has happened. i wonder--" "oh, why doesn't the moon come out from behind that cloud," exclaimed rose, for she and the other girls were nervously afraid. "maybe they have both toppled over the cliff," suggested nellie. "more likely only one of them did," said bob. "i only heard one cry. what's the matter, ned?" "something's gone wrong with the engine." "here, let me have a look," called jerry, and he went to the cockpit. there was a lantern aboard, and, by the light of it, jerry saw that one of the battery wires, leading to a spark plug, had become loosened, breaking the circuit, and preventing the gas from exploding in the cylinders. he soon had it fixed and the engine started, sending the boat toward shore. by this time the moon was out again, flooding the scene with radiance. eagerly the boys and girls looked toward the spot on the cliffs, where the odd scene had taken place. to their surprise they saw mr. blowitz standing there, and they were close enough to note that he was smoking a cigar. "well!" exclaimed nellie, for that was all she could say, so great was her astonishment. "guess nothing happened after all," added ned. "we have had our fright for nothing." "there certainly was another man there," declared jerry, "and he's gone now." "and i'm certain i heard a cry for help," said bob. "we all heard a cry," admitted jerry, "but it might have been a call for a boatman, or something like that. however--" he did not finish what he was going to say for, at that instant, blowitz heard the noise of the approaching motor boat. the muffler. was not working just right, and the usually noiseless engine of the ripper was making quite a fuss. blowitz was in a listening attitude, standing in bold relief in the moonlight, and, having, apparently, satisfied himself as to where the boat was, he started to descend the cliff. "he's coming down," said ned. "is that the ripper?" called blowitz suddenly. "yes," replied jerry, wondering how the man knew. "i thought i recognized her engine. are you coming ashore? if you are, i'd like to speak to you." "we're coming," answered ned. "don't come too close then, for there are dangerous rocks. make for that little point up there," and the man pointed so that the boys could see where he meant. "there's deep water right up to the edge. it's a sort of natural dock, but go slow. i'll meet you there, i want to tell you something." "shall we ask him about the man?" inquired bob in a low voice. "no, don't," advised nellie quickly. "it might make trouble. see what he has to say, and then let's hurry home. i'm afraid of him." "what? with we three aboard?" asked jerry with a little laugh. "we are complimented." "oh, i don't mean that," nellie hastened to say. "i mean that mr. blowitz is a dangerous man." she spoke low for she did not want him to hear her, and they were quite near to shore now. ned steered for the little point of land, and found he could send the boat quite close with no danger of hitting the rocks. presently blowitz, who had momentarily vanished amid the shadows at the foot of the cliff, appeared. "good evening, boys," he said. "i--" he stopped suddenly, "i didn't know you had young ladies aboard." "yes, we have been taking a moonlight run," jerry explained. "we saw you up there on the cliff, and--" "i was there with a friend of mine," blowitz spoke quickly. "we were talking about the derelict brig. i was to meet a sea captain there, but he did not come. my friend had to leave in a hurry, and just then i heard the noise made by your boat, so i called to you. did you hear a call?" "we heard some sort of a call," spoke up bob, "but we thought it was--" "that was me," interrupted blowitz, "i recognized the ripper by the peculiar sound of the exhaust. i have quite a trick of recognizing boats that way. i was afraid you'd get past, so i called. but i didn't know you had the young ladies with you, or i would not have bothered you." "that's all right," said jerry. "we were coming ashore anyhow." "you were? what for?" and blowitz looked sharply at the boys. "oh, i suppose you saw me and wanted to tell me you would accept my offer-- but excuse me, perhaps the young ladies--" "oh, we have told them of it," answered ned. "you can speak before them." "all right then. i was going to say perhaps you came in after seeing me, to tell me you had accepted my offer and would search for the derelict. is that it?" "well, we hadn't quite decided," replied jerry. "what! not decided!" exclaimed blowitz. "why i want you to start at once-- or-- that is-- to-morrow morning. i have just received news that makes it important that the search begin at once. i am depending on you. you will go at once, won't you? come, i'll increase my offer," he said. "i'll pay you two thousand dollars for your time and trouble, stand all expenses, and, if you find the brig, and tow her in, i'll give you three thousand dollars. that's a fair offer. now you can start to-morrow morning, can't you, boys?" "i don't know," began jerry, slowly. "isn't that money enough?" and blowitz seemed much excited. "oh, yes, the offer is a very good one. but i think we should consult with some one-- we--" "no, there is no need of consulting with any one," interrupted blowitz. "i have the papers all made out. we can go before a notary-public to-night, for it is not late yet, and sign them, and you can start by to-morrow noon. what do you say? will you go?" it was a hard question to decide. the trip was alluring to the boys, even had there been no prize money connected with it. but there was something about blowitz that made them hesitate. his very eagerness to have them start, almost at once, made them feel there was something queer back of it all. still they had undertaken, before this, more difficult and risky tasks. why not this one? "well, i must have your answer soon," said blowitz, approaching nearer to the boat. "will you wait just a moment?" asked jerry. "my chums and i will go in the cabin and talk it over. we'll let you know right away." "i'll wait five minutes," said the man. "time is precious to me. i have lots to do. but i know you'll go. i'll raise the offer five hundred dollars. now, that's the best i can do. but you must start as soon as possible to-morrow." "come in here," called jerry to his chums, entering the small cabin, where the three girls had already gone as they did not wish to seem to listen to the talk between blowitz and the boys. jerry closed the sliding doors, and, by the light of a small lantern which hung from the cabin ceiling, looked at his companions. outside they could hear blowitz pacing up and down on the rocky shore. "well, what do you fellows say?" he asked. "i'd like the trip," said ned, wistfully. "the money is a large sum," added bob. "then you want to go?" asked jerry. "i'll do just what ever you do. i'll tell him we'll go." "no! don't!" cried nellie in a tense whisper. "jerry-- boys-- don't have anything to do with this man. he may be all right, but there's something mysterious about him. why should he want to hire you when, for the same money, or less, he could get a company of fishermen, who know these waters well, to make the search? take a girl's reason, for once, and don't have anything to do with him!" she had risen to her feet, her eyes were flashing and her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the moment. the boys looked at her in admiration. "i admit there is something queer in his offering to increase the prize money," spoke jerry, after a pause. "he must be very desperate." "and why this sudden rush?" inquired ned. "this afternoon he was in no such hurry. something must have occurred in the meanwhile-- i wonder if it was the man on the cliff--" "now don't let's go to guessing at too much," cautioned jerry. "the question to be settled now is: do you want to go on a search for the derelict brig? yes or no? that's what we've got to settle now." there was silence for a moment, broken only by the tick of the clock in the cabin. involuntarily nellie glanced at it. the hands pointed to the hour of nine, and she felt that she and her sisters should be home. jerry looked at his two companions. "i guess we'd better not go," said bob slowly. "i hate to give it up, but maybe it will be for the best," added ned. "i'm suspicious of him. tell him we'll not go, jerry." "very well." jerry stepped to the cabin door and slid it back. at the sound blowitz came eagerly forward. "well?" he queried. "are you going? can you start at once'?" "we have decided not to go," replied jerry, slowly. "i-- that is my chums and i-- do not feel just right about it. it is not our boat, and--" he hesitated, for he did not want to give the main reasons that had influenced him and his chums. but blowitz did not give him a chance to continue. "not go!" the man fairly cried. "why i'm surprised at you! you led me to believe, all along, that you would go. here i've gone and wasted a lot of time on you, gone to a lot of trouble, made all my arrangements, expecting you would go, and--" "we never gave you any reason to think we would go," declared jerry very positively. "you are wrong, there, mr. blowitz. we only said we would consider it. we have done so, and have concluded not to go. i am sorry--" "sorry? you'll be sorrier than this before i'm through with you!" threatened the man. "you'll wish you had gone before very long, let me tell you. you've spoiled all my plans. i depended-- oh! i'll get even with you for this!" and the man, in a fury threw his cigar down on the rocks, whence it bounded up amid a shower of sparks. "you'll regret this!" he cried in angry tones, as he turned away and started off up the cliff, muttering to himself. "you've made him mad," said bob. "can't help it," replied jerry. "i'm glad we are not going to have anything to do with him. i believe he is a dangerous person. certainly he had no right to talk about us as he did." "oh, i'm so glad you're not going!" exclaimed nellie, as she and her sisters came out of the cabin. "i was afraid you would give in when he got so angry. but let's get away from here. somehow, i don't like this place. besides we should have been home some time ago. papa may have returned, and we always try to be in before ten o'clock. we'll hardly get home by that time now." "yes, we will," said ned. "i'll send the ripper along at a good clip." he started the engine, and, as the boat swung out from beside the rock dock, the form of blowitz could be seen going up the cliff in the moonlight. in less than an hour the boat was at san felicity and the girls were put ashore. they found ponto down at the dock to meet them. "massa seabury done got worried after he got home," said the colored man, "an' he sent me to see if yo' was heah." "ponto," asked jerry, "do you think you can take the young ladies safely home, without falling asleep?" "suttinly i can," massa jerry. "fall asleep! i gess i doan't fall asleep at night. i'se only sleepy when de sun shines, i is." "then i guess you'll do all right. see that they get home safe." "why, aren't you boys coming too?" asked nellie, in some surprise. "not now," replied jerry. "why not?" "i think we'll go back to the foot of the cliffs and see if we can't find the man to whom blowitz was talking. i don't like the way he acted, for that certainly was a cry for help, and there may have been foul play!" chapter xxi the man on the rocks jerry's announcement was news to his chums, for he had given them no hint of his intentions as the ripper was nearing the boathouse. "do you mean you are going to hunt for that man on the rocks?" asked ned. "yes, i think he fell; or was pushed over by blowitz. there was no mistaking that call for help. blowitz says it was he who called to us, but i know better. that was a cry of fear." "oh, don't get into any danger," cautioned nellie. "maybe you had better take ponto with you. we're not afraid to go home alone. it's nice and bright, and there is no danger." "deed an' there be, miss nellie," interrupted ponto, who did not relish going off on a strange hunt with the boys. "some ob dem horned toads might git after yo', an' if ponto wasn't along dey'd bite you. i shorely am gwine home wid yo'. massa seabury, he done 'specially stipulate it, an--" "yes, i guess ponto had better go with you," said jerry. "we can do better alone. it won't be the first time we've had a midnight hunt, though never before one just like this. we'll come back as soon as we can, and tell you all about it. we can make quick time in the boat." "and, if you find the man?" asked rose. "if we do, and he needs help, we'll see that he gets it; i think if we do find him we'll learn more about mr. carson blowitz than we know now." "shall i tell my father?" asked nellie, as the boys were preparing to make the return trip. the dock was deserted, save for the young people and ponto, but in the chocolate refreshment place, and other booths on shore there was plenty of life. "i think it would be a good plan," agreed jerry. "you know the whole story, about the brig and the offer blowitz made. tell mr. seabury that we would have consulted him before, only he was out when we got back this afternoon. now, ponto, lookout that no horned toads or web-footed lizards get the young ladies, and, above all, don't lie down alongside the road and take a nap." "hu! guess i ain't gwine t' sleep when i's 'scortin my massa's daughters home," declared the colored man, rather indignant that such a slur should be cast on him. "don't worry," called jerry, as the girls walked along the dock to shore. "we'll be back as soon as we can." "do you really think we'll find anything?" asked ned of jerry when they were some distance out, and speeding along toward where they had seen blowitz and the other man on the cliff. "i don't know," jerry frankly admitted. "it looks suspicious, and the way blowitz acted made it more so. maybe the shadows deceived us, and the man did not fall, for the cloud over the moon made things black. but it will do no harm to take a look, and then we'll be satisfied." "if we find him, what will we do with him?" asked bob, who had a habit of looking ahead. "let's find him first," said jerry. "maybe it is some man who works for blowitz, and who would not do just as his boss wanted him to. blowitz can get angry very easily, as was proved by his actions when we refused to make that trip. maybe he hit the man in a fit of passion, and the man cried out in surprise, and ran away." the sky was more cloudy now, and the moon was oftener obscured by masses of dark vapor. still, there was light enough for the boys to make out landmarks, and distinguish objects when they came near the low cliff, on which they had seen blowitz and the other man. "there's the place," called ned suddenly, from his position near the wheel. "that's right," admitted jerry. "better put us in near that rock where we talked to blowitz. we can fasten the boat there and go ashore. there's no swell in here." in a short time the three boys were on the rocky shore. jerry carried a lantern and ned had a coil of rope, as he thought if the man had fallen over a cliff, and was unable to help himself, they might need a line to hoist him up. "go easy now," cautioned jerry, as they moved forward. "we don't want to send out notice that we have arrived. blowitz may still be sneaking around." as cautiously as possible they advanced. they found there was a rough path leading from the beach up the cliff, on top of which the two men had stood. with jerry, holding the lantern to guide them, ned and bob followed. they paused now and then to listen, but the only sound they heard was caused by the waves of the pacific breaking on the rocky shore, the rattle of the pebbles on the beach, and the soft swish of the seaweed. "it was right over there that he seemed to fall," said ned, pointing to indicate where he meant. "that's where i made it out to be," agreed jerry. it was not easy walking, as the rocks were slippery, and some of them were thick with weeds, for, at very high water, they, were covered by the ocean. several times bob slipped and nearly fell. "look out," cautioned jerry. "we don't want two wounded persons to look after." they paused a moment to get their breath, after a stiff bit of climbing, and, as they stood there in the silence of the night, with the moon fitfully showing through the clouds, they suddenly heard a groan. "what's that?" whispered ned, tensely. "it must be the man we're looking for," replied jerry. "he's hurt. where did the sound come from?" ned pointed to a dark spot at the foot of the cliff. the three boys hastened toward it, jerry flashing his lantern. when they got to the place they saw, lying huddled up on a bed of seaweed, the form of a man. as the light flashed on him they noticed that there was blood on his pale face, and one arm was doubled up under him in a strange manner. "he's dead!" whispered bob softly, "no; he's breathing," answered jerry, as he bent over the man on the rocks. "get me some water in your cap, ned. i'll try to bring him to." chapter xxii de vere's story ned ran down to the shore, slipping and stumbling over the rocks, and once falling and bruising himself considerably. but he did not mind this. he wanted to get the water, for it might save the man's life. it looked as if some crime had been attempted, and evidence pointed to blowitz. making as quick progress on the return trip as the carrying of a cap full of sea water would permit, ned held it so jerry could sprinkle some drops on the man's face. he stirred and seemed to be murmuring something. "we ought to have some fresh water for him to drink," said bob. "i'll get some from the cooler on the boat." off he hurried, returning presently with a pitcherful of fresh water and a glass, and with this the man was given a drink, when jerry held up his head. the water seemed the very thing needed for the sufferer, as they could see by the light of the lantern, opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly about him. "what-- where am i?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. "you're at the foot of the rocks-- on the cliff near the ocean," said jerry. "you had a fall. are you badly hurt?" the man groaned in reply. then an angry, light shone in his eyes. "no! i didn't fall!" he exclaimed. "i was shoved over the cliff. he wanted to get me out of the way so he could claim everything! he's a villain!" "who?" asked ned quickly. "who? who else but carson blowitz! i suppose he thinks i am dead, and he can have all that is on the ship! but i'll--" the man stopped suddenly, and a spasm of pain passed over his face. "what is it?" asked jerry. "my arm-- oh, i'm afraid it is broken!" the boys remembered how the left arm of the man was doubled up under him in a peculiar manner. he had doubtless fallen on it. "wait a minute and we'll lift you up so that you will rest more comfortably," said jerry, and, with the aid of his chums he made from their coats and some seaweed a rude sort of bed for the man. there was no doubt that the stranger's left arm was broken. it hung limply down, and the least motion of it produced terrible pain. fortunately the man did not again lose his senses, and he directed the boys how to bandage the arm close to his side, with their handkerchiefs tied together, so that the injured member would not swing about, and further splinter the broken bones. "do you think you can walk down to our boat?" asked jerry. "we can take you to a doctor, for i think you need one." "need one? i should say i did," replied the man. "it is a wonder i was not killed by that fall. i'm afraid my ankle is sprained, but, after i rest a bit, and get over this dizzy feeling, i'll try to walk to the boat. it's lucky you boys happened to come along, just when you did." "we didn't 'happen' to come along," said jerry. "we were looking for you." "looking for me'?" "yes, we saw you and blowitz talking on the cliffs in the moonlight, and then we saw you disappear. we thought it was queer at the time," and jerry related the subsequent events. "i'm glad you witnessed that," said the man, when jerry had finished. "this will be additional evidence against that scoundrel who intends to rob me, and who tried to get me out of his way. however my time of reckoning will come. but would you mind telling me your names?" jerry introduced himself and his companions, briefly, telling the reasons for their presence in california. "my name is de vere," said the man. "maurice de vere. i was in partnership with blowitz, in several ventures, including the one in which a brig named the rockhaven is concerned." "are you interested in that?" asked jerry eagerly. "why that is the derelict blowitz wanted us to go in search of in the motor boat." "he did? now i understand why he wanted to get me out of the way!" cried maurice de vere, quickly. "he was afraid i would meet you boys." "yes, and that's why he was in such a hurry for us to start," added ned, and they told of their dealings with blowitz, and his anger at their refusal to take part in his schemes. "i can't be thankful enough to you boys," said the wounded man. "i don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't happened to have seen blowitz push me from the cliff. i-- i wish--" mr. de vere seemed overcome by a sudden weakness, and fell back on the pile of coats and seaweed. "we had better get him to a doctor," said ned. "he may be more injured than we suppose." "i-- i'll be all right in a little while-- that is all but my arm," said the injured man faintly. "it was just a little weakness. if you will give me some more water--" they gave him some and he seemed to feel better after that. then he tried to rise, but he had to fall back again. "my ankle-- i think it's sprained," he said. "then let us carry you to the boat," suggested jerry. "i'm afraid you can't." "well, we can try." they did, but it was hard work. by dint of carefully picking their steps over the rocks, however, the three boys finally managed to get mr. de vere into the cabin of the ripper, where they made him comfortable on the cushions. "now speed her up for the doctor's," said jerry to ned, who had taken charge of the engine. "that is if you know where to find one." "there is a physician whom i know, not far from the main wharf at san felicity," said maurice de vere. "if you run the boat there i can get into a carriage and drive right to his house. then after he has set my arm, i should like to tell you my story. that is, if you care to listen." "we certainly do," said jerry. "we will be very glad to help you in any way that we can." "will you?" asked the man eagerly. "then, perhaps, i can get ahead of blowitz after all." quick time was made to the dock, and, though it was quite late, the boys found several public hackmen on hand. mr. de vere was put in one of the vehicles and driven to the doctor's office, whither, after they had secured their boat, the boys followed. it took a little time to set the broken arm, and, after some restoratives had been administered, and the sprained ankle, bandaged (though that hurt was not as severe as at first supposed) mr. de vere received the boys in his room, which his friend, the physician had provided. "i do not want to detain you boys too long," he said, "and it is not necessary to go into all the details of my story now. i will tell you a little of it, and then i have a request to make of you. i have been making plans while the doctor was working over me. it helped me to forget the pain." "we'll do anything we can for you," promised jerry, and the other boys nodded in assent. "well, blowitz and i have been associated in many enterprises," said mr. de vere, "but, of late, i have had my suspicions of him. i began to fear he was trying to get the best of me, so that he would control all the interests. now i am sure of it. "we went equal shares in loading the brig rockhaven with valuable merchandise, for trade among the santa barbara islands. there was also, aboard the brig, some valuable papers, and a considerable sum in gold, that was to go to a client of ours. after the ship was loaded i learned that blowitz sent some mysterious boxes aboard. they came from boston, i understand. i--" "those are the boxes we saw in cresville!" exclaimed bob. "what's that?" asked mr. de vere, and the boys explained the curious actions of blowitz in connection with the boxes. "very likely they were the same," said mr. de vere. "what they contained i do not know, but i--" "excuse me for interrupting you," said jerry, "but i think at least one of the boxes contained something poisonous," and he related how the dog, in the cresville freight station, had been affected by smelling at the broken package. "that's it!" suddenly exclaimed mr. de vere, after a moment's thought. "i see it all now. i can understand his actions. but i will explain later, for i want to be very sure of my facts. at any rate, not to burden you with too many details, after the brig had sailed, blowitz wanted to purchase my interest in her. as he offered me a large sum i consented, and i transferred all my rights to him. "as soon as i had done so he left town, and then i learned that he had cheated me, for he had pretended to give me certain property for my share in the ship, and this property he gave me was utterly worthless. i then considered the deal off, and i knew that i still had a right to my half of the ship and the cargo. but, more than this, i also learned that blowitz had cheated me in another way, by taking property and money that belonged to me. i consulted my lawyers, and they told me i had a right to the entire ship rockhaven and all that it contained. i am the sole owner, and blowitz has no right to the brig nor anything on it. it is all mine, though he is trying to get it. "this all happened before the brig was abandoned and became a derelict, but i can't understand how that happened, as she was a very stout vessel, though small. there has been no collision, as far as i can learn. it is all something of a mystery, but i am going to solve it. as soon as i learned what a scoundrel blowitz was, and of the wrecking of the brig, or, at least, the reported wrecking of it, i came here for further news. "when i met blowitz i accused him of cheating me, and i claimed the brig, when she should be found. he wanted to argue with me, and talked of seeing lawyers, but i knew i was right. then he asked me to meet him on the clips to-night, to talk matters over. he said we might get some news of the ship from the captain of a fishing smack. "rather foolishly i consented to meet him, and talk the thing over. we quarreled, and he attacked me, with what result you saw. he pushed me over the cliff, and fled, leaving me, i suppose he thought, for dead. "now what i am going to ask of you boys is this: will you go with me in your motor boat and search for the brig? wait; do not give me an answer now. i think i can prove to you that i have a right to the abandoned ship, and i will pay you well for your time and trouble. better than blowitz offered to. but do not decide in a hurry. i must get in a little better shape myself, and then i have some arrangements to make. but i hope you will decide to go. of course, if you don't care to, i can hire some one else, but i would rather have you boys. now you can go home and think it over, and let me know at your leisure." the boys did not know what to say. events had happened so rapidly that they did not exactly understand all of them. they realized, however, that they had another chance to go on a cruise on the pacific, in the ripper, and they felt that they ought to take advantage of it, and aid mr. de vere. "i think i shall have to break up this little party," said the physician, coming in just then. "i can't have my patient getting a fever. you boys will excuse me, i know, if i ask you to let him get some rest now." "that's all right," spoke jerry. "we'll see you to-morrow, mr. de vere." "very well," was the answer, and the boys left the injured man to the care of the doctor. "well, what do you think of that?" asked ned, as he and his chums were on their way to the seabury bungalow. "isn't it simply great?" "great? it's immense!" exclaimed bob. "we're going, aren't we, jerry?" "if you fellows say so, and outvote me, i suppose you are." "but you want to go, don't you, jerry?" "i didn't say i did not. i think we have a different man to deal with, in this mr. de vere, than we had in blowitz. i think we shall go derelict hunting, boys." "and maybe we'll not have sport!" exclaimed ned. they were soon within sight of the bungalow. the storm clouds had continued to gather, and the moon only shone at brief intervals. the wind was blowing considerable, and there was every evidence that it would rain before morning. "guess we got in just in time," said ned, as they entered the gateway. as he spoke ned came to a sudden stop. he was looking at a dark figure which seemed to be stealing up to the bungalow. it appeared to be that of a man, advancing so as to make no noise, and attract no attention. the fitful gleams of moonlight showed him to be stooping over, and, now and then, glints of light about him, indicated that he carried a dark lantern, which he flashed at intervals to enable him to see his way. "look!" whispered ned, grasping jerry's arm. "i see," was the low answer. "it's a burglar," spoke bob. "let's creep up on him, and make a capture!" chapter xxiii off on a cruise cautiously the boys advanced. they did not stop to think what they were going to do, nor how they would capture the man, who, if he had evil designs, was probably armed and desperate. with the sole desire of protecting from loss their friends in the bungalow, they determined to prevent the man from breaking into the place. that this seemed his intention was almost certain to the boys, for they saw him approach one of the low windows, stop under it, and flash his light several times. "now's our chance!" whispered ned. "let's creep up and jump on his back. then yell like mad and ponto, and some of the servants will come and help us." with light footsteps, hardly making a sound that was not covered by the noise of the wind in the trees, the boys advanced until they were within a few feet of the man. he did not suspect their presence. the three chums were trembling with nervousness and excitement. suddenly the man flashed a bright beam of light on the ground, and made a quick motion. "now!" whispered ned. "jump boys!" for it looked as if the intruder was about to open a window, and spring inside. the chums leaped together, and fairly bore the man to the earth. down they came upon him, as if they were stopping a halfback, with a football, running around right end on the second down. "we've got him!" yelled bob. "help! help!" shouted ned. "murder! thieves! robbers! fire! police! help!" these were cries coming from the man who was struggling to get rid of the crushing weight of three healthy, sturdy boys. "he's trying to get away!" called jerry: "hold him, fellows!" "let me go! help! help! i haven't any money!" pleaded the man underneath!" fire! police! help!" "what is it?" cried mr. seabury, opening a window just over where the struggle was going on, and thrusting his head out. "what's the matter?" "we've caught a burglar!" cried bob. "a burglar? hold him until i get my revolver! ponto! where are you? there's a burglar below! hurry up and help the boys! where is that black rascal? i'll bet he's gone to sleep again!" "comin'! i'se comin' massa seabury," answered ponto's voice from the far distance. "i were jest takin' a nap--" "do you take me for a burglar?" suddenly asked the wriggling man, as he succeeded in getting his head from under bob's stomach where it had practically been out of sight. "did you think i was trying to rob the house?" "of course; aren't you--" began jerry, when a light flashing from one of the windows, as ponto approached, shone full on the prostrate man's face. upon the startled view of the boys there burst the vision of the peaceful, though sadly surprised, face of professor snodgrass. "pro-fes-sor snodgrass!" exclaimed ned weakly. "pro-fes-sor," stammered bob, rolling over in his astonishment. "well, if we--" began jerry but he could not finish. he let go his hold of the scientist's arm, and ned at the same time loosened his grip on the supposed burglar's leg. the professor arose, smoothed out his rumpled clothing, and remarked in a sad tone: "i suppose it's got away, now." "what?" asked ned. "the horned toad. i was chasing one through the garden by the light of my portable electric lantern. i cornered him under the window, and i was just casting the net over him when you jumped on me. the toad got away. it's too bad, but of course you didn't know it. i must continue my hunt, for at last i am really on the track." "whar am dat bug'lar man?" suddenly demanded ponto, opening the side door a crack, and thrusting a gun out. "whar am he? jest hold him up agin this yeah shootin' iron, young gem'mens, an' ponto'll make him wish he done gone stayed home? whar am he?" "lookout for that gun," cautioned ned. "it might be loaded. there's no burglar, ponto. it's all a mistake. it was professor snodgrass, hunting for horned toads." "yes," added the scientist. "i heard they were always out just before a storm, and so i went after them. i saw a fine specimen, but he got away. however i shall catch him." "no bug'lar, eh?" mused ponto, in disappointed tones. "golly, it shorely am lucky fo' him dat dere ain't. i shorely would hab plugged him full ob holes, dat's a fact!" by this time mr. seabury had dressed and come down, and the girls were calling in anxious voices to know what all the excitement was about. matters were soon explained, and the awakened household prepared to return to its normal state. that is all but the professor; he decided to continue his toad hunt, and, probably would have done so, but for the fact that it began to rain just then, and there was such a down-pour that it was out of the question to search in the garden. "anyway," the scientist consoled himself, "i don't believe the toads would be out in the rain. i shall probably find one to-morrow," and, with that comforting reflection he went to sleep. though it was rather late mr. seabury insisted on hearing from the boys the rest of the adventure, part of which his daughters had told him. he was much surprised at the disclosure of blowitz's acts, and congratulated the boys that they had had nothing to do with him. "do you think it would be safe to go with mr. de vere?" asked ned. "i think so," replied mr. seabury. "of course you want to make an investigation, but, if you find him all right, i see no reason why you should not go off on a cruise after the derelict." "oh, i wish we could go," spoke rose wistfully, but she knew it was out of the question. mr. de vere was much better the next day. the swelling in his ankle had gone down, and he could walk around, though he had to carry his arm in a sling. he sent for his lawyer, who soon proved that what the injured man had said was true. the boys consulted further with mr. seabury during the next two days, and made up their minds to go on the cruise. "now, when can you start?" asked mr. de vere, after this point had been settled. "or, rather, when can we start, for i intend to go with you, though i can't do much with this broken arm "we can go whenever you are ready," replied jerry. "then i'll give orders to have the ripper provisioned, for i am going to pay all expenses. by the time we get ready i think this storm will have blown over," for the wind and rain had continued for three days. under maurice de vere's directions preparations for the cruise were soon completed. on the fourth day the storm blew away and there was the promise of settled weather, though some old sailors, down at the dock, said there were liable to be high winds for some time yet. the ripper was overhauled, a plentiful cargo of provisions and supplies had been stowed aboard, and, having bid good-bye to their friends, the seaburys, the boys were ready for their cruise. "when will you come back?" asked rose, as she and her sisters went down to the dock to see the party off. "when we find the derelict," answered jerry. "good luck!" said nellie. "don't let a sea serpent catch you," cautioned olivia, as she waved her hand. jerry threw on the switch, ned turned the fly wheel over, there was a throbbing of the cylinders, and the ripper was off on her long cruise after the derelict brig. chapter xxiv hunting the derelict "well, now that we're under way," said jerry, who had assumed charge of the engine, "in which direction do you propose going, mr. de vere? we are under your orders you know." "there are to be no special orders given on this cruise," was the answer. "i regard you boys as my partners in this enterprise. we will all do our best to find the brig, and if any of you have any suggestions, i hope you will not hesitate to offer them. to be frank with you i do not know where to look for the rockhaven. she is somewhere in this vicinity, floating around, but at the mercy of wind, wave and cross currents. all we can do is to cruise about, hoping to get a sight of her." "i thought when you searched for anything on the ocean you had to have the longitude and latitude," said rob. "so you do usually," replied mr. de vere, but, in this case it is impossible to get those figures. if it were it would be an easy matter to pick up the brig. but, in the case of a derelict, that is floating about, going in no particular direction, and making only such speed as the wind or the currents give it, there is no telling where it will drift to. it might be at one spot at night, and many miles off the next morning." "we are prepared for a long cruise," spoke ned, "and it doesn't matter which way we go. how would it do to go about in big circles, taking a new one every day?" "that's a good plan," said the owner of the rockhaven. "we might try it, at any rate." so this was done. with chart and compass mr. de vere, who understood the science of navigation, worked out a plan of traveling about in big sweeps, that took in a goodly portion of that part of the pacific. they had some strong marine glasses aboard and, with these, they would take an observation, every now and then, to see if there was any sight of the brig. as they did not expect to come upon her close to the harbor of san felicity, this work was not undertaken until the afternoon of the first day. in the meanwhile the ripper's cabin had been put in ship-shape, bunks were arranged for sleeping and, at his request bob was put in charge of the galley, to prepare the meals and be cook. "and mind," cautioned jerry, "don't eat all the things yourself. give us a chance, once in a while." "of course; what do you think i am?" asked bob indignantly. "i don't think-- i know," replied jerry with a laugh. mr. de vere could not do much to help the boys as, with his broken arm in a sling, he had to be careful how he moved about so that he would not be tossed against the side of the boat and injured. the ripper was a large boat, for one of the motor class, but, when it got outside the harbor, and felt the full force of the pacific swell, it was not as easy riding as the boys had imagined. at first they were a little inclined to be seasick, as it was some time since they had been on such a big stretch of water, but, after a while, they got used to it. the approach of night found them many miles from the harbor, but they had had no sight of the derelict, nor, did they expect to. if the deserted brig was anywhere in the vicinity, it must be pretty well out to sea, mr. de vere told them. so when it got dark, and lights were set aglow in the cozy cabin, it was with light hearts that the boys and their friends gathered around the supper table, bob had prepared a good meal, and they enjoyed it very much. they took turns at the night watches, the boat continuing to steam on ahead, and the person on the lookout taking occasional observations of the dark horizon through powerful night glasses. morning found them upon a waste of waters, out of sight of land, and with not a sail in view. "say, but it's lonesome," remarked bob when he went to the galley to get breakfast. "what a big place the ocean is." "i suppose you expected to find a lot of excursion boats out here," remarked jerry. "i did not!" exclaimed bob. "but i thought we might see a ship or two." for two days they cruised about, moving in great circles and keeping a sharp watch for any sight of the derelict. several times one of the boys, after peering through the glasses, would call that they had sighted her, and the motor boat would be rushed in that direction. but, each time, it only resulted in disappointment for what they saw turned out to be only a bit of wreckage, a big dead fish, or some floating box or barrel, thrown overboard from some ship. "it looks as if our search was going to be longer than i at first thought," said mr. de vere on the fifth day. "it is a good thing we are well provisioned and have plenty of gasolene." "yes, we could stay out for three weeks if necessary," replied jerry. "i hope we don't have to," went on the owner of the brig. "a week ought to bring us within sight of her, if she still floats. but there is no telling what that scoundrel blowitz may have done. he is capable of having some one of the crew bore holes in the ship before they deserted her, so she would slowly sink, and he could collect the insurance. in fact he may have done so, and only be pretending that she is a derelict. i wish we would get sight of her. a great deal, so far as my fortune is concerned, depends on the result of this search." the boys, no less than maurice de vere, were anxious to sight the derelict, not so much for the prize money, but because they wanted to be successful, and have their cruise result in something. another day went by, and, though they sighted several vessels in the distance, no water-logged craft or slowly drifting derelict greeted their eyes. "we'll hope for better luck to-morrow," said mr. de vere as darkness began to fall, "though from the weather indications, i would say we were in for a blow." "it does look as if getting ready for a storm," admitted jerry. there was a curious stillness to the air, and the ocean had a queer oily look, the waves heaving restlessly as though they were impatient at their slow motion, and wanted to break into a wild revel. off to the west there was a murky, yellowish look to the sky, and, now and then, there came puffs of wind that had in them a hint of great force and power. "we had better make everything as snug as possible," advised mr. de vere. "if it comes on to blow in the night we'll have our hands full to manage the boat." chapter xxv in a bad storm shortly after midnight, jerry who was to take the last, or dog-watch was awakened by ned shaking him in his bunk. "what-- what's the matter?" asked jerry sleepily. "you'd better get up i think. the boat is pitching something fierce, and it's beginning to blow great guns." "um!" exclaimed jerry, as he got out of his bunk, and was thrown up against a bulkhead by a roll of the boat. "i should say it was pitching some. where's rob? where's mr. de vere?" "i didn't call them. i thought i'd tell you first and see what you thought." "wait until i take a look outside," said jerry, dressing as best he could while swaying to and fro with the motion of the ripper. "here! quit your fooling!" suddenly exclaimed bob, as he rolled from his bunk, and barely saved himself from a bad shock by landing on his hands and feet in a crouching attitude, as does a cat. "what did you do that for?" "you'll have to ask father neptune," answered jerry. "we're not guilty, chunky." "didn't you pull me from my bunk?" asked the stout youth. it needed no answer from his chums to assure him to the contrary. the motor boat was now pitching and tossing violently, and, as the boys stood in the cabin, they had hard work to prevent themselves from being thrown from partition to partition. had it not been for their forethought in making everything secure earlier in the night, the boat might have been damaged. "what's the matter, boys?" asked mr. de vere, looking out from his small stateroom. "oh, it's the storm. arrived strictly on time, i guess, and it's a hummer too! how's the engine working?" "fine," declared ned, who had just left the motor cockpit. "runs like a charm, and hasn't missed an explosion since i took charge." "that's good," commented mr. de vere. "we'll need all the power we can get, to keep her head on to the waves, if this gets any worse." as he spoke there was a thundering crash on the deck above them, and a rush of water told that a big comber had come aboard, nearly burying the small craft in a swirl of green water. "are the hatches closed," asked mr. de vere anxiously, "and the sliding doors fastened?" "yes," replied ned. "i saw to that when i noticed the wind was getting worse, and the waves higher." the boat was fitted with a cabin over the full length, but amidships, where the motor was, were sliding partitions that could be taken down, thus making that part of the craft open. ned had put these slides in place, securely fastening them, and closing the top hatches. the derelict hunters were thus completely shut up in the ripper, and could manage the engine, and run the boat without exposing themselves. only for this the big wave might have swamped them. maurice de vere quickly dressed and, with the boys went to the engine compartment. the motor was humming and throbbing, and, at jerry's suggestion, ned gave the wheels and cogs an additional dose of oil. the storm rapidly increased in fury, and the boat was pitching and tossing in a manner that made it difficult to get from one part to another. but the ripper was a substantial craft and though her nose, many times, was buried deep under some big sea, she managed to work her way out, staggering under the shock, but going on, like the gallant boat she was. the engine, from which one or another of the boys never took his eyes, worked to perfection. if it had failed them, and they had gotten into the trough of the sea, there probably would have been a different story to tell of the motor boys on the pacific. "this is getting fierce!" exclaimed bob; after a particularly big wave had deluged the boat. "getting fierce?" repeated jerry. "it's been fierce for some time. i hope it doesn't get any worse." but, if it did not increase in violence, the storm showed no signs of ceasing. the wind fairly howled around the frail boat, as if angry that it could not overwhelm it, and beat it down under the waves, which were altogether too big for the safe or comfortable riding of the ripper. there was nothing to do save watch the engine, keep the wheel steady, and the boat pointed head on to the waves. the three boys took turns at this, for no one would now venture back to his bunk. mr. de vere could do little, for his broken arm hampered him, and, in order that he might suffer no further injury, he braced himself in a corner, where he would be comparatively safe from the pitching and tossing. "wow! that was a bad one!" exclaimed bob, as another heavy wave thundered on the deck, and ran hissing along the scuppers. "i think you had better get out the life preservers," suggested mr. de vere, when several more tremendous waves followed in quick succession. "do you think we are in danger?" asked ned. "no more than we were some time ago," was the rather grave answer. "but it is best to be prepared. we seem to be running into the center of the storm, instead of away from it." "i'll get the cork jackets," volunteered jerry, going to the lockers where the preservers were kept. they were placed where they could be quickly put on in case the boat foundered, and then, with white, set faces the boys prepared to watch out the remainder of the night, looking to the engine occasionally, and hoping fervently that they would weather the storm. it was not cold, for they were in the latitude close to perpetual summer, and there was no rain, only that never-ceasing wind which piled the waves up in great foam-capped masses. on and on the boat staggered, now scarcely making any progress at all, and, again, during a lull shooting through the water at great speed. sometimes the screw would be "racing," as the stern lifted clear of the water, and again the powerful motor would be almost at a standstill, so great was the pressure of the waves on the blades of the propeller. "it doesn't seem to be getting any worse," remarked bob after a long silence, broken only by the howl of the wind. "we haven't been boarded by any seas lately." "no, i think we have gone through the most dangerous part of it," agreed mr. de vere. "but we're still far from being out of danger. there is a very heavy sea on." they waited and hoped. the throb of the engine became a monotonous hum and whir, and the crash of the waves like the boom of some big drum. rob, looking through one of the cabin dead-eyes, exclaimed: "see!" the others looked out. "it's getting morning," spoke jerry, with a sigh of relief. "the night is almost gone." gradually it became lighter, the pale gray dawn stealing in through the thick bull's-eyes, and revealing the rather pale faces of the young derelict hunters. they looked out on a heaving waste of waters, the big waves rising and falling like some gigantic piece of machinery. "the wind is dying down," announced ned in a low voice. somehow it seemed as if they ought to talk in whispers. "yes, i think it will stop when the sun comes up," said mr. de vere. "it looks as if it would be clear." in the east there appeared a rosy light. a golden beam shot up to the sky, tinting the crests of the waves. then the rim of old sol appeared, to cheer the voyagers. "look there!" suddenly called jerry, pointing straight at the disk of the sun, which, every second, was becoming larger. they all looked and saw, laboring in the waves, about a mile away, a powerful tug, that seemed to be following them. chapter xxvi rival searchers "what boat is that?" asked ned. "hand me the glasses," requested mr. de vere, as he went nearer to the cabin port. he peered through the binoculars for some time, then announced: "it's the steam tug, monarch, from san pedro. i wonder what it can be doing out this way?" "perhaps it was blown out of its course by the storm," suggested jerry. "i'm sure we must have been." "very likely," admitted mr. de vere. "still that is a very powerful boat, and the captain must have some reason to be keeping after us the way he is doing." "do you think they are following us?" asked ned. "it certainly looks so. we're headed straight out to sea now," he added, after a glance at the compass. "if the tug was out of it's course it would be turned about and going the other way. instead it is coming right after us." this was very evident, for, as the ripper was laboring through the waves, the other vessel kept in her wake, and seemed to be overhauling the motor boat. "well, it's a free country; i suppose they have a right to be here," spoke jerry. "yes," said mr. de vere, watching the tug through the glasses, "but i don't like their actions." "why not? do you think--" began jerry. "i don't like to say what i think," was the answer. "we will have to wait and see what develops. but i propose that we have some breakfast, or, at least, some hot coffee, if bob can manage to stand in the galley. it has been a hard night for us." bob soon demonstrated that he could get up a breakfast under rather adverse circumstances, and the derelict hunters were soon drinking hot coffee, though they had to hold the partly-filled cups in one hand, and maintain their balance by clinging with the other to some part of the cabin. the day was clear, and, save for the high waves, there were no evidences of the storm. the big sea, however, was not likely to subside soon, and the ripper had to stagger along as best she could, which task she performed to the great satisfaction of the voyagers. maurice de vere seemed much worried by the appearance of the tug, which hung on the wake of the ripper, maintaining a speed that kept it about a mile to the rear. the owner of the rockhaven kept the glasses almost continually on the steam vessel, and the anxious look did not leave his face. "can you slow down the engine a bit?" he asked of jerry, who had relieved ned at the motor. "yes, if you want me to, why?" "i'd like that other boat to come closer to us. i want to see if i can make out who is aboard. if we slacken our speed they may approach before they see the trick, and i can form some opinion of what this strange chase means." "what do you think it means?" asked ned. "i'm afraid it indicates that blowitz is after us," replied mr. de vere. "i think he has heard of our voyage after the brig and has hired this tug to try and beat me. but slow down, and let us see what happens. the waves are not so high now, and you can do it with safety." accordingly jerry reduced the speed of the motor. the ripper at once began to lose headway, and mr. de vere, watching the oncoming tug through the binoculars, announced: "she'll be closer in a little while, and i can make out the man on deck, who seems to be directing operations." the boys anxiously waited. their employer kept the glasses to his eyes, though it was tiresome work, holding them with one hand. suddenly he exclaimed: "i can see him quite plainly, now!" "who is it?" asked jerry quickly. "carson blowitz! he, too, is after the derelict! he is going to try and cheat me again!" nearer and nearer approached the steam tug, for the pilot had, evidently, not taken into consideration the fact that the ripper was going ahead at reduced speed. soon it was close enough for the boys, without the aid of the glasses, to make out the figure of blowitz. "i must go outside," announced mr. de vere. "give me a hand, jerry, so i won't stumble and hurt my broken arm." "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to ask blowitz what he means by following me; and whether he is trying to find the derelict that belongs to me." jerry assisted mr. de vere out on the small deck in front of the cabin. by this time the monarch was within hailing distance, those in charge of her evidently having decided to give up trying to remain in the rear. "ripper ahoy!" called carson blowitz, waving his hand at the little group on deck. "what do you want, you scoundrel?" asked mr. de vere angrily. "what do you mean by following me?" "rather strong language, my dear partner," was the taunting answer from blowitz. "besides i don't know that i am following you. the ocean is big enough for two boats, i guess." "do you deny that you are following me, and seeking to find the derelict rockhaven?" demanded mr. de vere. "i deny nothing-- i admit nothing, my dear partner." "i am no longer in partnership with you, since you tried to cheat me," was the answer. "i consider our relations at an end." "very well. but i am sorry to see that you are hurt. i hope it is nothing serious." "no thanks to you that i was not killed! you meant to end my life when you pushed me over the cliff, and, as soon as this business is settled i intend to see that you are punished for your crimes. you have gone too far, carson blowitz." "not as far as i intend to go!" suddenly exclaimed the other, with a change in his manner. the two boats were now side by side, not twenty feet away. "you have guessed it," he went on. "i am after the derelict brig, and i intend to get her. i am going to finish you before i am through. that ship is mine, and all the cargo on her. if you attempt to touch it i shall have to take stringent measures to prevent you. i warn you not to interfere with my property!" "your property!" cried maurice de vere. "that brig and all on it is mine, by every legal claim, and i shall maintain my rights to the uttermost." "very well then, it is to be a fight!" answered blowitz. "we are to be rival seekers after the derelict. possession is nine points of the law, and i intend to take possession." "first you'll have to find it." "never fear. i am on the track. good-bye, my recent partner. sorry i can't keep you company." blowitz waved his hand, as though in friendly farewell, but mr. de vere turned aside, refusing to notice him, for the scoundrel had greatly wronged him, and was now adding insult to injury. there was a ringing of bells on the tug, and the powerful vessel forged ahead, leaving the ripper astern. "shall we speed up?" asked jerry. "we can easily beat them, for ours is the faster boat." "no, let him go," replied mr. de vere. "he has no more idea, than have i, where to look for the derelict. he is taking the same chances we are, but i'll not follow him. as he says, we are rivals now. i hope i win, for my whole fortune depends on it." "we'll do our best to help you," said bob. "that's what we will," added jerry, and ned nodded an assent. "bear off to the left," suggested mr. de vere, as a cloud of black smoke from the funnel of the tug showed that the engineer was crowding on steam. "we'll part company from them." speeding up the engine jerry steered the ripper out of the course of the monarch. the hunt of the rivals to locate the derelict brig was now on. chapter xxvii the derelict "they don't seem to be following us now," observed ned, after they had watched the tug continuing on her course. "no, it looks as if they were taking another tack," said maurice de vere. "i wonder if he can have private information as to the location of the brig? if he has he may get ahead of me and discover her first." "i don't believe he has," was jerry's opinion. "i think he is on a blind search, just as we are." "i hope so. it means a great deal to me to find that derelict." "what had we better do?" asked bob. "can't we get ahead of him in some way?" "i know of no other way than to cruise about until we find the brig," replied mr. de vere. "it is only a chance, but luck may favor us first. that is all we can hope for." all that day they cruised fruitlessly about, and the next day was equally barren of result. "i'm afraid you'll think we're not very good derelict hunters," remarked jerry on the morning of the third day after the storm, when they took an observation, and saw nothing but a vast extent of water. the weather was calm, the sun shone brightly and the ripper was making good time. "no," was the answer. "it isn't your fault. this was in the nature of an experiment, and i do not expect immediate results. i figured on being three weeks on this search, and we have only spent about a third of that time. we are yet on the safe side, although i admit it is rather disappointing." after breakfast they resumed their observations. it was nearly eight bells when ned, who had been stationed in the bow with the powerful glasses, cried out: "i see something." "where?" asked mr. de vere eagerly. "off the left." mr. de vere took the glasses and peered long and anxiously through them at a small speck which ned pointed out as it rose and fell on the crest of the billows. "is it the derelict?" asked jerry, appearing in the companionway. "i don't know," answered ned. "it looks like some sort of a ship, but i'm afraid to be positive, because we've had so many false alarms." "it's some sort of a ship," remarked mr. de vere suddenly as he passed the glasses to jerry. "i make it out to be a brig, and, from the way it is jibing about, it seems to be under no control. see what you think." jerry took a careful look. "it's a brig, sure enough," he declared, "and i can't see any sign of life on her." "put us over that way," requested mr. de vere, of ned, who was steering and running the engine. "when we get a little nearer i may be able to make out the name." there were anxious hearts beating in the breasts of those aboard the ripper. could it be possible that the ship they saw was the derelict for which they had been searching? they all hoped so. ned speeded the motor up to the highest notch and the boat fairly flew through the calm sea. near and nearer it came to the ship, which could now plainly be made out. there was not a sail set, and this was peculiar in itself. the brig idly rose and fell on the long, heaving swells. "it's my ship!" suddenly cried mr. de vere, after a lengthy observation through the binoculars. "i can make out her name. it's the rockhaven! hurrah, boys! we have found her at last!" "and blowitz and his tug are nowhere in sight!" cried ned. "we have beaten him!" "indeed we have," went on mr. de vere. "now, ned, see how soon you can put us alongside." "it will not take long," declared the young engineer. "it's only a few miles." the ripper proved worthy of her name, for she fairly "ripped" through the waves, and, in a short time, was so close to the derelict that they had to slow up. "put us up under the port quarter," advised mr. de vere. "luckily there is not much of a swell on, and we can easily get aboard as she sets low in the water. she must be leaking." with skillful hand ned brought the motor boat alongside. the anchor chains were hanging low from the hawse holes and as they approached jerry prepared to catch hold and swing himself up. he had reached out his hand, and was just going to grasp the links, when, from the deck of the deserted brig there came savage growls and barks. jerry jumped back in alarm and ned, who had jammed a boat hook in the side of the brig, to hold the ripper steady, looked up. "it's dogs!" he cried. "two of 'em!" as he spoke two savage looking creatures thrust their heads up over the low rail. they were large dogs, of the wolf-hound variety; great shaggy creatures, and they growled in a menacing manner. "they must have left the dogs aboard when they so strangely deserted the ship," said mr. de vere. "i suppose they're glad to see us. they must be lonesome. try again, jerry. i would, if i had the use of my two arms." once more jerry prepared to ascend by means of the chains, but the dogs almost leaped over the rail at him, showing their teeth, while the hair on as much of their backs as could be seen stood up in ridges. foam dripped from their jaws. "look out!" cried bob. "those dogs are mad! be careful!" savage growls and barks from the angry beasts emphasized his words. there was no doubt of it. the dogs were mad from fear and hunger. they disputed the advance of the voyagers, and would not let them aboard. "try on the other side," suggested mr. de vere. the boat was worked around to the other side of the bow, but the dogs followed, and stood on guard there. "maybe we can get up at the stern," said jerry. "perhaps the dogs can't make their way aft." but it was the same there. the maddened animals were ready to fly at the throats of any one who should attempt to board the derelict. "what's to be done?" asked ned. "we didn't count on this. those are fierce dogs." "indeed they are," replied mr. de vere. "it would not be safe to risk getting too close to them." "but what can we do?" asked jerry. "if we wait here too long, blowitz may appear." "we've got to do something," said the boy's employer. "the only thing i can see to do is to shoot the dogs. i'll get my rifle," and he went into the cabin, where he had left his weapon, one of several he had brought aboard. chapter xxviii a mysterious influence "one of you boys will have to do the shooting," said maurice de vere, as he came out on the small forward deck with his rifle. "i'm a pretty good marksman, but i can't do anything when i have this broken arm." "let jerry try," suggested ned. "he's the best shot of us three." "oh, i don't know," spoke jerry modestly, but mr. de vere handed him the rifle. "we have no time to lose," he said. "blowitz may be here at any hour, and, as he said, possession is nine points of the law. i want to get aboard." jerry looked to the loading of the weapon, and then, at his suggestion the motor boat was backed off some yards. "i want to see to get a good shot, and put the poor things out of their misery as soon as possible," he said. the dogs acted more wild than ever as they saw the motor boat moving about. they almost leaped overboard, as they raced about the derelict and finally, they both jumped on the quarter deck, where they stood in bold relief. "now's your chance, jerry!" cried ned. jerry took quick aim, steadying himself as best he could against the motion of the boat. the rifle cracked, and, at the same instant one of the dogs gave a howl, a convulsive leap, and, a second later was floundering in the water. "there's one of the poor brutes gone," remarked mr. de vere. "now, once more, jerry. i hate to kill the dogs, for they are valuable animals, but it is a question of their lives or ours, and it would not be safe to let them live." the remaining dog, startled by the rifle shot, and the disappearance of its companion stood in mute surprise on the quarter deck. he offered a good shot, and jerry fired. the dog howled, and began whirling about in a circle, snapping its jaws. "you've only wounded him!" exclaimed bob. before any one else could speak jerry had fired the repeater again. this time the bullet went true, and the dog fell to the deck, gave a few convulsive struggles, and was still. "that settles him," remarked mr. de vere. "now, boys, we'll go aboard, and i'll get what belongs to me. then we'll see if we can tow the ship in." the ripper was once more put alongside the brig, cork buffers were adjusted to prevent damage being done, and, in a few minutes jerry had scrambled up on deck. "that's a fierce brute," he remarked to bob who followed him, as they stood looking at the dead dog. "i'm glad i didn't have to tackle him at close quarters." "let's heave him overboard," suggested bob, and they did so, though it took all their strength to drag the body to the rail. "i guess you'll have to lower the accommodation ladder for me, boys," said mr. de vere. "i don't believe i can scramble up by way of the chains, as you did." "wait until i get up there and i'll give you a hand," called ned, who had been left in the motor boat. "no, you had better stay here and help fasten the ladder when bob and jerry lower it," answered mr. de vere. "i'll need your aid." after some little difficulty, for part of the tackle had fouled, bob and jerry succeeded in lowering over the ship's side an accommodation ladder, somewhat like a short flight of steps. it hung above the ripper's deck, and when some ropes had been strung for hand rails, mr. de vere was able to ascend, holding on by one hand, and was soon on the deck of the brig. "at last!" he exclaimed. "here we are! i was afraid we'd never find her, and, if we did, that blowitz would be ahead of me. but, thanks to you, boys, i have beaten him. now i must see if my papers are safe." "where will you look for them?" asked jerry. "they must be somewhere in the captain's cabin. that is where the gold will likely be. i suppose we'll have to hunt for it." "shall we help you?" "yes, if you will. let's go below. is the motor boat securely made fast?" "i'll guarantee she'll not drift away," declared ned, as he and his companions followed mr. de vere to the main cabin. on every side were evidences of a hurried abandonment of the brig. some of the sailors had gone off without taking all their clothing, for garments were scattered here and there. things were in confusion below decks, and the captain's cabin showed signs of having been ransacked. "there is something queer about this," said mr. de vere as he surveyed the scene. "the ship is not sinking, and i don't believe it has leaked a drop, though at first i thought so. there was no collision, for there is no sign of damage. yet there is every indication that captain and crew deserted the brig in a hurry. now what made them do that? why did not blowitz give me some reason for that? what caused the abandonment of the brig?" "perhaps the sailors got superstitious, i've often read that they do," suggested jerry. "i hardly think so." "maybe they were afraid of the mad dogs," said bob. "i don't believe the dogs went mad until after the sailors left," was mr. de vere's answer. "no, there is some strange secret connected with the brig, and i'd like to solve it. but i must first find my papers and the gold." "suppose the captain took them with him?" remarked ned. "he did not know about them. that is he did not know of what the valuables consisted. the gold and papers were put in a safe, and only blowitz and myself had the combination. the safe was placed in the captain's cabin, and he was instructed to deliver it, unopened, to a certain man. when they deserted the ship in such a hurry i do not believe they took the safe with them. it must be somewhere on board. we'll search for it." the cabin was rather large, and contained a number of lockers and other places that might serve as a hiding place for the safe. the boys and mr. de vere made a careful hunt. while they were in the midst of it a sudden noise startled them. "what was that?" asked bob. "the cabin door slid shut," answered jerry, who had seen what happened. "i'll open it." "here's the safe!" suddenly called mr. de vere, as he opened a small locker, in an out-of-the-way corner. "help me get it out, boys, and we'll open it." the closed door was forgotten, and the three lads, at their employer's suggestion, fastened a rope about the safe and pulled it out. it rolled on small wheels. "sorry i can't help you much," spoke mr. de vere, "but this arm of mine prevents me." "oh, we can manage it all right," declared jerry, and after a while, they succeeded in wheeling the safe out into the middle of the cabin. "there is some other stuff in the locker," announced bob, as he peered within. "it looks like those small boxes mr. blowitz shipped from cresville." "that's what they are," added jerry, taking a look. "now we have a chance to see what is in them." "wait until we get the safe open," advised mr. de vere. "then we'll see if we can't get at the secret of the ship." he sat down in front of the strong steel box, and began to turn the combination. it was quite complicated, and took some time. "um-m-m-m-m!" exclaimed bob, with a lazy stretch. "i'm beginning to feel sleepy. guess i'll lie down on this couch and rest." he did so, and, somewhat to his companions' surprise, was soon apparently asleep. "he must be pretty well played out," remarked ned. "funny, but i feel a little drowsy myself. we haven't been getting any too much sleep, of late, i suppose." mr. de vere was working away at the combination of the safe. something seemed to have gone wrong with it, and he twirled the knobs and dials, first this way and that. "what a curious ringing sound they make," jerry was thinking, as he sat in a chair and looked on. "it's just like bells away off somewhere. i wonder if it's my ears? i feel as if i had taken quinine for a cold. there seems to be some sort of a haze in the cabin. i wonder--" but jerry never knew what he wondered, for the same mysterious influence that had overpowered bob had made jerry succumb. his head fell forward on his breast, and he was unconscious. ned began to imagine he was in a boiler factory, of which mr. de vere was the foreman. the latter seemed to be hammering on a big steel safe, and soon, in ned's ears there echoed the noise of the blows. then the boy's eyes closed, and he joined bob and jerry in falling under the mysterious spell. seated on the floor in front of the safe mr. de vere wondered what made his fingers move so slowly. with his one good hand he could scarcely turn the dials of the combination. his head, too, felt very heavy, and once there was such a mist before his eyes that he could not see the figures on the shining disk of the safe. "this is queer," he murmured. "it is very close in this cabin. i wish the boys had opened the door. i wish-- i--" mr. de vere fell over backward, unconscious, while, around the silent forms in the cabin wreathed a thin bluish vapor that came from the locker where the safe had been, and where there were some small boxes-- the same mysterious boxes that blowitz had shipped from cresville. in the tightly-closed cabin the derelict hunters were now at the mercy of the mysterious influence-- an influence they could not see or guard against, and from which they were in deadly peril. chapter xxix a command to lay to strange things happen on the ocean. sometimes slight occurrences lead to great results. when the sailors deserted the brig rockhaven, provisioning their boats in a hurry, one water cask was left behind. the mate had intended stowing it away in the captain's gig, but found there was no room for it, so he allowed it to remain on deck, where he set it. in due time, by the motion of the abandoned brig in the storm, the water cask was overturned and rolled about at every heave of the waves, first to port, and then to starboard, now aft, and again forward. as luck would have it, not long after those in the cabin fell under the deadly influence of some queer, stupefying fumes, the water cask was rolling about close to the trunk roof of the cabin, a roof that had side windows in it. with one lurch of the ship the water cask nearly crashed against these windows, but, by the narrowest margin missed. then the cask rolled toward the scuppers. those in the cabin were more than ever under the influence of the fumes. they were breathing heavily, the veins in their necks began to swell, their hearts were laboring hard to overcome the stupefying influence of the fumes. but it was almost too late. suddenly a long roller lifted the brig well up into the air. then it slid down the watery incline. the cask started to roll toward the cabin windows. straight for them it came, turning over and over. with a resounding blow the cask shattered the frame, and sent the glass in a shower into the cabin below. through the opening thus providentially made, the fresh air rushed. the deadly fumes began to escape. once more the cask rolled against the window, breaking another glass, and more fresh air came in. jerry stirred uneasily. it seemed as if some one had a hammer, hitting him on the head. that was the blood beginning to circulate again. his veins throbbed with life. slowly he opened his eyes. he became aware of a sweet, sickish smell, that mingled with the sharp tang of the salt air. by a great effort he roused himself. he could not, for a moment, think where he was, but he had a dim feeling as if some one had tried to chloroform him. then, with a sudden shock his senses came back to him. he became aware of the need of fresh air, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, he opened the cabin door. the inrush of a fresh atmosphere completed the work the water cask had begun. the poisonous fumes were dispersed, and, with their disappearance, the others regained their senses. mr. de vere was the next to arouse. "what-- what happened?" he asked. "i don't know," replied jerry, "unless blowitz came aboard and chloroformed us." "he couldn't do that-- yet-- the safe is not tampered with-- but this drowsy feeling--" mr. de vere stopped suddenly. his eyes were fixed on the closet or locker, whence the safe had been wheeled, and where the little boxes were. from the locker a thin, bluish smoke arose. "quick!" he cried. "i understand it all now! we must get them overboard or we'll all be killed!" ned and bob had been aroused by this time, and were sitting staring stupidly around them. they did not realize what had happened. "i'll throw 'em overboard," volunteered jerry. "don't go near them," cautioned mr. de vere. "if you breathe too deeply of those fumes, you'll be killed. get a boat hook, poke them out of the locker, spear them with the sharp point, and thrust them up through the broken cabin window." jerry hurried to the ripper, which safely rode alongside the brig. he got a sharp boat hook, and, with the aid of bob and ned, the boxes, with their deadly contents were soon out on deck, whence they were knocked into the sea. then a hunt was made in other parts of the brig and more boxes were found and cast into the ocean. "what was in them?" asked ned, when the task was finished. "was that what made us fall asleep?" "it was," replied mr. de vere. "what was in them i do not know exactly, but it was some chemical that blowitz put there to accomplish his purpose. i see through his scheme now. after the brig was loaded he sent these boxes aboard. they were distributed in different parts of the ship, some in the quarters of the crew, some where the mates slept, and others in the captain's cabin. they were properly adjusted to give off a vapor at a certain time and he counted either on the fumes killing the men, or making them unconscious so they would die of heart failure. then, very likely, he intended to make a search for the brig which would have no captain or crew, and claim the vessel. but his scheme did not work as he intended. the crew and captain were probably frightened by feeling some mysterious sleepy influence at work, and they hastily deserted the ship. probably the commander did not like to acknowledge the real reason for his seemingly un-called-for act, and he did not tell blowitz the cause for the abandonment. the stuff in the boxes remained on board, ready to render unconscious any persons who came within reach of the fumes. maybe it made the dogs mad. "the accidental closing of the cabin door deprived us of air. the fumes filled the cabin, and rendered us all unconscious. i do not yet understand how we were revived." "it must have been the water cask," declared jerry, who had seen it on deck, and his theory, which was the correct one, was accepted. "now i will finish working the combination, and open the safe," said mr. de vere, when they had breathed in deep of the fresh air, and felt the last influences of the fumes vanish. "we must have been unconscious an hour or more." it did not take him long after this to open the strong box. from an inner compartment he drew forth a bundle of papers, and a small box, that seemed quite heavy. this he opened. "the gold is safe, at any rate," he announced. "now to look at the papers." a hasty examination of these showed that they were all there. "this is good news for me, boys," announced mr. de vere. "my fortune is safe now, and that scoundrel blowitz can not ruin me as he tried to do!" "hark! what was that?" asked jerry suddenly. from somewhere out on the pacific there sounded a whistle, long drawn out. "it's a steamer!" cried ned. "it has probably sighted the derelict!" "a steamer," murmured mr. de vere. "if it is not--" he did not finish, but the boys knew what he meant. mr. de vere hastily thrust the papers into an inner pocket of his coat. "distribute the gold among you," he told the boys. "when we get it aboard the ripper we can hide it. there is no telling what might happen. if that steamer--" "it's the tug monarch!" cried jerry, who had hurried up on deck. "it's coming this way full speed!" "then we must leave at once!" decided mr. de vere. "i think our boat can beat theirs. i did hope to be able to tow the brig into harbor, and save the cargo, but that is out of the question now. i do not want a fight with blowitz. come, boys, we must escape!" the boys hurriedly divided the gold among them. it made their pockets bulge out, and was quite heavy. mr. de vere had his papers safe. as the derelict hunters all came out on deck they could see the monarch was much nearer. in bold relief stood a figure in the bow. "it's blowitz!" exclaimed mr. de vere, "and he's shaking his fist at me. he's angry because i have beaten him at his own game. but come on, i don't want a clash with him. i am in no shape for another fight. we'll have to retreat." it was the work of but a few seconds to get into the motor boat. the lines were cast off, and, with one turn of the wheel ned started the engine, and ran her up to full speed after a few revolutions. "now let them have the brig," said mr. de vere. "i've gotten the best out of her." but blowitz and his men seemed to have lost interest in the derelict. instead of continuing on their course toward it they were now coming full speed after the ripper, the tug being steered to cross her bows. probably blowitz took it for granted that de vere had the papers and gold. "they're after us!" cried jerry. "yes, but they've got to catch us!" declared bob. an instant later a puff of white smoke spurted out from the side of the monarch, something black jumped from wave-crest to wave-crest. then came a dull boom. "what's that?" asked bob, in alarm. "a shot across our bows. a command to lay to," said mr. de vere. chapter xxx the end of blowitz-- conclusion "are you going to stop?" asked ned, of maurice de vere. "not unless you boys are afraid. i don't believe they can hit us. that's only a small saluting cannon they have, and it's hard to shoot straight when there's as much sea on as there is now. do you want to stop and surrender?" "not much!" cried the three motor boys in a breath. "then may it be a stern chase and a long chase!" exclaimed mr. de vere. "crowd her all you can, ned, and we'll beat him." ned needed no urging to make the powerful motor do its best. the machinery was throbbing and humming, and the ripper was cutting through the water "with a bone in her teeth," as the sailors say. "swing her around so as to get the tug in back of us," advised jerry. "we'll be in less danger then." ned shifted the wheel, but, as he was doing so there was another shot from the monarch, and, this time, the ball from the cannon came uncomfortably close. "their aim is improving," remarked mr. de vere, as he coolly looked at the pursuing tug through the glasses, "but we are leaving them behind." the chase had now become a "stern" one, that is the monarch was directly astern of the ripper, and the varying progresses made by the boats could not be discerned so well as before. still it seemed that the motor boat was maintaining her lead. it now settled down to a pursuit, for, stern on as she was, the ripper offered so small a mark for the tug, that it was almost useless to fire the cannon. there were anxious hearts aboard the motor boat, as they watched the tug pursuing them. they knew there would be a fight if blowitz and mr. de vere met, and, in the latter's crippled condition, it was not hard to imagine how it would result. "how's she running, ned?" asked jerry, as he looked at the engine. "never better. she's singing like a bird. this is a dandy boat." "i think we'll beat him," declared mr. de vere. for an hour or more the chase continued, the monarch seeming to gain slowly. mr. de vere looked anxious, and kept his eyes fixed to the binoculars, through which he viewed the pursuing vessel. at length, however, a more cheerful look came into his face. "something has happened!" he exclaimed. "happened? how?" asked jerry. "why aboard the tug. blowitz went off the deck in a hurry, and the steersman has left the pilot house. maybe something is wrong with the machinery." that something of this nature had happened was evident a few minutes later, for the monarch had to slow up, and the ripper was soon so far in advance that to catch up with her was out of the question. "i guess the chase is over," announced mr. de vere. "i think they've had an accident. still blowitz will not give up. i must expect a legal battle over this matter when i get ashore. he will try to ruin me, and claim these papers and the gold. but i will beat him." the ripper, urged on by her powerful motor, soon lost sight of the tug, which, from the last observation mr. de vere took, seemed to have turned about, to go back to the brig. two days later, having made quick time, and on a straight course, the voyagers sighted the harbor of san felicity a few miles away. "now for home!" cried ned. "and the bungalow 'the next day,' ponto and a good square meal!" added bob. "and the girls," came from jerry. "i guess they'll be glad to see us." "if blowitz doesn't turn up to make trouble for me," put in mr. de vere, rather dubiously. the ripper docked that afternoon, and, mr. de vere, promising to call on the boys and pay them their prize money as soon as he had seen his lawyer, and deposited the gold and papers in a safe place, bade them good-bye at the wharf, and hurried off. he was fearful lest he should be intercepted by some agent of blowitz, though there was no sign that the tug had arrived. the three boys were warmly welcomed by the girls and mr. seabury, when they got to the bungalow. "i congratulate you," said the elderly gentleman. "you deserve great credit for what you did." "well, we had good luck," admitted jerry. "but where is the professor?" "out searching for horned toads and web-footed lizards," said nellie. "he has enlisted the services of ponto, and they are continually on the hunt. i hope he gets what he wants." "he generally does," said bob. "if he doesn't he finds something else nearly as good." some days later mr. de vere called at the bungalow. he had finished up his business affairs, and brought the boys the prize money, as their reward for the parts they had played in the finding of the derelict. "but this is too much," protested jerry, when mr. de vere had given him and his comrades nearly half as much again as was originally promised. "not a bit of it," was the reply. "i can well afford it. those papers were more valuable than you supposed, and i find i will be able to collect insurance on the cargo of the abandoned brig. i have heard from the captain of it, and he tells me, just as i supposed, that he and the crew left her because of the peculiar fumes, so that my theory was right, after all. they tried to take the dogs, which belonged to the first mate, but could not." "did you hear anything more of blowitz?" asked ned. "yes," replied mr. de vere, rather solemnly. "blowitz was killed shortly after the tug gave up the chase." "how?" "the boiler blew up when the tug was trying to tow the derelict in, and he and several of the crew were burned to death. the survivors floated on the wreckage until they were picked up. so i have nothing more to fear from blowitz. but i called to know if you boys, and the young ladies, mr. seabury and professor snodgrass, would not be my guests at a little dinner i am to give at the hotel. i want to show you that i appreciate what you did for me." "i think you have already done so," said jerry. "perhaps i have, but i would like you to come to my dinner. will you?" the boys promised. so did the girls and mr. seabury, whose health was much improved by the california climate. the professor, with a far away look in his eyes, said he would be there if he could. "what's to prevent you?" asked bob. "well, i haven't found that horned toad yet, and i'm still searching." the dinner came off three nights later. it was a grand affair, served in the best of style of which the san felicity hotel chef was capable. the girls and the boys were there, dressed in their best, and ponto was taken along as a sort of chaperon, which gave him great delight. he did not once fall asleep. "but where is professor snodgrass?" asked mr. de vere, when it was nearly time to sit down. "isn't he coming?" "he promised to be here," announced mr. seabury. "probably he is on his way now." at that moment a commotion was heard outside the private dining-room which mr. de vere had engaged. a voice was saying: "i tell you i will go in! i'm invited! my clothes? what about my clothes? all mud? of course they're all mud. i couldn't help it!" then the door flew open and a curious sight was presented. there stood the professor, his coat split up the back, his trousers torn, and his hat smashed. splashes of mud were all over him. "what is the matter?" cried mr. seabury, in alarm. "nothing," replied the professor calmly. "i have caught two horned toads, that's all. i saw them as i was on the way here, and i had to go into a mud puddle to get them. i fell down, but i got the toads," and he held up a small cage, in which were the ugly creatures. "ugh!" exclaimed nellie. "good for you, professor!" cried jerry. "you got the toads and we got our prize money!" "yes, but i would rather have these toads than all your prize money," replied the professor. "they are beauties," he added, fondly. the dinner was a joyous affair, and it is a question who was the happiest, the professor, over the capture of the horned toads, the boys over the successful outcome of their cruise on the pacific, or mr. de vere, who had recovered his fortune. at any rate they all had a good time. "well," remarked bob, when the supper was over, and they were on their way back to the bungalow, "i suppose we'll soon have to think of getting back east, and beginning school. they must have the pipes and boiler fixed by now." "don't think of it," begged ned. "it's too awful. i'd like to go on another long cruise in the ripper." "well, i don't know that we can do that," said jerry, "but i certainly hope we have more adventures soon." how his wish was gratified will be told in another volume of this series, to be entitled, "the motor boys in the clouds; or, a trip for fame and fortune." in that book we shall meet many of our old friends again, and learn something more of a venture in which the motor boys were already interested. "boys, this has been an interesting trip for me," said professor snodgrass. "i have the two horned toads, seven web-footed lizards, and over fifty other valuable specimens to take back with me. i would not have missed this trip for a great deal." "so say we all of us!" cried jerry. "let us go out for another trip in the motor boat to-morrow," said ned. "i mean a short trip." "take us along!" pleaded the girls in concert. "sure thing!" answered the boys. and they went out-- and had a glorious time-- and here we shall have to say farewell. the end _________________________________________________________________ sophie may's little folks' books. _any volume sold separately_. +dotty dimple series+.--six volumes, illustrated. per volume, cents. dotty dimple at her grandmother's. dotty dimple at home. dotty dimple out west. dotty dimple at play. dotty dimple at school. dotty dimple's flyaway. +flaxie frizzle stories+.--six volumes. illustrated. per volume, cents. flaxie frizzle. little pitchers. flaxie's kittyleen. doctor papa. the twin cousins. flaxie growing up. +little prudy stories+.--six volumes. handsomely illustrated. per volume, cents. little prudy. little prudy's sister susy. little prudy's captain horace. little prudy's story book. little prudy's cousin grace. little prudy's dotty dimple. +little prudy's flyaway series+.--six volumes. illustrated. per volume, cents. little folks astray. little grandmother. prudy keeping house. little grandfather. aunt madge's story. miss thistledown. * * * * * +lee and shepard, publishers+, boston. [illustration: title page] _dotty dimple stories_. dotty dimple out west. by sophie may, author of "little prudy stories." +illustrated+. boston lee and shepard publishers milk street entered according to act of congress, in the year , by lee and shepard, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. to _dotty dimple's little friends_, gussie tappan and sarah longsley. contents. chapter page i. starting, ii. the captain's son, iii. a baby in a blue cloak, iv. "pigeon pie postponed," v. the major's joke, vi. new faces, vii. waking up out west, viii. going nutting, ix. in the woods, x. surprises, xi. sniggling for eels, xii. "a post-office letter," dotty dimple out west. chapter i. starting. one beautiful morning in october the sun came up rejoicing. dotty dimple watched it from the window with feelings of peculiar pleasure. "i should think that old sun would wear out and grow rough round the edges. why not? last week it was ever so dull; now it is bright. i shouldn't wonder if the angels up there have to scour it once in a while." you perceive that dotty's ideas of astronomy were anything but correct. she supposed the solar orb was composed of a very peculiar kind of gold, which could be rubbed as easily as norah's tin pans, though so intensely hot that one's fingers would, most likely, be scorched in the operation. on this particular morning she felt an unusual interest in the state of the weather. it had been decided that she should go west with her father, and this was the day set for departure. "i am happy up to my throat:" so she said to prudy. and now all this happiness was to be buttoned up in a cunning little casaque, with new gaiters at the feet, and a hat and rosette at the top. forty pounds or so of perfect delight going down to the depot in a carriage. "don't you wish you could go, zip parlin? i'd like to hear you bark in the cars; and i'd like to hear _you_ talk, prudy, too!" as dotty spoke, the faintest possible shadow flickered across her radiant face; but it was only for a moment. she could not have quite everything she wanted, because she could not have prudy; but then they were to take a basket of cold boiled eggs, sandwiches, and pies; and over these viands, with a napkin between, were two picture-books and a small spy-glass. there was a trunk with a sunshade in it, and some pretty dresses; among them the favorite white delaine, no longer stained with marmalade. there were presents in the trunk for grace, horace, and katie, which were to take them by surprise. and more and better than all, miss dotty had in her own pocket a little porte-monnaie, containing fifty cents in scrip, with full permission to spend it all on the way. she also had a letter from susy to be read at boston, and one from prudy to be read at albany. yes, there was everything to be thankful for, and nothing to regret. she was quite well by this time. the rich, warm color had come back to her cheeks. she did not need the journey for the sake of her health; her papa was to take her because he chose to give her the same pleasure he had once given prudy. it was susy's private opinion that it was rightfully her turn this time, instead of dotty's; but she was quite patient, and willing to wait. it was a long journey for such a little child; and mrs. parlin almost regretted that the promise had been made; but the young traveller would only be gone three or four weeks, and in her aunt's family was not likely to be homesick. it was a very slow morning to dotty. "seems to me," said she, vibrating between the parlor and the kitchen like a discontented little pendulum,--"seems to me it was a great deal later than this yesterday!" she had eaten as many mouthfuls of breakfast as she possibly could in her excited condition, had kissed everybody good by twice over, and now thought it was time to be starting. just as her patience was wearing to a thread the hack arrived, looking as black and glossy as if some one had been all this time polishing it for the occasion. dotty disdained the help of the driver, and stepped into the carriage as eagerly as jack climbed the bean-stalk. she flirted her clean dress against the wheel, but did not observe it. she was as happy as jack when he reached the giant's house; happier too, for she had mounted to a castle in the air; and everybody knows a castle in the air is gayer than all the gold houses that ever grew on the top of a stalk. to the eye of the world she seemed to be sitting on a drab cushion, behind a gray horse; but no, she was really several thousand feet in the air, floating on a cloud. her father smiled as he stepped leisurely into the hack; and he could not forbear kissing the little face which sparkled with such anticipation. "it is a real satisfaction," thought he, "to be able to make a child so happy." the group at the door looked after them wistfully. "be a good child," said mrs. parlin, waving her handkerchief, "and do just as papa tells you, my dear." "remember the three hugs to gracie, and six to flyaway," cried prudy; "and don't let anybody see my letter." dotty threw kisses with such vigor that, if they had been anything else but air, somebody would have been hit. the hack ride did not last long. it was like the preface to a story-book; and dotty did not think much about it after she had come to the story,--that is to say, to the cars. her father found a pleasant seat on the shady side, hung the basket in a rack, opened a window; and very soon the iron horse, which fed on fire, rushed, snorting and shrieking, away from the depot. dotty felt as if she had a pair of wings on her shoulders, or a pair of seven-league boots on her feet; at any rate, she was whirling through space without any will of her own. the trees nodded in a kindly way, and the grass in the fields seemed to say, as it waved, "good by, dotty, dear! good by! you'll have a splendid time out west! out west! out west!" it was not at all like going to willowbrook. it seemed as if these boston cars had a motion peculiar to themselves. it was a very small event just to take an afternoon's ride to grandpa parlin's; but when it came to whizzing out to indiana, why, that was another affair! it wasn't every little girl who could be trusted so far without her mother. "if i was _some_ children," thought dotty, "i shouldn't know how to part my hair in the middle. then my papa wouldn't dare to take me; for _he_ can't part my hair any mor'n a cat!" dotty smiled loftily as she looked at her father reading a newspaper. he was only a man; and though intelligent enough to manage the trunks, and proceed in a straight line to indiana, still he was incapable of understanding when a young lady's hat was put on straight, and had once made the rosette come behind! in view of these short-comings of her parent and her own adroitness at the toilet, dotty came to the conclusion that she was not, strictly speaking, under any one's charge, but was taking care of herself. "i wonder," thought she, "how many people there are in this car that know i'm going out west!" she sat up very primly, and looked around. the faces were nearly all new to her. "that woman in the next seat, how homely her little girl is, with freckles all over her face! perhaps her mother wishes she was as white as i am. why, who is that pretty little girl close to my father?" dotty was looking straight forward, and had accidentally caught a peep at her own face in the mirror. "why, it's me! how nice i look!" smiling and nodding at the pleasant picture. "sit up like a lady, dotty, and you'll look very polite, and very _style_ too." florence eastman said so much about "style" that miss dimple had adopted the word, though she was never know to use it correctly. i am sorry to say there was a deal of foolish vanity in the child's heart. thoughtless people had so often spoken to her of her beauty, that she was inclined to dwell upon the theme secretly, and to admire her bright eyes in the glass. "yes, i do look very _style_," she decided, after another self-satisfied nod. "now i'd just like to know who that boy is, older'n i am, not half so pretty. i don't believe but somebody's been sitting down on his hat. what has he got in his lap? is it a kitten? white as snow. i wish it wasn't so far off. he's giving it something to eat. how its ears shake! papa, papa, what's that boy got in his lap?" "what boy?" "the one next to that big man. see his ears shake! he's putting something in his mouth." "in whose mouth?" mr. parlin looked across the aisle. "that 'big man' is my old friend captain lally," said he quite pleased; and in a moment he was shaking hands with him. presently the captain and his son adolphus changed places with the woman and the freckled girl, and made themselves neighbors to the parlins. the two seats were turned _vis-a-vis_, the gentlemen occupying one, the children the other. now dotty discovered what it was that adolphus had in his lap; it was a spanish rabbit; and if you never saw one, little reader, you have no idea how beautiful an animal can be. if there is any gem so soft and sparkling as his liquid indian-red eyes, with the sunshine quivering in them as in dewdrops, then i should like to see that gem, and have it set in the finest gold, and send it to the most beautiful woman in the world to wear for a ring. this rabbit was white as a snowball, with ears as pink as blush roses, and a mouth that was always in motion, whether adolphus put lumps of sugar in it or not. dotty went into raptures. she forgot her "style" hat, and her new dignity, and had no greater ambition than to hold the lovely white ball in her arms. adolphus allowed her to do so. he was very kind to answer all her questions, and always in the most sensible manner. if dotty had been a little older, she would have seen that the captain's son was a remarkably intelligent boy, in spite of his smashed hat. after everything had been said that could possibly be thought of, in regard to rabbits and their ways, dotty looked again, and very critically, at adolphus. his collar was wrinkled, his necktie one-sided, he wore no gloves, and, on the whole, was not dressed ad well as dotty, who had started from home that very morning, clean and fresh. he was every day as old as susy; but miss dimple, as a traveller bound on a long journey, felt herself older and wiser still, and began to talk accordingly. smoothing down the skirt of her dress with her neatly-gloved hands, she remarked:-- chapter ii. the captain's son. "is your name dollyphus?" "yes, adolphus lally." "well, my name is alice. nobody calls me by it but my papa and my grandmas. dotty dimple is my short name. there are a pair of dimples dotted into my cheek; don't, you see? that's what it's for. i was born so. my _other_ sisters haven't any at all." adolphus smiled quietly; he had seen dimples before. "you didn't ever know till just now there was any such girl as _me_, i s'pose." "no, i never did." "i live in the city of portland," pursued dotty, with a grand air, "and my papa and mamma, and two sisters, and a quaker grandma (only you must say 'friend') with a white handkerchief on. have you any grandma like that?" "no, my grandmother is dead." "why, there's two of mine alive, and one grandpa. just as nice! they don't scold. they let you do everything. i wouldn't _not_ have grandmothers and fathers for anything! but _you_ can't help it. did you ever have your house burnt up?" "no, indeed." "well, ours did; the chambers, and the cellar, and the windows and doors. we hadn't any place to stay. my sister susy! you ought to heard her cry! i lost the beautifulest tea-set; but i didn't say much about it." "where do you live now?" "o, there was a man let us have another house. it isn't so handsome as our house was; for the man can't make things so nice as my father can. we live in it now. can you play the piano?" "no, not at all." "don't you, honestly; why, i do. susy's given me five lessons. you have to sit up as straight as a pin, and count your fingers, one, two, three, four. x is your thumb." dotty believed she was imparting valuable information. she felt great pleasure in having found a travelling companion to whom she could make herself useful. "i'm going to tell you something. did you ever go to indiana?" "no." "didn't you? they call it out west. i'm going there. yes, i started to-day. the people are called hoojers. they don't spect me, but i'm going. did you ever hear of a girl that travelled out west?" "o, yes; ever so many." "i mean a girl as little as me, 'thout anybody but my papa; and he don't know how to part my hair in the middle. i have to take all the care of myself." dotty had been trying all the while to call forth some exclamation of awe, or at least surprise. she was sure adolphus would be impressed now. "all the whole care of myself," repeated she. "my papa has one of the _highest_ 'pinions of me; and he says i'm as good as a lady when i try. were you ever in the cars before, dollyphus?" "o, yes," was the demure reply, "a great many times. i've been round the world." dotty started suddenly, dropping her porte-monnaie on the floor. "round the world! the whole round world?" gasped she, feeling as insignificant as a "catharine wheel," which, having "gone up like a rocket," has come down "like a stick." "you didn't say round the _whole_ world?" repeated she, looking very flat indeed. "o, yes, in my father's ship." his "father's ship." dotty's look of superiority was quenched entirely. even her jaunty hat seemed to humble itself, and her haughty head sink with it. adolphus stooped and restored the porte-monnaie, which, in her surprise, she had quite forgotten. "does your father keep a ship?" asked she, reverently. "yes; and mother often makes voyages with him. once they took me; and that was the time i went round the world. we were gone two years." "weren't you afraid?" "no, i'm never afraid where my father is." "just a little afraid, i mean, when you found the ship was going tip-side up?" "tip-side up?" said adolphus. "i don't understand you." "why, when you got to the other side of the world, then of course the ship turned right over, you know. didn't you want to catch hold of something, for fear you'd fall into the sky?" adolphus laughed; he could not very well help it; but, observing the mortification expressed in his companion's face, he sobered himself instantly, and replied,-- "no, dotty; the world is round, but you wouldn't know it by the looks of it. wherever i've been, the land seems flat, except the hills, and so does the water, all but the waves." as the captain's son said this, he looked pityingly at his little companion, wondering how she happened to be so silly as to suppose a ship ever went "tip-side up." but he was mistaken if he considered dotty a simpleton. the child had never gone to school. her parents believed there would be time enough yet for her to learn a great many things; and her ignorance had never distressed them half so much as her faults of temper. "did you ever go as far as boston before?" pursued adolphus, rather grandly, in his turn. "no, i never," replied dotty, meekly; "but prudy has." "so i presume you haven't been in spain? it was there i bought my beautiful rabbit. were you ever in the straits of malacca?" continued he, roguishly. "no--o. i didn't know i was." "indeed? nor in the bay of palermo? the italians call it the golden shell." "i don't _s'pose_ i ever," replied dotty, with a faint effort to keep up appearances; "but i went to _quoddy_ bay once!" "so you haven't seen the _loory_? it is a beautiful bird, and talks better than a parrot. i have one at home." "o, have you?" said dotty, in a tone of the deepest respect. "yes; then there is the _mina_, a brown bird, larger than a crow; converses quite fluently. you have heard of a mina, i dare say." dotty shook her head in despair. she was so overwhelmed by this time, that, if adolphus had told of going with captain lally to the moon in a balloon, she would not have been greatly surprised. a humorous smile played around the boy's mouth. observing his little companion's extreme simplicity, he was tempted to invent some marvellous stories for the sake of seeing her eyes shine. "i can explain it to her afterwards," said he to his conscience. "did you ever hear of the great dipper, dotty?" "i don't know's i did. no." "you don't say so! never heard of the great dipper! your sister prudy has, i'm sure. it is tied to the north pole, and you can dip water with it." "is it big?" "no, not very. about the size of a tub." "a dipper as big as a tub?" repeated dotty, slowly. "yes, with the longest kind of handle." "i couldn't lift it?" "no, i should judge not." "who tied it to the north pole?" "i don't know. columbus, perhaps. you remember he discovered the world?" dotty brightened. "o, yes, i've heard about that! susy read it in a book." "well, i'll tell you how it was. there had been a world, you see; but people had lost the run of it, and didn't know where it was, after the flood. and then columbus went in a ship and discovered it." "he did?" dotty looked keenly at the captain's son. he was certainly in earnest; but there was something about it she did not exactly understand. "why, if there wasn't any world all the time, where did _c'lumbus_ come from?" faltered she, at last. "it is not generally known," replied adolphus, taking off his hat, and hiding his face in it. dolly sat for some time lost in thought. "o, i forgot to say," resumed adolphus, "the north pole isn't driven in so hard as it ought to be. it is so cold up there that the frost 'heaves' it. you know what 'heaves' means? the ground freezes and then thaws, and that loosens the pole. somebody has to pound it down, and that makes the noise we call thunder." dotty said nothing to this; but her youthful face expressed surprise, largely mingled with doubt. "you have heard of the _axes_ of the earth? that is what they pound the pole with. queer--isn't it? but not so queer to me as the red sea." adolphus paused, expecting to be questioned; but dotty maintained a discreet silence. "the water is a very bright red, i know; but i never _could_ believe that story about the giant's having the nose-bleed, and coloring the whole sea with blood. did you ever hear of that?" "no, i never," replied dotty, gravely. "you needn't tell it, dollyphus. i'm too tired to talk." adolphus felt rather piqued as the little girl turned away her head and steadily gazed out of the window at the trees and houses flying by. it appeared very much as if she suspected he had been making sport of her. "she isn't a perfect ignoramus, after all." he thought; "that last lie was a little too big." after this he sat for some time watching his little companion, anxious for an opportunity to assure her that these absurd stories had been spun out of his own brain. but dotty never once turned her face towards him. she was thinking,-- "p'rhaps he's a good boy; p'rhaps he's a naughty boy: but i shan't believe him till i ask my father." at portsmouth, captain lally and son left the cars, much to dotty's relief, though they did carry away the beautiful spanish rabbit; and it seemed to the child as if a piece of her heart went with it. "is my little girl tired?" said mr. parlin, putting an arm around dotty. "no, papa, only i'm thinking. the north pole is top of the world--isn' it? as much as five hundred miles off?" "a great deal farther than that, my dear." "there, i thought so! and we couldn't hear 'em pound it down with an axe--could we? that isn't what makes thunder? o, what a boy!" mr. parlin laughed heartily. "did adolphus tell you such a story as that?" "yes, sir, he did," cried dotty, indignantly, "and said there was a dipper to it, with a handle on, as large as a tub. and a man tied it that came from i-don't-know-where, and found this world. i know _that_ wasn't true, for he didn't say anything about adam and eve. what an awful boy!" "what did you say to adolphus?" said mr. parlin, still laughing. "hadn't you been putting on airs? and wasn't that the reason he made sport of you?" "i don't know what 'airs' are, papa." "perhaps you told him, for instance, that you were travelling out west, and asked him if _he_ ever went so far as that." "perhaps i did," stammered dotty. "and it is very likely you made the remark that you had the whole care of yourself, and know how to part your hair in the middle. i did not listen; but it is possible you told him you could play on the piano." dotty looked quite ashamed. "this is what we call 'putting on airs.' adolphus was at first rather quiet and unpretending. didn't you think he might be a little stupid? and didn't you wish to give him the idea that you yourself were something of a fine lady?" how very strange it was to dotty that her father could read the secret thoughts which she herself could hardly have told! she felt supremely wretched, and crept into his bosom to hide her blushing face. "i didn't say adolphus did right to tease you," said mr. parlin, gently. he thought the little girl's lesson had been quite severe enough; for, after all, she had done nothing very wrong: she had only been a little foolish. "upon my word, chincapin," said he, "we haven't opened that basket yet! what do you say to a lunch, with the boston journal for a table-cloth? and here comes a boy with some apples." in two minutes dotty had buried her chagrin in a sandwich. and all the while the cars were racketing along towards boston. chapter iii. a baby in a blue cloak. dotty had begun to smile again, and was talking pleasantly with her father, when there was a sudden rocking of the cars, or, as prudy had called it, a "car-quake." dotty would have been greatly alarmed if she had not looked up in her father's face and seen that it was perfectly tranquil. they had run over a cow. this little accident gave a new turn to the child's thoughts. she gazed at the conductor with some distrust. if he did not take care of the cars, what made him wear that printed hat-band? she supposed that in some mysterious way he drove or guided the furious iron horse; and when she saw him sitting at ease, conversing with the passengers, she was not satisfied; she thought he was neglecting his duty. "i s'pose," mused she, finishing the final crumb of her sandwich,--"i s'pose there are two kinds of conductors in cars, same as in thunder. one is a _non_, and the other isn't. i'm afraid this man is a _non_; if he is, he will conduct us all to pieces." still her fear was not very active; it did not prevent her having a good time. she saw that her father was comfortable, and this fact reassured her somewhat. if they were going to meet with a dreadful accident, wouldn't he be likely to know it? she began to look about her for something diverting. at no great distance was a little baby in a blue cloak. not a very attractive baby, but a great deal better than none. "papa, there's more room on the seat by that lady's bandbox. mayn't i ask to take care of her baby?" "yes, dear, if she is willing." dotty danced down the aisle, thinking as she went,-- "my father lets me do every single thing. if we had mamma with us, _sometimes_ she'd say, no." the tired woman greeted miss dimple cordially. she was not only willing, but very well pleased to have the uneasy baby taken out of her arms. dotty drew off her gloves, and laid the little one's head tenderly against her cheek. baby looked wonderingly into the bright eyes bending above him, reached up a chubby hand, caught dotty's hat, and twitched it towards the left ear. "sweetest cherub!" said the fond mother, as if the child had done a good deed, "take off your hat, little girl. i'll hang it in the rack." dotty was glad to obey. but baby was just as well satisfied with his new friend's hair as he had been with the hat. it was capable of being pulled; and that is a quality which delights the heart of infancy. dotty bore the pain heroically, till she bethought herself of appearances; for, being among so many people, she did not wish to look like a gypsy. she smoothed back her tangled locks as well as she could, and tried every art of fascination to attract the baby's attention to something else. "you are a pretty little girl, and a nice little girl," said the gratified mother. "you have a wonderful faculty for 'tending babies. now, do you think, darling, you could take care of him a few minutes alone, and let me try to get a nap? i am very tired, for i got up this morning before sunrise, and had baking to do." "o, yes'm," replied dotty, overflowing with good nature; "you can go to sleep just as well as not. baby likes me--don't you, baby? and we'll play pat-a-cake all so nice!" "it isn't every day i see such a handsome, obliging little dear," remarked the oily-tongued woman, as she folded up a green and yellow plaid shawl, and put it on the arm of the seat for a pillow. "i should like to know what your name is; and some time, perhaps, i can tell your mother how kind you were to my baby." "my name is alice parlin," replied our enraptured heroine, "and i live in portland. i'm going out west, where the hoojers live. i--" dotty stopped herself just in time to avoid "putting on airs." "h--m! i _thought_ i had seen you before. well, your mother is proud of you; i know she is," remarked the new acquaintance, settling herself for a nap. dotty looked at her as she lay curled in an ungraceful heap, with her eyes closed. it was a hard, disagreeable face. dotty did not know why it was unpleasing. she only compared it with the child's usual standard, and thought, "she is not so handsome as my mamma," and went on making great eyes at the baby. she was not aware that the person she was obliging was mrs. lovejoy, an old neighbor of the parlins, who had once been very angry with susy, saying sarcastic words to her, which even now susy could not recall without a quiver of pain. for some time dotty danced the lumpish baby up and down, sustained in her tedious task by remembering the honeyed compliments its mother had given her. "i should think they _would_ be proud of me at home; but nobody ever said so before. o, dear, what a homely baby! little bits of eyes, like huckleberries. 'twill have to wear a head-dress when it grows up, for it hasn't any hair. i'm glad it isn't my brother, for then i should have to hold him the whole time, and he weighs more'n i do." dotty sighed heavily. "that woman's gone to sleep. she'll dream it's night, and p'rhaps she won't wake up till we get to boston. hush-a-by, baby, your cradle is green! o, dear, my arms'll ache off." a boy approached with a basket of pop-corn and other refreshments. dotty remembered that she had in her pocket the means to purchase very many such luxuries. but how was she to find the way to her pocket? baby required both hands, and undivided attention. dotty looked at the boy imploringly. he snapped his fingers at her little charge, and passed on. she looked around for her father. he was at the other end of the car, talking politics with a group of gentlemen. "please stop," said she, faintly, and the boy came to her elbow again. "i want some of that pop-corn so much!" was the plaintive request. "i could buy it if you'd hold this baby till i put my hand in my pocket." the youth laughed, but, for the sake of "making a trade," set down his basket and took the "infant terrible." there was an instant attack upon his hair, which was so long and straggling as to prove an easy prey to the enemy. [illustration: dotty in the cars. page .] "hurry, you!" said he to dotty, with juvenile impatience. "i can't stand any more of this nonsense." dotty did hurry; but before she received the baby again he had been well shaken, and his temper was aroused; he objected to being punished for such a harmless amusement as uprooting a little hair. there was one thing certain: if his eyes were small, his lungs were large enough, and perfectly sound. startled by his lusty cries, his mamma opened one of her eyes, but immediately closed it again when she saw that dotty was bending all the powers of her mind to the effort of soothing "the cherub." "i do wish my dear mamma _was_ travelling with us," thought the perplexed little girl. "she wouldn't 'low me to hold this naughty, naughty baby forever 'n' ever! because, you know, she never'd go off to the other end of the car and talk pol'tics." the little girl chirruped, cooed, and sang; all in vain. she danced the baby "up, up, up, and down, down, downy," till its blue cloak was twisted like a shaving. still it cried, and its unnatural mother refused to hear. "i never'll hold another baby as long's i live. when ladies come to our house, i'll look and see if they've brought one, and if they have i'll always run up stairs and hide." as a last resort, she gave the little screamer some pop-corn. why not? it refused to be comforted with other devices. how should she know that it was unable to chew, and was in the habit of swallowing buttons, beads, and other small articles whole? baby clutched at the puffy white kernels, and crowed. it knew now, for the first time, what it had been crying for. there was a moment of peace, during which master freddie pushed a handful of corn as far as the trap-door which opened into his throat. then there was a struggle, a gasp, a throwing up of the little hands; the trap-door had opened, but the corn had not dropped through; there was not space enough. in other words, freddy was choking. the young nurse was so frightened that she almost let the small sufferer slip out of her arms. she screamed so shrilly that half a dozen people started from their seats to see what was the matter. of course the sleepy woman was awake in a moment. all she said, as she took the child out of dotty's arms, was this:-- "you good-for-nothing, careless little thing! don't you know any better than to choke my baby?" as dotty really supposed the little one's last hour had come, and she herself had been its murderess, her distress and terror are not to be told. she paced the aisle, wringing her hands, while mrs. lovejoy put her finger down freddie's throat and patted his back. in a very short time the mischief was undone; the child caught its breath, and blinked its little watery eyes, while its face faded from deep magenta to its usual color of dough. dotty was immensely relieved. "bess its 'ittle heart," cried mrs. lovejoy, pressing it close to her travelling-cape, while several of the passengers looked on, quite interested in the scene. "did the naughty, wicked girlie try to choke its muzzer's precious baby? we'll w'ip her; so we will! she shan't come near my lovey-dovey with her snarly hair." mrs. lovejoy's remarks pricked like a nosegay of thistles. they were not only sharp in themselves, but they were uttered with such evident displeasure that every word stung. dotty was creeping away with her head down, her "snarly hair" veiling her sorrowful eyes, when she remembered her hat, and meekly asked mrs. lovejoy to restore it. "take it," was the ungracious reply, "and don't you ever offer to hold another baby till you have a little common sense." dotty walked away with her fingers in her mouth, more angry than grieved, and conscious that all eyes were upon her. "i didn't mean to scold you, child," called the woman after her; "only you might have killed my baby, and i think you're big enough to know better." this last sentence, spoken more gently, was intended to heal all wounds; but it had no such effect. dotty was sure everybody had heard it, and was more ashamed than ever. she had never before met with any one so ill bred as mrs. lovejoy. she supposed her own conduct had been almost criminal, whereas mrs. lovejoy was really much more at fault than herself. a woman who has no tenderness for a well-meaning little girl, no forgiveness for her thoughtless mistakes, can never be regarded as a lady. thus, for the second time that day, dotty had met with misfortune. her father knew nothing of what had occurred, and she had not much to say when he offered a penny for her thoughts. "i oughtn't to have given that baby any corn," said she, briefly; "but he didn't choke long." "where are your gloves, child?" dotty looked in her pocket, and shook her head. "you must have left them in the seat you were in. you'd better go after them, my daughter, and then come back and brush your hair." "o, papa, i'd rather go to indiana with my hands naked. that woman doesn't like me." mr. parlin gave a glance at the wretched little face, and went for the gloves himself. they were not to be found, though mrs. lovejoy was very polite indeed to assist in the search. they had probably fallen out of the window. "don't take it to heart, my little alice," said mr. parlin, who was very sorry to see so many shadows on his young daughter's face so early in the day. "we'll buy a new pair in boston. we will think of something pleasant. let us see: when are you going to read your first letter?" "o, susy said the very last thing before i got to boston. you'll tell me when it's the very last thing? i'm so glad susy wrote it! for now i can be 'expecting it all the rest of the way." chapter iv. "pigeon pie postponed." this is susy's letter, which lay in mr. parlin's pocket-book, and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before the cars stopped:-- "my dear little sister: this is for you to read when you have almost got to boston; and it is a story, because i know you will be tired. "once there was a wolf--i've forgotten what his name was. at the same time there were some men, and they were monks. monks have their heads shaved. they found this wolf. they didn't see why he wouldn't make as good a monk as anybody. they tied him and then they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in latin. "he opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what do you think? all he said was, 'lamb! lamb!' and he looked where the woods were. "so they couldn't make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat lambs, and he wouldn't say his prayers. "mother read that to me out of a blue book. "good by, darling. from "sister susy." "what do you think of that?" said mr. parlin, as he finished reading the letter aloud. "it is so queer, papa. i don't think those monkeys were very bright." "monks, my child." "o, i thought you said monkeys." "no, monks are men--catholics." "well, if they were men, i should think they'd know a wolf couldn't say his prayers. but i s'pose it isn't true." "no, indeed. it is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to expect people to do things which they have not the power to do. the wolf could catch lambs, but he could not learn his letters. so my little alice can dress dollies, but she does not know how to take care of babies." "o, papa, i didn't choke him _very_ much." "i was only telling you i do not think you at all to blame. little girls like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women. if you only do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you." dotty's face emerged from the cloud. she looked away down the aisle at mrs. lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep. "well," thought she, her self-esteem reviving, "i wish that woman only could know i wasn't to blame! i don't believe _she_ could have take care of that baby when she was six years old." "here we are at boston," said mr. parlin. "is your hat tied on? keep close to me, and don't be afraid of the crowd." dotty was not in the least afraid. she was not like prudy, who, on the same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of cars. in dotty's case there was more danger of her being reckless than too timid. they went to a hotel. mr. parlin's business would detain him an hour or two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on the common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on their journey. it was the first time dotty had ever dined at a public house. a bill of fare was something entirely new to her. she wondered how it happened that the boston printers knew what the people in that hotel were about to have for dinner. mr. parlin looked with amusement at the demure little lady beside him. not a sign of curiosity did she betray, except to gaze around her with keen eyes, which saw everything, even to the pattern of the napkins. some time she would have questions to ask, but not now. "and what would you like for dinner, alice?" mr. parlin said this as they were sipping their soup. dotty glanced at the small table before them, which offered scarcely anything but salt-cellars and castors, and then at the paper her father held in his hand. she was about to reply that she would wait till the table was ready; but as there was one man seated opposite her, and another standing at the back of her chair, she merely said,-- "i don't know, papa." "a-la-mode beef; fricasseed chicken; calcutta curry," read her mischievous father from the bill, as fast as he could read; "macaroni; salsify; flummery; sirup of cream. you see it is hard to make a choice, dear. escaloped oysters; pigeon pie postponed." "i'll take some of that, papa," broke in dotty. "what, dear?" "some of the pigeon pie 'sponed," answered dotty, in a low voice, determined to come to a decision of some sort. it was not likely to make much difference what she should choose, when everything was alike wonderful and strange. "pigeon pie postponed," said mr. parlin to the man at the back of dotty's chair; "turkey with oysters for me." the polite waiter smiled so broadly that he showed two long rows of white teeth. it could not be dotty who amused him. her conduct was all that is prim and proper. she sat beside her papa as motionless as a waxen baby, her eyes rolling right and left, as if they were jerked by a secret wire. it certainly could not have been dotty. then what was it the man saw which was funny? "only one pigeon pie in the house, sir," said he, trying to look very solemn, "and if the young lady will be pleased to wait, i'll bring it to her in a few minutes. no such dish on any of the other bills of fare. a rarity for this special day, sir. anything else, miss, while you wait?" mr. parlin looked rather surprised. there had been no good reason given for not bringing the pie at once; however, he merely asked dotty to choose again; and this time she chose "tomato steak," at a venture. there were two gentlemen at the opposite side of the table, and one of them watched dotty with interest. "her mother has taken great pains with her," he thought; "she handles her knife and fork very well. where have i seen that child before?" while he was still calling to mind the faces of various little girls of his acquaintance, and trying to remember which face belonged to dotty, the waiter arrived with the "pigeon pie postponed." he had chosen the time when most of the people had finished their first course, and the clinking of dishes was not quite so hurried as it had been a little while before. the table at which mr. parlin sat was nearly in the centre of the room. as the waiter approached with the pie, the same amused look passed over his face once more. he set the dish upon the table near mr. parlin, who proceeded to cut a piece for miss dimple. as the knife went into the pie, the crust seemed to move; and lo, "when the pie was opened," out flew a pigeon alive and well! the bird at first hopped about the table in a frightened way, a little blind and dizzy from being shut up in such a dark prison; but a few breaths of fresh air revived him, and he flew merrily around the room, to the surprise and amusement of the guests. it was a minute or two before any of them understood what it meant. then they began to laugh and say they knew why the pie was "postponed:" it was because the pigeon was not willing to be eaten alive. it passed as a capital joke; but i doubt if dotty dimple appreciated it. she looked at the hollow crust, and then at the purple-crested dove, and thought a hotel dinner was even more peculiar than she had supposed. did they have "live pies" every day? how did they bake them without even scorching the pigeons? but she busied herself with her nuts and raisins, and asked no questions. at four o'clock she went with, her father to see the public gardens and other places of interest, and to buy a pair of new gloves. on the common they met one of the gentlemen who had sat opposite them at dinner. he bowed as they were passing, and said, with a smile,-- "can this be my little friend, miss prudy parlin?" "it is her younger sister, alice," replied her father. "and i am major benjamin lazelle, of st. louis," said the gentleman. after this introduction, the three walked along in company, and seemed to feel like old acquaintances; for major lazelle had once escorted mrs. clifford on a journey to maine, and since that time had been well known to the clifford family. mr. parlin was glad to learn that he would start for st. louis on the next day, and travel with himself and daughter nearly as far as they went. major lazelle was also well pleased, and began at once to make friends with miss dimple. the little girl had recovered from her trials of the morning, and was so delighted with all she saw that she "couldn't walk on two feet." she preferred to hop, skip, and jump. "o, papa, papa, what _are_ those little dears, just the color of my kid gloves?" "those are deer, my child." "are they? i _said_ they were dears--didn't i? if they were _my_ dears, i'd keep them in a parlor, and let them lie on a silk quilt with a velvet pillow--wouldn't you?" "this little girl reminds me strikingly of my old friend prudy," said major lazelle, taking her hand. "when i saw her across the table i thought, 'ah, now, there is a sweet little child who makes me remember something pleasant.' after a while i knew what that pleasant thing was--it was little prudy." dotty looked up at major lazelle with a smile. "she came to see me when i was in a hospital in indiana. at that time i was blind." "blind, sir?" "yes; but i see quite well now. afterwards i met your sister on the street in portland, and she spoke to me. i was very weak and miserable, for i had just been ill of a fever; but the sight of her bright face made me feel strong again." dotty's fingers closed around major lazelle's with a firmer clasp. if he liked prudy, then she should certainly like him. "shall i tell you of some verses i repeated to myself when i looked at your dear little sister?" "yes, sir, if you please." "'why, a stranger, when he sees her in the street even, smileth stilly, just as you would at a lily. "'and if any painter drew her, he would paint her unaware, with the halo round her hair.' "i dare say you do not understand poetry very well, miss alice?" "no, sir. i s'pose i should if i knew what the words meant." "very likely. is your sister prudy well? and how do you two contrive to amuse yourselves all the day long?" "yes, sir, she's well; and we don't amuse ourselves at all." "indeed! but you play, i presume." "yes, sir, we do." "i feel sure you are just such another dear little girl as prudy is, and it gives me pleasure to know you." dotty dropped her head. she was glad her father was too far off to hear this remark. "just such another dear little girl as prudy is!" alas! dotty knew better than that. she was not sure she ought not to tell major lazelle he had made a great mistake. but while she was pondering upon it, they met a blind man, a lame man, and a party of school-girls; and she had so much use for her eyes that she did not speak again for five minutes. chapter v. the major's joke. while dotty was dressing next morning, she fell to thinking again of her own importance as a young lady travelling _almost_ all alone by herself; and then it occurred to her that jennie vance, the judge's daughter, had never been any farther than boston. "when she comes to portland next winter to see her aunties that live there, then i'll talk to her all about my travelling out west. but i needn't tell her how that baby choked, nor how that naughty dollyphus made fun of me. no, indeed!" as she spoke she was pouring water into the wash-bowl; but her indignation towards mrs. lovejoy and "dollyphus" made her hand unsteady; the pitcher came suddenly against the edge of the bowl, whereupon its nose and part of its body flew off into space. dotty held the handle, and looked at the ruins in astonishment. "did _i_ do that?" she had no time to spend in lamentation. "i don't want to let my papa know what i've done," thought she, giving the last hasty touches to her toilet: "he'll have to go and pay the man that keeps house; and then i'm afraid he'll think, if his little girl keeps choking folks and breaking things, i ought to stay at home." but dotty was too well grounded in the "white truth" to hesitate long. she could not hide the accident and be happy. when she mentioned it to her father, he did not say, as some fathers might have done,-- "you careless child! your sister _prudy_ didn't break a pitcher or lose a pair of gloves all the way to indiana." he and mrs. parlin were both afraid that, if they spoke in this manner, their children might infer that carelessness is just as sinful as falsehood and ill temper; they wished them to know there is a vast difference. so mr. parlin only said,-- "broken the pitcher? i'm sorry; but you did right to tell me. give me your hand, and let us go to breakfast." major lazelle was at table. he patted dotty's head, and said she looked like "a sweet-pea on tiptoe for a flight." he seemed very fond of quoting poetry; and nothing could have been more pleasing to dotty, who loved to hear high-sounding words, even if they did soar above her head. the party of three started in due time on their journey. it was very much the same thing it had been yesterday; boys with tea-kettles of ice-water, boys with baskets of fruit and lozenges, and boys with newspapers. there was a long train of cars, and every car was crowded. "o, papa," sighed dotty, after she had tried to count the passengers, and had been obliged to give it up because there were so many stepping off at every station, and so many more stepping in. "o, papa, where are all these people going to?" and in the afternoon she repeated the question, adding,-- "i shouldn't think there'd be anybody left in any of the houses." by the time they reached albany, she had seen so much of the world that she felt fairly worn out, and her head hummed like a hive of bees. "i didn't know, papa,--i never knew,--there were so many folks!" the next letter dotty had to read was from prudy. it was merely a poem copied very carefully. you may skip it if you like; but the major said it was exquisite, and i think the major must have been a good judge, for i have the same opinion myself! "little dandelion. "gay little dandelion lights up the meads, swings on her slender foot, telleth her beads; lists to the robin's note poured from above; wise little dandelion cares not for love. "cold lie the daisy banks, clad but in green, where in the mays agone bright hues were seen; wild pinks are slumbering, violets delay; true little dandelion greeteth the may. "brave little dandelion! fast falls the snow, bending the daffodil's haughty head low. under that fleecy tent, careless of cold, blithe little dandelion counteth her gold. "meek little dandelion groweth more fair, till dies the amber dew out of her hair. high rides the thirsty sun, fiercely and high; faint little dandelion closeth her eye. "pale little dandelion in her white shroud, heareth the angel breeze call from the cloud. fairy plumes fluttering make no delay; little winged dandelion soareth away." this night was spent at albany; and, as the evening closed with a little adventure i will tell you about it; and that will be all that it is necessary to relate of dotty's journey. mr. parlin, major lazelle, and our heroine were sitting, after their late tea, in a private parlor. it was time dotty was asleep but, while she was waiting for her papa, major lazelle held her on his knee. mr. parlin was writing letters, and did not listen to the conversation going on between his little daughter and her friend. they commenced by talking about zip. dotty said he knew as much as a boy. "i did think once he was my brother. and now i'm glad i didn't have a real brother; for if he _had_ been, p'rhaps he'd have burned up our house with a cracker." "so you think little girls are nicer than little boys?" "o, yes, sir; don't you?" dotty spoke as if there could be no doubt about it. "i like good little girls," said major lazelle, "such as can ride a whole day in the cars without growing cross." this compliment gratified dotty. she felt that she deserved it, for she had kept her temper admirably ever since she left home. "i am sure you will grow up, one of these days, to be a very good woman," continued major lazelle, looking with an admiring smile at the graceful little girl seated on his knee. "you tell me you have never been at school. i hope you do not mean to frolic all your life? what were little girls made for, do you think?" dotty reflected a moment. "what are little girls made for, sir? why, they are made to play, 'cause they can't play when they grow to be ladies." the major laughed. "pretty well said! you're rather too shrewd for such an 'old mustache' as i. so little girls are made to play? then suppose we two have a game. let us play chip-chop." dotty was becoming sleepy, but aroused herself, and patted her little soft hands as hard as she could, tossing them hither and thither, sometimes hitting her companion's thumb, sometimes his little finger. major lazelle laughed, and then she laughed too; for when he tried to strike her hands, he said it was like aiming at a pair of rose-leaves fluttering in the air. the chip-chop was a complete failure; but it had set them both in great glee. if truth be told, they became excessively rude. "now, sir," said dotty, as they ran across the room, playing a game of romps, "if you do catch me again, i'll--o, dear, i don't know what i'll do!" mr. parlin looked up from his letter a little annoyed, for the floor was shaking so that he could scarcely write. "do not be rude, my daughter," said he, though he knew very well the major was really the one to be chided. but his warning came a minute too late. major lazelle had caught dotty, and she had thrown up both hands to clutch at his hair. she meant to give it one desperate pulling; she did not care if she hurt him a little; she even hoped he might cry out and beg her to stop. but the oddest thing happened. if she had gone to bed at the usual time, and fallen asleep, then this would have been her dream. but no, she _supposed_ she was awake; and what now? as she seizes two locks of major lazelle's hair, one in each hand, and pulled them both as if she meant to draw them out by the roots, out they came! yes, entirely out! and more than that, all the rest of the man's hair came too! his head was left as smooth as an apple. _you_ see at once how it was. he wore a wig, and just for play had slyly unfastened it, and allowed miss dotty to pull it off. the perfect despair on her little face amused him vastly; but he did not smile; he looked very severe. "see what you have done!" said he, rubbing his bald head as if it were just ready to bleed. "see what you have done to me, you cruel girl!" major lazelle's entire head of hair lay at her feet as brown and wavy as ever it was. dotty looked at it with horror. the idea of scalping a man! for a whole minute she lost the power of speech. then she gasped out,-- "o, dear! dear! dear! i didn't know your hair was so tender!" the major had been crowding his handkerchief into his mouth; but at this he could no longer restrain himself, nor could mr. parlin help joining in the laugh. [illustration: the major's joke. page .] the little girl was more bewildered than ever. she put her hand to her own head, to make sure it was safe, for it felt as airy as a dandelion top. then major lazelle explained to her in a few words what a wig is, and how it is fastened to the head. dotty understood it all in a moment, but was too much chagrined to make any reply. "i am several years younger than your papa, my dear; so you think it strange to see me bald; but i have had two dreadful fevers, and they have run away with every bit of my hair." dotty would not even look up to see major lazelle replace his wig. her dignity had been wounded. "come, sit on my knee, pussy, and let me tell you some more about it." "no, i thank you, sir," replied she, walking the floor with the air of an injured princess. "no, i thank you, sir." "how, now, little one? you don't mean to be angry with me for a little joke?" "no, i thank you." and that was all dotty would say. she was wise enough to know she was too angry to speak. "ah, ha! temper, i see!" thought major lazelle; "i did not suspect it from that quarter." if the young gentleman had only known how hard the little girl was struggling just then to control herself, he would have liked her better than ever. her father chided her next morning for taking a joke so seriously. dotty replied with a deep sigh,-- "papa, that major 'sposes i'm only five years old! that's what dollyphus s'posed! i don't like it, papa, when i can travel so well; and how'd _i_ know what a wig was, well; you and mamma never had any?" but dotty smiled as benevolently as she could when she met the major again. he was a little afraid of her, however. he did not enjoy playing with her as he had enjoyed it before. he now felt obliged to be on his guard, lest she should take offence. the rest of her journey--though dotty did not know it--was not quite so delightful as it might have been if she had only laughed with good humor when the lively major let her pull his hair out by the roots. but the cars went "singing through the forest, and rattling over ridges," till it was time to part from the pleasant man with a wig. then they went on, "shooting under arches, rambling over bridges," till dotty and her papa had come to their journey's end. we will say it was the town of quinn. chapter vi. new faces. the cliffords lived a little way out of town. mr. parlin took a carriage at the depot, and he and dotty had a very pleasant drive to "aunt 'ria's." the little girl was rather travel-stained. her gloves were somewhat ragged at the tips, from her habit of twitching them so much; and they were also badly soiled with fruit and candy. her hair was as smooth as hands could make it; but alas for the "style" hat which had left portland in triumph! it had reached indiana in disgrace. its tipsy appearance was due to getting stepped on, and being caught in showers. dotty's neat travelling dress was defaced by six large grease spots. where they had come from dotty could not conjecture, unless "that sick lady with a bottle had spilled some of her cod-oil on it out of a spoon." the child had intended to astonish her relatives by her tidy array; but, after all her pains, she had arrived out west in a very sorry plight. "now, which side must i look for the house, papa?" "at your right hand, my dear. the first thing you will see is the conservatory, and then a stone house." "my right hand," thought dotty; "that's east; but which is my right hand?" she always knew after she had thought a moment. it was the one which did not have the "shapest thumb;" that is, the _misshapen_ one she had pounded once by mistake, instead of an oilnut. "o, yes, papa! see the flowers! the flowers! and only to think they don't know who's coming! p'rhaps they're drinking tea, or gone visiting, or something." the cliffords were not at tea. grace and cassy were reading "our boys and girls" in the summer-house, with their heads close together; horace was in the woods fishing; mr. clifford at his office; his wife in her chamber, ruffling a pink cambric frock for wee katie, rocking as she sewed. as for katie, she was marching about the grounds under an old umbrella. it was only the skeleton of an umbrella--dry bones, wires, and a crooked handle. through the open sides the little one was plainly to be seen; and mr. parlin thought she looked like that flower we have in our gardens, which peeps out from a host of little tendrils, and is called the "lady in the bower." hearing a carriage coming, the "lady in the bower" rushed to the gate, flourishing the black bones of the umbrella directly in the horse's face. "dotty has camed! she has camed!" shouted the little creature, dropping the umbrella, falling over it, springing up again, and running with flying feet to spread the news. nobody believed dotty had "camed;" it seemed an improbable story; but grace and cassy had heard the wheels, and they ran through the avenue into the house to make sure it was nobody but one of the neighbors. "why, indeed, and indeed, it _is_ dotty; and if here isn't uncle edward too!" cried grace, tossing back her curls, and dancing down the front steps. "ma, ma, here is uncle edward parlin!" "i sawed um first! i sawed um first!" screamed little flyaway, thrusting the point of the umbrella between dotty's feet, and throwing her over. "can i believe my eyes!" said mrs. clifford's voice from the head of the stairs; and down she rushed, with open arms, to greet her guests. then there was so much kissing, and so much talking, that nobody exactly knew what anybody else said; and katie added to the confusion by fluttering in and out, and every now and then breaking into a musical laugh, which the mocking-bird, not to be outdone, caught up and echoed. it was a merry, merry meeting. "you dee papa bringed you--didn't him, dotty?" said katie, flying at her cousin with the feather duster, as soon as grace had taken away the umbrella, and pointing her remarks with the end of the handle. "you's uncle eddard's baby--that's what is it." "o, you darling flyaway!" said dotty, "if you _wouldn't_ stick that handle right _into_ my eyes!" "i's going to give you sumpin!" returned katie, putting her hand in her pocket, and producing a very soft orange, which had been used for a football. "it's a ollinge. _you_ can eat um, 'cause i gived um to you." "thank you, o, thank you. flyaway: how glad i am to see you! you look just the same, and no different." "o, no, i'm is growin' homely," replied the baby, cheerfully, "velly homely; hollis said so." by the time dotty's crushed hat was off, and she had made herself ready for tea, trying to hide three of the six grease-spots with her hands, horace appeared with a little birch switch across his shoulder, strung with fish. the fish were few and small; but horace was just as tired, he said, as if he had caught a whale. he did not say he was glad to see his young cousin; but joy shone all over his face. "we'll have times--won't we, little topknot?" said he, taking katie up between his fingers, as if she had been a pinch of snuff. "is you _found_ of ollinges, dotty?" asked flyaway, with an anxious glance at the yellow fruit in dotty's hand, still untasted. after tea the orange lay on the lounge. "i's goin' to give you a ollinge," said katie, presenting it again, as if it were a new one. but after she had given it away three times, she thought her duty was done. "if you please um," said she, coaxingly, "i dess _i'll_ eat a slice o' that ollinge." so she had the whole. "dotty, have you seen phebe?" asked horace. "no; where does she live?" "o, out in the kitchen. prudy saw her when she was here, ever so long ago. she hasn't faded any since." "o, now i remember, she's a niggro, as black as a _sip_." "yes; come out and see her. she's famous for making candy. she learned that of barby." "who is barby?" "the dutch girl we had before katinka came." dotty went into the kitchen with horace to watch the candy-making. this was a favorite method with him of entertaining visitors. [illustration: making molasses candy.--page .] phebe dolan was a young colored girl, who had a very desirable home at mrs. clifford's, but who always persisted in going about the house in a dejected manner, as if some one had treated her unkindly. for all that, she was very happy; and under her solemn face was a deal of quiet fun. katinka dinkelspiel was a good-natured german girl, with a face as round as a full moon, and eyes as expressive as two blots of blue paint. she wore her fair hair rolled in front on each side into a puff like a capital o. dotty looked at her in surprise. she was very unlike norah, who wore bright ribbons on her head. and katinka talked broken english, stirring up her words in such a way that the sentences were like chinese puzzles; they needed to be taken apart and put together differently. "please to make the door too," she said to horace; and it was half a minute before dotty understood that she was asking him to shut it. "this is my cousin dotty dimple, girls; the handsomest of the family; but not the best one--are you, though?" at the same time giving miss dimple a chair. "how d'ye, miss?" said phebe, mournfully. katinka said nothing, but patted the letter o on the right side of her head. "o, phib, my mother says if you are not too tired, you may make some candy; she said so, candidly." horace was just old enough to delight in puns. now, this was a pleasant message to phebe; she would have been glad to keep her fingers in molasses half the time. still it seemed to dotty, as she saw the rolling of the black eyes, that phebe was quite discouraged. "i s'pose she doesn't like candy," thought she; "i heard of a girl once that didn't." rolling her sad eyes again and again, phebe went to draw the molasses, and soon had it boiling on the stove. "there," said horace, rubbing his hands, "i told dotty if anybody knew how to make candy 'twas phebe dolan. give us the nut-cracker, and i'll have the pecans ready in no time." this time phebe's eyes twinkled. as soon as the molasses would pour from the spoon in just the right way, with little films like spiders' webs floating from it, then phebe said it was done, and horace called grace and cassy. phebe stirred in some soda with an air of solemnity, then poured half the contents of the kettle into a buttered platter, and the other half into a second platter lined with pecan-meats. then she took the whole out of doors to cool. "i'll tell you what i'm thinking about," said dotty, as the girl left the room;--"what has she got on her head?" "why, hair, to be sure," replied grace. "wool, i should call it," corrected horace. "because i didn't know," faltered dotty,--"i didn't know but 'twas a wig." "what made you think 'twas a wig, dotty?" "o, there was a man wore one in the cars; it looked just like anybody's hair, only he tied it on with a button. he knew you and horace." "me and horace? who could it have been?" "he's the major; his name is lazelle." "o, i remember him," said grace and horace together. "does he wear a wig? he isn't old at all." "he _calls_ himself 'an old mustache,'" returned dotty, "for he said so to me. he wears one of those _hair-lips_, and a wig." "and he's as blind as a post?" "o, no, he can see things now. i liked him, for he gave me all the apples and peaches i could eat." "i reckon it did him good to go to the war," exclaimed horace, "for i remember, when i was a little fellow, how he boxed my ears!" "he has suffered a great deal since then," said the gentle cassy, thoughtfully. "you know people generally grow better by suffering." "dotty dear, you can't keep your eyes open," said grace, after the candy had been pulled. "i don't believe it will make _you_ any better to suffer. i'm going to put you to bed." "and here i am," thought dotty, as she laid her tired head on the pillow, "out west, under a sketo bar. got here safe. i ought to have thanked god a little harder in my prayer." chapter vii. waking up out west. dotty was wakened next morning by a variety of sounds. the mocking-bird, the canary, the hens, and horace's guinea pig were astir, and wished their little world to be aware of it. flyaway was dressed and running about, making herself generally useful. before the tired young traveller knew where she was, a little hand was busy at the door knob, and a baby voice called out,-- "dottee, dottee, is you waked up?" "o, now i know where i am! this is aunt 'ria's house, and that little snip of a flyaway is trying to get in. o, dear, dear, how far off i am! prudy parlin, i wonder if you're thinking about me?" "dottee! dottee!" called the small voice again. "o, i s'pose that baby'll stand at the door all day." but just then the knob turned, and in rushed flyaway out of breath. "good-morning, miss topknot," said dotty, addressing her by one of the dove-names horace was so fond of using. "o, i's pitty well," replied flyaway, dancing across the room. "i didn't sleep any till las' night. i d'eamed awtul d'eams; so i kep' awake, and wouldn't go to sleep." and into bed climbed the little one, laying her head, with its tangled floss, right across dotty's face. "dear me!" sighed dotty, rubbing the floss out of her eyes. "such hair! i should think _you_ wore a wig! i'm sleepy; can't you let me be?" "you mus' wake up, dottee! _i_ love to wake up; i can do it velly easy." dotty, losing her patience, moved forward, pushing katie towards the edge of the bed. "o, ho! what a little bedstick! i'll yole out!" "i wish you would, flyaway clifford!" no sooner said than done. off rolled flyaway, but alighted on her feet. "o, my shole," cried she, scrambling in again; "i fell down backboards. o, ho!" such good nature was not to be resisted. sleepy dotty waked up and smiled in spite of herself; and next minute her persecutor was skipping down stairs. "glad she's gone. now i'll put on my pretty morning dress; aunt 'ria hung it up in the closet. i'm going to be a little lady all the time i'm out west, and not jump off of things and tear my clothes." then dotty's mind strayed to a very different subject. "it is so queer god is in this country just the same as he is in the state of maine! i said my prayers to him before i started, and there he was and heard; and now he's here and hears too; i don't see how. you can't think without he sees your thoughts." dotty, brushing her hair, looked in the glass so intently that she did not observe her aunt maria, who had quietly entered the room. mrs. clifford was a wise woman, but she could not look into her niece's heart. she thought dotty was admiring her own beauty in the mirror, whereas the child was not thinking of it at all. what mr. beecher once said of little folks is very true:-- "ah, well, there is a world of things in children's minds that grown-up people do not understand, though they too once were young." mrs. clifford went up to dotty and kissed her. then the little girl was startled from her musings, and passing down stairs with her hand in mrs. clifford's, thought she should be perfectly happy if dear prudy were only on the other side of her. everything she saw that was new or strange she had to stop and admire, thinking it was an article that could only belong out west. "o, auntie, what is this queer little thing with doors?" "grace's cabinet, dear." "her _cabijen_," exclaimed flyaway, darting in from the next room. "good morning, dotty dimple," said horace: "did my guinea pig wake you? i lost him out. what a noise he made! i wish he was in guinea, where he came from." dotty had never seen a guinea pig. it was another curiosity, which promised to be more remarkable than phebe or katinka. she began to think coming west was like having one long play-day. even the dining-room was a novelty, with the swinging fan suspended over the table to keep off flies. "i have been wondering," said mrs. clifford, as she urned the coffee, "how we shall amuse our little dotty while she is here." "fishing," suggested horace. "nutting," said grace. "_prudy_ went to a _wedding_ when she was in indiana," remarked dotty, in a low voice. "we will try to get up a wedding then," said horace; "but they are a little out of fashion now." "we have been thinking," observed mrs. clifford, "of a nutting excursion for to-day. how would you like it, edward?" "very much," replied mr. parlin. "i can spend but one day with you, and i would as lief spend it nutting as in any other way." "only one day, uncle edward!" cried grace and horace. "only one day, papa!" stammered dotty, feeling like a little kitten who _did_ have her paw on a mouse, but sees the mouse disappear down a hole. "o, i shall leave you, my daughter. you will stay here a week or two, and meet me in indianapolis." dotty was able to eat once more. "father, what are we to do for horses to go nutting with?" spoke up horace. "robin raked this part of town yesterday with a fine-tooth comb, and couldn't find anything but an old clothes' horse, and that was past travelling." "my son!" mr. clifford's face said very plainly,-- "not so flippant, my child!" but the only remark he made was to the effect that there were doubtless horses to be found in the city at the stables. "what about the infant, mamma?" said grace. "is she to be one of the party?" when katie was present she was sometimes mysteriously mentioned as "the infant." it was quite an undertaking to allow her to go; but mrs. clifford had yielded the point an hour or two before, out of regard to horace's feelings. she knew the nutting party would be spoiled for him if his beloved little topknot were left out. "is i goin'?" asked she, when she heard the joyful news. "yes, i'm _are_ goin' to get some horse." "no, some pecans, you little brown-brimmer." katie had a dim suspicion that she owed this pleasure to her brother's influence. "hollis," said she, eagerly,--"hollis, you may have the red part o' my apple." this sounded like the very fulness of generosity, but was a hollow mockery; for by the "red part" she only meant the skin. mr. clifford had one horse, and while robin sherwood was going to the city for another, mrs. clifford made ready the lunch. happy dotty walked about, twirling a lock of her front hair, and watched katinka cleaning the already nice paint, spilling here and there "little drops of water, little grains of sand." she also observed the solemn yet dextrous manner in which phebe washed the breakfast dishes, and looked on with peculiar interest as aunt maria filled the basket. first there were custards to be baked in little cups and freckled with nutmeg, to please uncle edward. then there was a quantity of eggs to be boiled hard. as mrs. clifford dropped these one by one into a kettle of water, katie ran to the back door, and cried out to the noisy hens,-- "stop cacklerin', chickie; we've got 'em." then, fearing she had not made herself understood, she added,-- "we've found your _aigs_, chickie; they was ror, but we's goin' to bake 'em." dotty was impressed with the beauty of the picnic basket and the delicacy of the food. everything she saw was rose-colored to-day. "o, aunt 'ria, i should think you'd like to live out west! such splendid fruit cake!" "i saw fibby and my mamma make that," said flyaway, "out o' cindamon and little clovers." "clovers in cake?" "not red and white clovers; them little bitter kinds you know," added the child, with a wry face. there were four for each carriage. dotty rode with her father, mrs. clifford, and katie. little flyaway looked at the hired phaeton with contempt. "it hasn't any cap on, like my papa's," said she; but she was prevailed upon to ride in it because her mamma did. horace went with his father and the "cup and saucer," as he called grace and cassy. he was in a state of irritation because his idolized topknot was in the other carriage. "you can't separate that cup and saucer," growled he to himself. "they'll sit and talk privacy, i suppose; and i might have had brown-brimmer if it hadn't been for cassy." chapter viii. going nutting. as they drove along "the plank road," farther and farther away from the city, dotty saw more clearly than ever the wide difference between indiana and maine. "why, papa," said she, "did you ever breathe such a dust? it seems like snuff." "it makes us almost as invisible as the 'tarn cap' we read of in german fairy tales," said mrs. clifford, tucking her brown veil under her chin. she and mr. parlin both encouraged dotty to talk; for they liked to hear her exclamations of wonder at things which to them seemed common-place enough. "what did you call this road, aunt 'ria? didn't you say it was made of boards? i don't see any boards." "the planks were put down so long ago, dotty, that they are overlaid with earth." "but what did they put them down for?" "you musser ask so many kestions, dotty," said flyaway, severely; "you say 'what' too many times." "the planks were laid down, dotty, on account of the depth of the mud." "mud, aunt 'ria?" "yes, dear, dusty as it is now, at some seasons of the year the roads are so muddy that you might lose off your overshoes if it were not for the large beams which bridge over the crossings." "that reminds me," said mr. parlin, "of the man who was seen sinking in the mud, and, when some one offered to help him out, he replied, cheerfully, 'o, i shall get through; i have a horse under me.'" "why, was the horse 'way down out of sight, papa?" "where was the hossy, uncle eddard?" "it was only a story, children. if the man said there was a horse under him, it was a figure of speech, which we call hyperbole; he only meant to state in a funny way that the mud was excessively deep." "is it right to tell hyperblees, papa? because jennie vance tells them a great deal. i didn't know the name of them before." "no, alice, it is not right to tell untrue things expecting to be believed--of course not." "well, _she_ isn't believed. nobody s'poses her mamma made a bushel of currant wine last summer, unless it's a baby, that doesn't know any better." "_i_ knows better. i'se a goorl, and can walk," said little katie, bridling. "i didn't say you _were_ a baby, you precious flyaway! who's cunning?" "_i'm_ is," replied the child, settling back upon the seat with a sigh of relief. she was very sensitive on the point of age, and, like dotty, could not abide the idea of being thought young. "how far are we going?" asked mr. parlin. "i do not know exactly," replied mrs. clifford; "but i will tell you how far mr. skeels, one of our oldest natives, calls it. he says 'he reckons it is three screeches.'" "how far is a 'screech,' pray?" "the distance a human voice can be heard, i presume." "let us try it," said dotty dimple; and she instantly set up a scream so loud that the birds in the trees took to their wings in alarm. katie chimed in with a succession of little shrieks about as powerful as the peep of a little chicken. "i have heard that they once measured distances by 'shoots,'" said mrs. clifford, laughing; "but i hope it will not be necessary to illustrate _them_ by firing a gun." they next passed on old and weatherworn graveyard. "this," said mrs. clifford, "was once known, in the choice language of the backwoodsmen, as a 'briar-patch;' and when people died, it was said they 'winked out.'" "'winked out,' aunt 'ria? how dreadful!" "wing tout," echoed katie; "how defful!" "o, what beautiful, beautiful grass we're riding by, auntie! when the wind blows it, it _winks_ so softly! why, it looks like a green river running ever so fast." "that is a sort of prairie land, dear, and very rich. look on the other side of the road, and tell me what you think of those trees." "o, aunt 'ria, i couldn't climb up there, nor a boy either! it would take a pretty spry squirrel--wouldn't it, though?" "a pitty sp'y squirrel, i fink," remarked katie, who did not consider any of dotty's sentences complete until she herself had added a finishing touch. "they are larger than our trees, alice." "o, yes, papa. they look as if they grew, and grew, and forgot to stop." "velly long trees, tenny rate," said katie, throwing up her arms in imitation of branches, and jumping so high that her mother was obliged to take her in her lap in order to keep her in the carriage. "and, o, papa, it is so smooth between the trees, we can peep like a spy-glass, right through! why, it seems like a church." "_i_ don't see um," said katie, stretching her neck and looking in vain for a church. "'the groves were god's first temples,'" repeated mr. parlin, reverently. "these trees have no undergrowth of shrubs, like our new england trees." "but, o, look! look, papa! what is that long green _dangle_, dripping down from up high? no, swinging up from down low?' "yes, what is um, uncle eddard?" "that is a mistletoe-vine embracing a hickory tree. it is called a 'tree-thief,' because it steals its food from the tree it grows upon." "why, papa, i shouldn't think 'twas a thief, for the tree knows it. a thief comes in the night, when there doesn't anybody know it. _i_ should think 'twas a _beggar_." "_i_ fink so too," said flyaway, straining her eyes to look at she knew not what. "i fink um ought to ask _pease_." "all this tract of country where we are riding now," said mrs. clifford, "was overflowed last spring by the river. it is called 'bottom land,' and is extremely rich." "i never thought the hoojers had a very clean, blue, pretty river," said dotty, thoughtfully; "it looks some like a mud-puddle. perhaps it carried off too much of this dirt." "muddy-puddil," replied katie, "full of dirt." as they rode they passed houses whose chimneys were inhospitably left out of doors. "why, look, auntie," said dotty; "theres a house turned wrong side out!" these buildings had no cellars, but were propped upon logs, leaving room for the air to pass under the floor, and for other things to pass under, such as cats, dogs, and chickens. "why, where _do_ the people go to when they want to go down cellar?" asked dotty, in a maze. near one of these houses she was seized with an irresistible thirst. mr. parlin gave the reins to mrs. clifford, and stepped out of the carriage, then helped dotty and katie to alight. they found a sharp-nosed woman cooking corn-dodgers for a family of nine children. whether it was their breakfast or dinner hour, it was hard to tell. when mr. parlin asked for water, the woman wiped her forehead with her apron, and replied, "o, yes, stranger," and one of the little girls, whose face was stained with something besides the kisses of the sun, brought some water from the spring in a gourd. "well, dotty dimple," said mrs. clifford, when they were all on their way again, "what did you see in the house?" "o, i saw a woman with a whittled nose, and a box of flowers in the window." "and children," said katie; "four, five hunnerd chillen." "the box was labelled 'assorted lozenges,'" said mr. parlin; "but i observed that it contained a black imperial rose; so the occupants have an eye for beauty, after all. i presume they cannot trust their flowers out of doors on account of the pigs." "they brought me water in a squash-shell," cried dotty; "it _is_ so funny out west!" "_i_ dinked in a skosh-shell, too; and i fink it's _velly_ funny out west!" said little echo. they were riding behind the other carriage, and at some distance, in order to avoid the dust from its wheels. "henry has stopped," said mrs. clifford. "we have reached 'small's enlargement,' and cannot comfortably ride any farther. the lot next to this is ours, and it is there we are going for the pecans." dotty could hardly wait to be lifted out, so eager was she to walk on the "small enlargement." she spoke of it afterwards as an "ensmallment;" and the confusion of ideas was very natural. it was the place where grace and the "princess of the ruby seal" had gone, some years before, to have their fortunes told. it was a wild picturesque region, overgrown with tulip trees, judas trees, and scrub oaks. chapter ix. in the woods. the party walked leisurely along till they came to a log church, which mr. parlin paused to admire. it was in harmony, he said, with the roughness of the landscape. "i should like to attend service here by moonlight; i think it would be very sweet and solemn in such a lonely place. there would be no sound outside; and as you looked through the open door, you would only see a few quiet trees listening to the words of praise." "the evenings here must seem like something holy," said mrs. clifford, "'the nun-like evenings, telling dew-beads as they go.'" "o, my shole!" cried katie, dancing before the church door, and clapping her hands; "that's the bear's house, the _bear's_ house! little boy went in there, drank some of the old bear's podge, so _sour_ he couldn't drink it." here she looked disgusted, but added with a honeyed smile, "then bimeby drank some o' _little_ bear's podge, and '_twas_ so sweet he drank it aw--all up!" everybody laughed, it was so absurd to think of looking for bears and porridge in a building where people met to worship. dotty had just been saying to herself, "how strange that god is in this mizzable house out west, just as if it was in portland!" but katie had rudely broken in upon her meditations. "o, what a flyaway!" said she; "you don't do any good." "yes, i does." "well, what?" "o, i tell 'tories." "is that all?" "i p'ay with little goorls; and then i p'ay some more; and i wash de dishes. i'll tell _you_ a 'tory," added she, balancing herself on a stump, and making wild gestures with her arms, somewhat as she had seen horace do. "'woe to de dotties and sons 'o men, woe to 'em all when i yoam again!'" one wee forefinger pointed up to the sky; the right hand, doubled to a threatening little fist, was shaken at dotty, while the young orator's face was so wrinkled with scowls that dotty laughed outright. "do speak that again," she said. "you are the cunningest baby!" '"woe to de dotties--!' no, i can't tell it 'thout i have sumpin to stan' on!" sighed miss flyaway, falling off the stump directly against dotty. "i believe you've broken me," cried dotty; for, though katie was small, her weight pressed heavily. "well, fibby's broke sumpin too," replied she, calmly. "what does lamps wear?" "i s'pose you mean chimneys." "yes, fibby has did it; she's broke a chimley." "look up here, little ruffleneck; you're an honor to the state," said brother horace, proudly. "you don't find such a 'cute child as this in yankee land, dotty dimple." "you musn't call me a yankee," said dotty, who never liked horace's tone when he used the word. "i'm not a yankee; i'm a 'publican!" "hurrah for you!" shouted horace, swinging his hat; "hurrah for miss parlin number three!" "dear, dear! what have i said now? i don't want him to hurrah for me," thought dotty. horace returned to his manners. "she's such a firebrand that i like to make her eyes flash; but we must be polite to visitors; so here goes." "cousin dotty," said he aloud, dropping his mocking tones, and speaking very respectfully, "if you are a true republican, i honor you as such, and i'll never call you a yankee again." "well, i _am_ a 'publican to the white bone!" what dotty meant by the "white bone" was rather uncertain, it being one of those little figures of speech which will not bear criticism. "then you believe in universal suffering?" "o, yes," answered dotty, quickly. "and the black walnut bureau?" dotty hesitated. "if the 'publicans do, and my father does." "o, yes; everybody believes in the black walnut bureau--that ever saw one." dotty glanced at horace stealthily; but his face was so serious that she was sure he could not be making sport of her. they were walking a little in advance of the others, horace dragging flyaway, who was intent upon digging her little heels into the ground. "this place is sometimes called goblin valley," said the boy. "a goblin means a sort of ghost; but nobody but simpletons believe in such things," added he, quickly, for he was too high-minded to wish to frighten his little cousin. "o, i'm not at all afraid of such things," said dotty quietly; "i've got all over it. i know what ghosts are now; they are pumpkins." "excuse my smiling," said horace, laughing uproariously. "you may laugh, cousin horace, but i've seen them. they have a candle inside; and that's why my father brought me out west, because the doctor said it frightened me so. why, they had to pour water over me and drown me almost to death, or i'd have died!" "i wonder!" "yes, 'twas johnny eastman; but his mamma gave me a beautiful little tea-set, with _golder_ rims than the one that was burnt up; and johnny and percy both felt dreadfully." "wanted the tea-set themselves--did they?" "o, no; _they_ never play tea. that isn't why they feel dreadfully; it's because, if they ever frighten me again, the mayor'll have them put in the _penitential_, and they know it." "they were mean fellows; that's a fact," said horace, with genuine indignation. "i used to be full of mischief when i was small; but i never frightened a little girl in my life; and no boy would do it that thinks anything of himself." dotty looked up admiringly at the youth of twelve years, liking him all the better for his chivalry, as any of you little girls would have done. "boy-cousins are not always alike," said she, as if the idea was quite new; "some are good, and some are naugh--" the word was cut in two by a scream. a large and very handsome snake was gliding gracefully across her path. the like of it for size and brilliancy, she had never seen before. "o, how boo-ful!" cried katie, darting after it. horace held her back. dotty trembled violently. "kill it," she screamed; "throw stones at it; take me away! take me away!" "poh, dotty; nothing but an innocent snake; he's more afraid of you than you are of him." "you told him take you away two times," exclaimed katie, "and he didn't, and he didn't." "i never knew you had such awful things out west," said dotty shuddering. "and i don't think _now_ there's _any_ difference in boy-cousins! they never take you away, nor do anything you ask 'em to--so there!" "why, dotty, he was hurrying as fast as he could to get out of our sight; there was no need of taking you away." "she needn't be 'fraid," observed flyaway, soothingly; "if i had a sidders, i could ha' cutted him in two." by this time the rest of the party had arrived. grace and cassy walked together very confidentially under the same umbrella which had sheltered them years ago--a black one marked with white paint, "stolen from h.s. clifford." "bold thieves" horace called them; but they deigned no notice of his remark. "i'll get an answer," murmured horace, repeating aloud,-- "'hey for the apple and ho for the pear, but give me the girl with the red hair.'" at this grace turned around sharply, and shook her bare head, which gleamed in the sun like burnt gold. "panoria swan has red hair," said she,--"fire-red; but mine is auburn." "o, i only wanted to make you speak, grace; that will do." "here we are at the woods," said mr. clifford. he had once owned a neighboring lot, and his pecan trees had been fenced around to protect them from the impertinent swine; but now the party were going into the heart of the forest. the pecan trees were tall, somewhat like maples, with the nuts growing on them in shucks, after the manner of walnuts. these shucks, if left till the coming of frost, would have opened of themselves, and scattered the nuts to the ground; but our friends preferred to gather a few bushels before they were perfectly ripened, rather than lose them altogether. as the easiest method, mr. clifford said they might as well fell a tree, for he had a right to do so. he had brought an axe in his carriage; and mr. parlin, whose good right arm had never been injured in the war, soon brought a noble tree to the ground. then there was a scrambling to see which should break off the most shucks. dotty sat down on a log, half afraid there might be a snake lurking under it, and picked with all her might. [illustration: going nutting.--page .] "we don't have any pecans at deering's oaks," she thought, "and nothing but shells at the islands. i only wish prudy was here. prudy would think i had a little temper at horace just now; i wonder if he did. i will show him i am sorry; for he _is_ a good boy, and a great deal more 'style' and polite than percy." "what makes our little darling look so dismal?" said cassy, taking a seat beside dotty dimple. "o, i was thinking a great _many_ things! i'm so far off, cassy! when i think of that, i want to scream right out. prudy's at home, and i'm here! i don't want to be so far off". "but only think, dear, how much you will have to tell when you get home; and in such a little while too." dotty was instantly consoled, for a crowd of recollections rushed into her mind of wonderful events which had occurred since she parted from prudy. the "far off" feeling left her as she thought of the stories she should have to tell to admiring listeners one of these days. when it was time for dinner, mrs. clifford spread a table-cloth on the ground, and covered it with the nice food she had brought. it was a delightful entertainment. flyaway was so nearly wild with the new experience of eating in the woods, among the toads and squirrels, that she required constant watching to keep her within bounds. she wanted to run after all the little creeping things she saw, and give them part of her dinner. horace gladly assumed the care of her. he did not mean that his mother should regret having brought little topknot. chapter x. surprises. after a very happy day in the woods, the cliffords started for home with as many nuts as they could carry. dotty said she had had a nice time; but for some reason she could not go to sleep that night. there was a burning sensation in her right side, and she had a horrible fancy that a snake had bitten her. she could not endure the thought of lying and listening to the strokes of the clock. "i'll go find my father," thought she, with that "far-off" feeling at her heart again. but which way to go? she had not yet learned the plan of the house, but had no doubt she could find her father's room. she pattered about the chambers with her little bare feet, and at last waked horace by overturning a chair near his bed. "why, who is there? and what's wanted?" "it's me, and i want my father." by this time aunt maria, hearing a noise, had come in with a light. "are you sick, dear child?" "no, auntie; i don't know what's the matter; i 'spect it's the blues. i had 'em you know, when the beer came to an end--i mean the world--i mean that night polly whiting called me up." horace used all his self-control to keep from laughing. "well, cousin dotty, you do look blue, i declare; as blue as the skimmiest milk of the cheatiest milkman. mother, isn't there something in the medicine chest that is good for the blues?" "they are in my side--i mean _it_," said dotty, dismally. "i'm afraid it's a--snake?" mrs. clifford took the afflicted child in her arms, and began to question her with regard to the exact spot where she felt the "blues," assuring her that some relief might be afforded if the nature of the trouble could only be discovered. "o, ho," cried horace, suddenly; "i know what it is; it's a jigger." upon reflection, it was decided that horace might be right. a little creature called the _chègre_, had perhaps made its way out of some decayed log and crept in under dotty's skin, causing all this heat and irritation. there was a small, hard swelling on her side, which appeared to move. her father asked her if she was willing to have him cut it out with his penknife. dotty hesitated; her nerves quivered at sight of the sharp blade. "but that cruel little _chègre_ is drinking your blood, my daughter. the more he drinks, the larger he will grow, and the harder it will be to cut him out." "that's so," said horace. "i could preach, with jigger for a text. ahem! he is like sin--the more you let him stay, the more you'll wish you hadn't. come, dotty, be brave, and out with him!" "you can talk to _me_," said dotty, bitterly; "but if it was _your_ side that had a _jiggle_ in, perhaps you'd feel as bad's i do." horace was prepared for this. "but i've had them cut out twice, miss. being a boy, i could bear it!" this settled the question. "girls are just as brave as boys," said dotty; and submitted to the knife without a murmur. the next day she was regarded as something of an invalid. she had lost so much sleep that she did not rise until her father was far away on his journey. aunt maria gave her a late breakfast, which was also to serve for an early dinner. it was an oyster-stew; and dotty enjoyed eating it in mrs. clifford's room on the lounge. katie sat beside her, watching every mouthful, and begging for it the moment it entered the spoon. "don't tease so," said dotty; "your poor cousin is sick; you don't want to take away her soup?" "yes, i does," replied katie, coolly; "i likes it myself," opening her mouth for more. dotty gave her an oyster. the next moment something grated against katie's teeth, and she picked out the hard substance with her fingers. mrs. clifford happened to see it. "that is a pearl," said she. "a pearl, auntie? why, isn't that something precious? mamma has pearls in a ring." "i will show it to your uncle," replied mrs. clifford, turning it over in her hand; "but i think it is a true pearl, only a little discolored by the heat it has undergone in being cooked." "o, i'll have a ring made of it! what funny oysters you do have out west!" "the pyurl is mine," said katie; "i finded it in my toof." "no, it's mine, darling, for 'twas in my stew." "well, tenny rate, i want um," said katie, dancing around the sofa, "_if_ you pees um." "o, no; little bits of girlies don't need it--do they, auntie?" "i hope," said mrs. clifford, smiling, "it will not cost either of you any of those 'falling pearls which men call tears.' it isn't worth crying about." katie was easily persuaded to give it up. "you may keep um if you'll let me have two poun's of gold; _two_ poun's to make me a ying." dotty could not promise the gold; but said katie should have the next pickled lime she bought with her money; and this answered quite as well. just as dotty was going to her room to put away the choice pearl in a box which stood in her trunk, there was a loud noise. phebe, coming up stairs with a pail of water in each hand, had stumbled and fallen. the water was pouring down in a cataract, and after it rattled the pails mrs. clifford ran to the rescue. phebe was looking aghast, making a wild gesture with one hand, and rubbing her nose with the other. "you didn't fall on your _nose_, phebe?" "yes, ma'am," sobbed the poor girl; "and i believe it's broke; i heard it crack!" mrs. clifford might have upbraided phebe for carrying two buckets up stairs at once, contrary to orders; but she did nothing of the sort; she kindly sent for the surgeon, who set the two fragments of nose together as well as he could. "never mind it, child," remarked he, facetiously, to the disconsolate phebe; "you have only been beautifying your countenance. hereafter you will not be taken for one of the flat-nosed race." the young african saw no amusement in the joke, and left the room with her handkerchief at her eyes. "doctor," said mrs. clifford, "how could you speak so to that poor child? she has just as much regard for her personal appearance as you and i have for ours. you never use such language to one of my family; and please remember i would not have the feelings of my servants unnecessarily wounded any sooner than those of my children." "i stand rebuked, my dear madam," replied the family physician, respectfully. "i wish there were more such women as mrs. clifford," mused he, as he drove home; "she lives up to the golden rule; and if there's any better prescription than the golden rule for making a lady, i haven't seen it yet; that's all." it was one of those days when strange things seem ready to happen, one after another. dotty, whose little head was rather unsettled by seeing and hearing so many new things, had an impression that such events as these were always occurring out west, and that they would never have happened anywhere else. _chègres_ in logs, pearls in oysters; and now somebody had fallen up stairs and broken her nose. in maine who ever heard the like? dotty twirled her hair, in a state of wonder as to what would come next. it came before bedtime. she and grace had been marching about the dining-room, singing martial songs. they went into the darkened parlor, still promenading, grace's arm about her little cousin's waist. suddenly grace stopped, and whispered,-- "what's that?" dotty listened. it was a groan. it must proceed from a human throat; but there was no one in the room but their two selves. "i think there is _something_ in the hall," whispered grace; "i must go tell papa." mr. clifford immediately took a lamp, and went to investigate the mystery. dotty insisted upon going too, though she hardly knew why, except that the prospect of some unknown horror fascinated her. she clung to the skirt of her uncle's coat, though he would have preferred not to be hindered. no one else, not even horace, cared to follow. as they entered the parlor there was the same sound from the hall, even more unearthly than ever. dotty had entire faith in her uncle, and was not at all alarmed till they passed through the parlor doorway, and she saw the finger-prints of blood on the panels. then she did tremble, and she had half a mind to draw back; but curiosity was stronger than fear. what _could_ it be that walked into people's houses _out west_, and groaned so in their front halls? she must see the whole thing for herself, and be prepared to describe it to prudy. she soon knew what it meant. there was a poor intoxicated man lying on the mat. seeing the door open, he had staggered in while the family were at tea. in some way he had hurt his hand, and stained the door with blood. so there was nothing at all mysterious or supernatural in the affair, when it was once explained. the poor creature was too helpless to be sent into the street; and mr. clifford and katinka carried him into the stable, and laid him upon a bed of sweet hay. "i'm glad not to be a hoojer," said dotty, with a severe look at her cousin horace. "you don't ever see such bad men in the state of maine. the whiskey is locked up; and i don't know as there _is_ any whiskey." "down east is a great place, dotty! don't i wish i was a yankee--i mean a 'publican?" "but you can't be, horace," returned little dotty, looking up at him with deep pity in her bright eyes; "you weren't born there. you're a hoojer, and you'll have to _stay_ a hoojer." chapter xi. sniggling for eels. next day mr. clifford said he would take all the children, except miss flyaway, to see a coal mine. it was nothing new to horace, who was in the habit of exploring his native town as critically as a regularly employed surveyor. you could hardly show him anything which he had not already seen and examined carefully, from a steamboat to a dish of "sour-krout." grace and cassy were by no means as learned, and had never ventured under ground. they feared, yet longed, to make the experiment. as for dotty, she knew jennie vance's ring had been found in a mine. she had a vague notion that strange, half-human creatures were at work in the bowels of the earth, hunting for similar bits of jewelry. she had a secret hope that, if she went down there, she might herself see something shining in a dark corner; and what if it should be a piece of yellow gold, just suitable to be made into a ring to contain the oyster pearl! how surprised jennie vance would be to see such a precious treasure on her little friend's finger! "she didn't find her ring herself, and it isn't a pearl. but i shan't give mine away, and shan't promise to, and then tell that i never. that's a _hyper'blee_!" dotty had found a new name for white lies. "it is so nice," said grace, as they started from the door, "to have a little cousin visiting us! for it makes us think of going to a great many places where we never went before." "then i'm glad there _is_ a little cousin, and _very_ glad it's me." "they like to have me here," she thought, "almost as much as if i was prudy." horace enjoyed the distinction of walking with the handsome miss dimple. when they met one of the boys of his acquaintance, he found an opportunity to whisper in his ear,-- "this is our little cousin from down east. isn't she a beauty? she can climb a tree as well as you can." dotty heard the whisper, and unconsciously tossed her head a little. she could not but conclude that she was becoming a personage of some consequence. "i'm a beauty; and now i'm growing pleasant, too. i don't have any temper, and haven't had any for a great while." dotty did not reflect that there had been no occasion for anger. if one cannot be amiable when one is visiting, and is treated with every possible attention, then one must be ill-natured indeed! dotty deceived herself. the lion was still there; he was curled up, and out of sight in his den. they passed several lager-beer saloons and candy shops; saw dutchmen smoking meerschaums under broad awnings; and heard them talking in the guttural german language, as if--so dotty thought--they had something in their throats which they could not swallow. after walking a long distance on a level road, and seeing nothing which looked like a hill, they came to the coal mines. such a dirty spot! there were men standing about with faces as black as night, and out of the blackness gleamed the whites of their eyes like bits of white paper surrounded by pools of ink. dotty stood still and gazed. "horace," she whispered, "my conscience tells me they are niggroes." "then, dear, your conscience has made a mistake; they are white men when they are clean." mr. clifford went up to one of the men, and asked if himself and the little people, might have an inside view of the mine. the man smiled a black and white smile, which dotty thought was horrible, and said,-- "o, yes, sir; come on." there was a large platform lying over the top like a trap-door, and through this platform was drawn a large rope. grace and cassy both screamed as they stood upon the planks, and caught mr. clifford by the arms. dotty was not afraid; she liked the excitement. the men said it was as safe as going down cellar, and she believed them. but she was not exactly prepared for the strange, wild, dizzy sensation in her head when they began to sink down, down into the earth. it was delightful. "it seemed like being swung very high in the air," she said, "only it was just as _different_, too, as it could be." the men had live torches in their caps, which startled the dark mine with gleams of light and strange black shadows. "i don't feel as if i was in this world," cried dotty, with a sensation of awe, and catching grace by the arm to make sure she was near some one who had warm flesh and blood. after this emotion had passed, she went around by herself, and explored the mine carefully, telling no one what she was seeking. there was the blackest of coal and the darkest of earth in abundance; but dotty dimple did not find a gold ring, nor anything which looked more like it than two blind mules. these poor animals lived in the mines, and hauled coal. they had once possessed as good eyes as mules need ask for; but, living where there was nothing but darkness to be seen, and no sunlight to see it by, pray what did they need of eyesight? "cassy," said grace, "don't you remember, when we were children, we used to say we meant some time to live together and keep house? suppose we try it here. we might have gas-light, you know, and all our food could be brought down on a dumb waiter." "yes," said cassy, who was very fond of sleep; "and we needn't ever get up in the morning." "no skeetos," suggested dotty. "men have lived in the earth sometimes," said horace. "there was st. dunstan; his cell was hardly large enough to stand in--was it, father? and sometimes he stood in water all night, and sang psalms." "what was that for, uncle edward?" "he was trying to please god." "but uncle, i don't believe god liked it." "the man was, no doubt, insane, dear. but his perseverance in doing what he thought right was something grand. now suppose, children, we ascend and see what is going on atop of the earth." "i'm glad we didn't always have to stay in that black hole," said dotty, catching her breath as they were drawn up. then the thought occurred to her that the one who had made the sunlight and the soft green earth was kinder than she had ever supposed. "well," said cousin horace, "now we've done the mine; and this evening, dotty, you and i will go and sniggle for eels." dotty dared not tell any one that she had expected to find gold, and had been disappointed. her first act, after reaching aunt 'ria's was to look in the little box for her precious pearl. it was gone! no doubt flyaway had taken it. dotty mourned over her own carelessness in leaving her treasure where the roguish little one could reach it. instead of finding gold, she had lost something she supposed was more precious than gold. but she bore up as bravely as possible, and said to mrs. clifford,-- "you needn't punish the baby, aunt 'ria; she didn't know she was stealing." dotty had never seen an eel. like a coal mine, a pearl, a guinea pig, a drunken man, and a _chègre_, she supposed an eel was peculiar to the climate, and could be found nowhere but out west. as it had been described as being "really a fish, but looking more like a snake," she did not expect to be very much charmed with its personal appearance. she wished to catch one, or see one caught, because it would be something to tell prudy. there was no moon, and the night was cloudy. "my son, be sure you take good care of your cousin," said mrs. clifford, the last thing. "so funny!" dotty thought. "they don't seem to think there's anybody else in this world but just _me_!" horace carried with him some light wood, and, when they reached the river bank, kindled a bright fire. "we'll make things look friendly and pleasant," said he; "and by and by mr. eel will walk along to the fire, and ask if we entertain travellers. 'if so,' says he, 'you may count me in.'" "how dried up the river looks!" said dotty. "that is because the draymen have taken so much water out of it, little cousin. haven't you seen them going by with barrels?" "i shouldn't think the mayor'd 'low them to do it, horace; for some time there won't be any river left." "it's too bad to impose upon you," said horace, laughing; "i was only joking." dotty drew herself up with so much dignity that she nearly fell backward into the fire. good-natured horace repented him of his trifling. "look down in the water, dotty, and see if there is anything there that looks like an eel?" dotty did not move. "don't go to being vexed, chickie; you're as bright as anybody, after all." dotty smiled again. "there," said horace, "now we'll begin not to talk. we'll not say a word, and next thing we know, we'll catch that eel." but he was mistaken. they knew several other things before they knew they had caught an eel. horace knew it was growing late, and dotty knew it made her sleepy to sit without speaking. "enough of this," cried horace, breaking the spell of silence at last. "you may talk now as much as you please. i've had my line out two hours. they say 'in mud eel is;' but i don't believe it." "nor i either." but at that very moment an eel bit. horace drew him in with great satisfaction. dotty gave a little start of disgust, but had the presence of mind not to scream at sight of the ugly creature, because she had heard horace say girls always did scream at eels. "he will know now i _am_ as bright as anybody; as bright as a boy." they started for home, well pleased with their evening's work. "did you notice," asked dotty, "how i acted? i never screamed at that eel once." "you're a lady, dotty. i don't know but you might be trusted to go trouting. i never dared take prudy, she is troubled so with palpitation of the tongue." a proud moment this for dotty. more discreet than sister prudy. praise could no farther go! an agreeable surprise awaited her at aunt maria's. "please accept with my love," said grace, giving her a tiny box. dotty opened the box, and found, enveloped in rose-colored cotton, a beautiful gold ring, dotted with a pearl. "i was the thief, cousin dotty. i hope you will excuse the liberty i took in going to your trunk." "so it is my own oyster pearl," cried dotty. "o, i never was so glad in my life." chapter xii. "a post office letter." the "far-off" feeling rather increased upon dotty. it seemed to her that she had never before reflected upon the immense distance which lay between her and home. the house might burn up before ever she got back. prudy might have a lung fever, and mamma the "typo." it was possible for zip to choke with a bone, and for a thousand other dreadful things to happen. and if dotty were needed ever so much, she could not reach home without travelling all those miles. then, what if one of the conductors should prove to be a "_non,_" and she should never reach home at all, but, instead of that, should be found lying in little pieces under a railroad bridge? sister prudy had never troubled her head with such fancies. the dear god would attend to her, she knew. he cared just as much about her one little self as if she had been the whole united states. but dotty did not understand how this could be. "i wish i hadn't come out west at all," thought she. "they're going to take me up to indi'nap'lis; and there i'll have to stay, p'raps a week; for my father always has such long business! dear, dear! and i don't know but everybody's dead!" just as she had drawn a curtain of gloom over her bright little face, and had buried both her dimples under it, and all her smiles, uncle henry came home from his office, looking very roguish. "well, little miss, and what do you suppose i've brought you from up town? put on your thinking-cap, and tell me." "bananas? papaws? 'simmons? lemons? dear me, what is it? is it to eat or wear? and have you got it in your pocket?" uncle henry, who had had his hand behind him, now held it out with a letter in it--a letter in a white envelope, directed, in clear, elegant writing, to "miss alice b. parlin, care of h.s. clifford, esq., quinn, indiana." there could be no mistake about it; the letter was intended for dotty dimple, and had travelled all the way by mail. but then that title, miss, before the name! it was more than probable that the people all along the road had supposed it was intended for a young lady! [illustration: dotty's first post-office letter. _page _.] when the wonderful thing was given her, her "first post-office letter," she clapped her hands for joy. "miss? miss?" repeated she, as horace re-read the direction; for she was not learned in the mysteries of writing, and could not read it for herself. "o, yes. _miss_, certainly! if it was to me, it would be mr." "_master_, you mean," corrected grace. "no, horace, you are not mr. yet!" said dotty, confidently; "you've never been married." the next thing in order was the reading of the letter. dotty tore it open with a trembling hand. i should like to see another letter that would make a child so happy as that one did! it was written by three different people, and all to the same little girl. not a line to uncle henry or aunt maria, or horace or grace. all to dotty's self, as if she were a personage of the first importance. mamma began it. how charming to see "my dear little daughter," traced so carefully in printed capitals! then it was such a satisfaction to be informed, in the sweetest language, that this same "dear little daughter" was sadly missed. dotty was so glad to be missed! there was a present waiting for her at home. mrs. parlin was not willing to say what it was; but it had been sent by aunt madge from the city of new york, and must be something fine. there were two whole pages of the clear, fair writing, signed at the close, "your affectionate mother, mary l. parlin." just as if dotty didn't know what mother's name was! then susy followed with a short account of zip, and how he had stuck himself full of burs. (he wasn't choked yet, thought dotty; and that was a comfort.) then a longer account of the children's picnic at deering's oaks. dotty sighed, and felt that fate had been rather cruel in depriving her of that picnic. "but i have had something better than that," said she, brightening; "i've walked on an ensmallment, and i have picked pecans." but the best was to come. it was from prudy. "my dear little darling sister: i want to see you more than tongue can tell. norah let susy bake some biscuits last night, because there wasn't anybody at home but mother, and grandma, and susy, and norah, and me. but they were as tough as _sew leather_. susy forgot the creamor tartar, and soda, and salt. she wasn't to blame. "i'm so lonesome i can't wait to see my darling sister. "now i have some news to tell:-- "mother is going to be married! "you will think that is funny; but she is going to be married to the same husband she was before. "it will be a crystal wedding, because it is fifteen years. "she invites you and father to come home to it; she couldn't have it without father. "you are going to be the bridesmaid! how queer! mamma didn't think, the first time she was married, that ever it would be _you_ that would be her bridesmaid! "from your dear, dear "prudy." "p.s. there will be wedding cake." "p.s. no. . johnny eastman is going to be _bridegroom_, to stand up, if he doesn't do anything naughty before. p.p." the look of "mouldy melancholy" disappeared from dotty's face entirely. "a wedding! a _crystal_ wedding! what can that be? i didn't know my father and mother would ever be married any more. aunt 'ria, were you and uncle henry ever married any more?" "this is a sort of make-believe wedding," replied mrs. clifford; "that is all. and since you are to be bridesmaid, dotty, i wonder if i cannot find a pair of white slippers for you. i remember grace had a pair some years ago, which she has never worn." [illustration: the white slippers.--page .] the slippers were produced, and fitted perfectly. dotty danced about, embraced her auntie, made a great many wild speeches, and finally found herself in her uncle's lap, kissing him and laughing aloud. "i suppose now," said mr. clifford, "we cannot keep you much longer and i am sorry, for it is very pleasant to have our little cousin here to talk with us." "i don't wan't um go 'way, i don't want um go 'way," spoke up little katie. "but i _must_ go to meet my papa," returned dotty, with a business air. "i have to be at home to get ready for the wedding." it was very pleasant to know people liked her to stay. she ran into the kitchen, and said to katinka,-- "o, katinka, my papa and mamma are going to be married again! do you know i've got to start day after to-morrow?" "so?" replied katinka, not very much impressed. "i'm going to a party. i must up stairs go, and make my hairs and shut my dress. gute nacht." "i'm only going to stay one more day; aren't you sorry?" said dotty to broken-nosed phebe, who came in from the pantry with a long face. "why, i reckoned you was going _to-morrow_," was phebe's cool reply, rolling the whites of her eyes to hide a twinkle of fun. she knew dotty expected her to say, "i am sorry;" but, though she really was sorry, she would not confess it just then, because she was an inveterate tease. dotty felt a little chilled. she could not look into the future and see the tomato pincushion phebe was to give her, with the assurance that "she liked her a heap; she was a right smart child, and not a bit stuck up." the day ended with dotty's dear, dear letter under her pillow. she was going to be very happy by and by; but just now she thought she was so homesick that she should never go to sleep. she longed to see prudy, and hear her say, "o, you darling sister!" then that wedding! those white slippers! how they did all miss her at home! such dear friends as she had, and such beautiful things as were going to happen! "but they are so good to me here! i've behaved so well they love me dearly. if i go home, i can't stay here and have good times. i should be happy if i was at my mother's house and out west too! every time i'm glad, then there's something else to make me sorry." so, between a smile and a tear, dotty dimple passed into the beautiful land of dreams; and the moon shone on a little face with a frown between the eyes and a dimple dancing in each cheek. what happened to her on her way home and afterward will be told in the story of dotty dimple at play. [illustration: sophie may's "little folks" books.] "the authoress of the little prudy stories would be elected aunty-laureate if the children had an opportunity, for the wonderful books she writes for their amusement. she is the dickens of the nursery, and we do not hesitate to say develops the rarest sort of genius in the specialty of depicting smart little children."--_hartford post_. _lee and shepard, publishers, boston_. copyright, , by lee & shepard. * * * * * [illustration: portrait of sophie may (rebecca sophia clarke)] the children will not be left without healthful entertainment and kindly instruction so long as sophie may (miss rebecca s. clarke) lives and wields her graceful pen in their behalf. miss clarke has made a close and loving study of childhood, and she is almost idolized by the crowd of 'nephews and nieces' who claim her as aunt. nothing to us can ever be quite so delightfully charming as were the 'dotty dimple' and the 'little prudy' books to our youthful imaginations, but we have no doubt the little folks of to-day will find the story of 'flaxie frizzle' and her young friends just as fascinating. there is a sprightliness about all of miss clarke's books that attracts the young, and their purity, their absolute _cleanliness_, renders them invaluable in the eyes of parents and all who are interested in the welfare of children."--_morning star_. "genius comes in with 'little prudy.' compared with her, all other book-children are cold creations of literature; she alone is the real thing. all the quaintness of children, its originality, its tenderness and its teasing, is infinite uncommon drollery, the serious earnestness of its fun, the fun of its seriousness, the naturalness of its plays, and the delicious oddity of its progress, all these united for dear little prudy to embody them."--_north american review_. specimen cut to "little prudy's flyaway series." [illustration: prudy keeping house.] "'my, what a fascinating creature,' said the man in the moon, making an eye-glass with his thumb and fore-finger, and gazing at the lady boarder. 'are you a widow woman?'" * * * * * little grandmother. "grandmother parlen when a little girl is the subject. of course that was ever so long ago, when there were no lucifer matches, and steel and tinder were used to light fires; when soda and saleratus had never been heard of, but people made their pearl ash by soaking burnt crackers in water; when the dressmaker and the tailor and the shoemaker went from house to house twice a year to make the dresses and coats of the family."--_transcript_. * * * * * little grandfather. "the story of grandfather parlen's little boy life, of the days of knee breeches and cocked hats, full of odd incidents, queer and quaint sayings, and the customs of 'ye olden time.' these stories of sophie may's are so charmingly written that older folks may well amuse themselves by reading them. the same warm sympathy with childhood, the earnest naturalness, the novel charm of the preceding volumes will be found in this."--_christian messenger_. * * * * * miss thistledown. "one of the queerest of the prudy family. read the chapter heads and you will see just how much fun there must be in it. 'fly's heart,' 'taking a nap,' 'going to the fair,' 'the dimple dot,' 'the hole in the home,' 'the little bachelor,' 'fly's bluebeard,' 'playing mamma,' 'butter spots,' 'polly's secret,' 'the snow man,' 'the owl and the humming-bird,' 'tales of hunting deer,' and 'the parlen patchwork.'" * * * * * illustration to "little prudy's flyaway series" [illustration: little grandmother.] "she played in the old garret, with dr. moses to attend her dolls when they were sick." * * * * * [illustration: six volumes: per volume, cents.] flaxie frizzle. twin cousins. doctor papa. flaxie's kittyleen. little pitchers. flaxie growing up. * * * * * illustration to "flaxie frizzle series." [illustration] "the next day it rained so hard 'the water couldn't catch its breath' but the little pitchers were eager to go to school." * * * * * flaxie frizzle. "flaxie frizzle is the successor of the dotty dimple, little prudy, flyaway, and the other charming child creations of that inimitable writer for children, sophie may. there never was a healthy, fun-loving child born into this world that, at one stage of another of its growth, wouldn't be entertained with sophie may's books. for that matter, it is not safe for older folks to look into them, unless they intend to read them through. flaxie frizzle will be found as bright and pleasant reading as the others."--_boston journal_. * * * * * flaxie's doctor papa "sophie may understands children. her books are not books about them merely. she seems to know precisely how they feel, and she sets them before us, living and breathing in her pages. flaxie frizzle is a darling, and her sisters, brothers, and cousins are just the sort of little folks with whom careful mothers would like their boys and girls to associate. the story is a bright, breezy, wholesome narrative, and it is full of mirth and gayety, while its moral teaching is excellent."--_sunday school times_. * * * * * flaxie's little pitchers "little flaxie will secure a warm place in the hearts of all at once. here is her little picture. her name was mary gray, but they called her flaxie frizzle, because she had light curly hair that frizzled; and she had a curly nose,--that is, her nose curled up at the end a wee bit, just enough to make it look cunning. her cheeks were rosy red, 'and she was so fat that when mr. snow, the postmaster, saw her, he said, "how d'ye do, mother bunch?"'"--_boston home journal_. * * * * * specimen of cut to "flaxie frizzle series." [illustration] "by and by the colts came to the kitchen window, which was open, and put in their noses to ask for something to eat. flaxie gave them pieces of bread." * * * * * flaxie's twin cousins. "another of those sweet, natural child-stories in which the heroine does and says just such things as actual, live, flesh children do, is the one before us. and what is still better, each incident points a moral. the illustrations are a great addition to the delight of the youthful reader. it is just such beautiful books as this which bring to our minds, in severe contrast, the youth's literature of our early days--the good little boy who died young and the bad little boy who went fishing on sunday and died in prison, etc., etc., to the end of the threadbare, improbable chapter."--_rural new yorker_. * * * * * flaxie's kittyleen. "kittyleen--one of the flaxie frizzle series--is a genuinely helpful as well as delightfully entertaining story: the nine-year-old flaxie is worried, beloved, and disciplined by a bewitching three-year-old tormenter, whose accomplished mother allows her to prey upon the neighbors. 'everybody felt the care of mrs. garland's children. there were six of them, and their mother was always painting china. she did it beautifully, with graceful vines trailing over it, and golden butterflies ready to alight on sprays of lovely flowers. sometimes the neighbors thought it would be a fine thing if she would keep her little ones at home rather more; but, if she had done that, she could not have painted china.'"--_chicago tribune_. * * * * * flaxie growing up. "no more charming stories for the little ones were ever written than those comprised in the three series which have for several years past been from time to time added to juvenile literature by sophie may. they have received the unqualified praise of many of the most practical scholars of new england for their charming simplicity and purity of sentiment. the delightful story shows the gradual improvement of dear little flaxie's character under the various disciplines of child-life and the sweet influence of a good and happy home. the illustrations are charming pictures."--_home journal_. * * * * * illustration to "flaxie growing up." [illustration] "laughing was the very mainspring of life at camp comfort; but the girls had never laughed yet as they did now, to see buttons in full swing preparing to cook a pie." * * * * * penn shirley's stories for the little ones miss penn shirley is a very graceful interpreter of child-life. she thoroughly understands how to reach out to the tender chord of the little one's feelings, and to interest her in the noble life of her young companions. her stories are full of bright lessons, but they do not take on the character of moralizing sermons. her keen observation and ready sympathy teach her how to deal with the little ones in helping them to understand the lessons of life. her stories are simple and unaffected.--_boston herald_. the little miss weezy series three volumes illustrated boxed, each cents little miss weezy one of the freshest and most delightful, because the most natural of the stories of the year for children, is "little miss weezy," by penn shirley. it relates the oddities, the mischief, the adventures, and the misadventures of a tiny two-year-old maiden, full of life and spirit, and capable of the most unexpected freaks and pranks. the book is full of humor, and is written with a delicate sympathy with the feelings of children, which will make it pleasing to children and parents alike. really good child literature is not over-plenty, despite the multitude of books that come daily from the press; and it is pleasing to welcome a new author whose first volume, like this one of penn shirley, adds promise of future good work to actual present merit.--_boston courier_. * * * * * specimen illustration from "little miss weezy." [illustration] copyright, , by lee & shepard. * * * * * little miss weezy's brother this is a good story for young children, bringing in the same characters as "little miss weezy" of last year, and continuing the history of a very natural and wide-awake family of children. the doings and the various "scrapes" of kirke, the brother, form a prominent feature of the books, and are such as we may see any day in the school or home life of a well-cared-for and good-intentioned little boy. there are several quite pleasing full-page illustrations.--_the dial_. we should like to see the person who thinks it "easy enough to write for children," attempt a book like the "miss weezy" stories. excepting sophie may's childish classics, we don't know of anything published as bright as the sayings and doings of the little louise and her friends. their pranks and capers are no more like dotty dimple's than those of one bright child are like another's, but they are just as "cute" as those of the little folks that play in your yard or around your neighbor's doorsteps.--_journal of education_. * * * * * little miss weezy's sister "it is one of the best of the series, and will please every child who reads it. it is brought out just at the holiday time, and is brimful of good things. every character in it is true to nature and the doings of a bright lot of children, in which miss mary rowe figures conspicuously, will entertain grown folks as well as little ones." it is a thoroughly clever and delightful story of child life, gracefully told, and charming in its blending of humor and pathos. the children in the book are real children, and the pretty plot through which they move is fully in harmony with the characters. the young ones will find it a storehouse of pleasant things pleasantly related, and a book that will appeal at once to their sentiments and sympathies.--_boston gazette_. a book that will hold the place of honor on the nursery bookshelf until it falls to pieces from such handling is "little miss weezy's sister," a simple, yet absorbing story of children who are interesting because they are so real. it is doing scant justice to say for the author, penn shirley, that the annals of child-life have seldom been traced with more loving care.--_boston times_. * * * * * specimen illustration from "little miss weezy's sister." [illustration] copyright, , by lee and shepard. * * * * * sophie may's complete works. [illustration of books mentioned] drone's honey. a novel. $ . . _the quinnebasset series_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. $ . . the doctor's daughter. our helen. the asbury twins. quinnebasset girls. janet; a poor heiress. * * * * * _little prudy stories_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. little prudy. little prudy's cousin grace. little prudy's sister susie. little prudy's story book. little prudy's captain horace. little prudy's dotty dimple. * * * * * _dotty dimple series_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. dotty dimple at her grandmother's. dotty dimple at home. dotty dimple out west. dotty dimple at play. dotty dimple at school. dotty dimple's flyaway. * * * * * _little prudy flyaway series_ volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. little folks astray. aunt madge's story. little grandfather. prudy keeping house. little grandmother. miss thistledown. * * * * * _flaxie frizzle stories_ volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. flaxie frizzle. little pitchers. flaxie's kittyleen. doctor papa. twin cousins. flaxie growing up. * * * * * lee and shepard, publishers, boston. transcribed from the james r. osgood and company edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk the sleeping car--a farce by william d. howells i. scene: one side of a sleeping-car on the boston and albany road. the curtains are drawn before most of the berths; from the hooks and rods hang hats, bonnets, bags, bandboxes, umbrellas, and other travelling gear; on the floor are boots of both sexes, set out for the porter to black. the porter is making up the beds in the upper and lower berths adjoining the seats on which a young mother, slender and pretty, with a baby asleep on the seat beside her, and a stout old lady, sit confronting each other--mrs. agnes roberts and her aunt mary. mrs. roberts. do you always take down your back hair, aunty? aunt mary. no, never, child; at least not since i had such a fright about it once, coming on from new york. it's all well enough to take down your back hair if it _is_ yours; but if it isn't, your head's the best place for it. now, as i buy mine of madame pierrot-- mrs. roberts. don't you _wish_ she wouldn't advertise it as _human_ hair? it sounds so pokerish--like human flesh, you know. aunt mary. why, she couldn't call it _in_human hair, my dear. mrs. roberts (thoughtfully). no--just _hair_. aunt mary. then people might think it was for mattresses. but, as i was saying, i took it off that night, and tucked it safely away, as i supposed, in my pocket, and i slept sweetly till about midnight, when i happened to open my eyes, and saw something long and black crawl off my bed and slip under the berth. _such_ a shriek as i gave, my dear! "a snake! a snake! oh, a snake!" and everybody began talking at once, and some of the gentlemen swearing, and the porter came running with the poker to kill it; and all the while it was that ridiculous switch of mine, that had worked out of my pocket. and glad enough i was to grab it up before anybody saw it, and say i must have been dreaming. mrs. roberts. why, aunty, how funny! how _could_ you suppose a serpent could get on board a sleeping-car, of all places in the world! aunt mary. that was the perfect absurdity of it. the porter. berths ready now, ladies. mrs. roberts (to the porter, who walks away to the end of the car, and sits down near the door). oh, thank you. aunty, do you feel nervous the least bit? aunt mary. nervous? no. why? mrs. roberts. well, i don't know. i suppose i've been worked up a little about meeting willis, and wondering how he'll look, and all. we can't _know_ each other, of course. it doesn't stand to reason that if he's been out there for twelve years, ever since i was a child, though we've corresponded regularly--at least _i_ have--that he could recognize me; not at the first glance, you know. he'll have a full beard; and then i've got married, and here's the baby. oh, _no_! he'll never guess who it is in the world. photographs really amount to nothing in such a case. i wish we were at home, and it was all over. i wish he had written some particulars, instead of telegraphing from ogden, "be with you on the a.m., wednesday." aunt mary. californians always telegraph, my dear; they never think of writing. it isn't expensive enough, and it doesn't make your blood run cold enough to get a letter, and so they send you one of those miserable yellow despatches whenever they can--those printed in a long string, if possible, so that you'll be _sure_ to die before you get to the end of it. i suppose your brother has fallen into all those ways, and says "reckon" and "ornary" and "which the same," just like one of mr. bret harte's characters. mrs. roberts. but it isn't exactly our not knowing each other, aunty, that's worrying me; that's something that could be got over in time. what is simply driving me distracted is willis and edward meeting there when i'm away from home. oh, how _could_ i be away! and why _couldn't_ willis have given us fair warning? i would have hurried from the ends of the earth to meet him. i don't believe poor edward ever saw a californian; and he's so quiet and preoccupied, i'm sure he'd never get on with willis. and if willis is the least loud, he wouldn't like edward. not that i suppose he _is_ loud; but i don't believe he knows anything about literary men. but you can see, aunty, can't you, how very anxious i must be? don't you see that i ought to have been there when willis and edward met, so as to--to--well, to _break_ them to each other, don't you know? aunt mary. oh, you needn't be troubled about that, agnes. i dare say they've got on perfectly well together. very likely they're sitting down to the unwholesomest hot supper this instant that the ingenuity of man could invent. mrs. roberts. oh, do you _think_ they are, aunty? oh, if i could _only_ believe they were sitting down to a hot supper together now, i should be _so_ happy! they'd be sure to get on if they were. there's nothing like eating to make men friendly with each other. don't you know, at receptions, how they never have anything to say to each other till the escalloped oysters and the chicken salad appear; and then how sweet they are as soon as they've helped the ladies to ice? oh, thank you, _thank_ you, aunty, for thinking of the hot supper. it's such a relief to my mind! you can understand, can't you, aunty dear, how anxious i must have been to have my only brother and my only--my husband--get on nicely together? my life would be a wreck, simply a wreck, if they didn't. and willis and i not having seen each other since i was a child makes it all the worse. i do _hope_ they're sitting down to a hot supper. an angry voice from the next berth but one. i wish people in sleeping- cars-- a voice from the berth beyond that. you're mistaken in your premises, sir. this is a waking-car. ladies, go on, and oblige an eager listener. [sensation, and smothered laughter from the other berths.] mrs. roberts (after a space of terrified silence, in a loud whisper to her aunt.) what horrid things! but now we really must go to bed. it _was_ too bad to keep talking. i'd no idea my voice was getting so loud. which berth will you have, aunty? i'd better take the upper one, because-- aunt mary (whispering). no, no; i must take that, so that you can be with the baby below. mrs. roberts. oh, how good you are, aunt mary! it's too bad; it is really. i can't let you. aunt mary. well, then, you must; that's all. you know how that child tosses and kicks about in the night. you never can tell where his head's going to be in the morning, but you'll probably find it at the foot of the bed. i couldn't sleep an instant, my dear, if i thought that boy was in the upper berth; for i'd be sure of his tumbling out over you. here, let me lay him down. [she lays the baby in the lower berth.] there! now get in, agnes--do, and leave me to my struggle with the attraction of gravitation. mrs. roberts. oh, _poor_ aunty, how will you ever manage it? i _must_ help you up. aunt mary. no, my dear; don't be foolish. but you may go and call the porter, if you like. i dare say he's used to it. [mrs. roberts goes and speak timidly to the porter, who fails at first to understand, then smiles broadly, accepts a quarter with a duck of his head, and comes forward to aunt mary's side.] mrs. roberts. had he better give you his hand to rest your foot in, while you spring up as if you were mounting horseback? aunt mary (with disdain). _spring_! my dear, i haven't sprung for a quarter of a century. i shall require every fibre in the man's body. his hand, indeed! you get in first, agnes. mrs. roberts. i will, aunty dear; but-- aunt mary (sternly). agnes, do as i say. [mrs. roberts crouches down on the lower berth.] i don't choose that any member of my family shall witness my contortions. don't you look. mrs. roberts. no, no, aunty. aunt mary. now, porter, are you strong? porter. i used to be porter at a saratoga hotel, and carried up de ladies' trunks dere. aunt mary. then you'll do, i think. now, then, your knee; now your back. there! and very handsomely done. thanks. mrs. roberts. are you really in, aunt mary? aunt mary (dryly). yes. good-night. mrs. roberts. good-night, aunty. [after a pause of some minutes.] aunty! aunt mary. well, what? mrs. roberts. do you think it's perfectly safe? [she rises in her berth, and looks up over the edge of the upper.] aunt mary. i suppose so. it's a well-managed road. they've got the air- brake, i've heard, and the miller platform, and all those horrid things. what makes you introduce such unpleasant subjects? mrs. roberts. oh, i don't mean accidents. but, you know, when you turn, it does creak so awfully. i shouldn't mind myself; but the baby-- aunt mary. why, child, do you think i'm going to break through? i couldn't. i'm one of the _lightest_ sleepers in the world. mrs. roberts. yes, i know you're a light sleeper; but--but it doesn't seem quite the same thing, somehow. aunt mary. but it is; it's quite the same thing, and you can be perfectly easy in your mind, my dear. i should be quite as loth to break through as you would to have me. good-night. mrs. roberts. yes; good-night, aunty! aunt mary. well? mrs. roberts. you ought to just see him, how he's lying. he's a perfect log. _couldn't_ you just bend over, and peep down at him a moment? aunt mary. bend over! it would be the death of me. good-night. mrs. roberts. good-night. did you put the glass into my bag or yours? i feel so very thirsty, and i want to go and get some water. i'm sure i don't know why i should be thirsty. are you, aunt mary? ah! here it is. don't disturb yourself, aunty; i've found it. it was in my bag, just where i'd put it myself. but all this trouble about willis has made me so fidgety that i don't know where anything is. and now i don't know how to manage about the baby while i go after the water. he's sleeping soundly enough now; but if he should happen to get into one of his rolling moods, he might tumble out on to the floor. never mind, aunty, i've thought of something. i'll just barricade him with these bags and shawls. now, old fellow, roll as much as you like. if you should happen to hear him stir, aunty, won't you--aunty! oh, dear! she's asleep already; and what shall i do? [while mrs. roberts continues talking, various notes of protest, profane and otherwise, make themselves heard from different berths.] i know. i'll make a bold dash for the water, and be back in an instant, baby. now, don't you move, you little rogue. [she runs to the water-tank at the end of the car, and then back to her berth.] now, baby, here's mamma again. are you all right, mamma's own? [a shaggy head and bearded face are thrust from the curtains of the next berth.] the stranger. look here, ma'am. i don't want to be disagreeable about this thing, and i hope you won't take any offence; but the fact is, i'm half dead for want of sleep, and if you'll only keep quiet now a little while, i'll promise not to speak above my breath if ever i find you on a sleeping-car after you've come straight through from san francisco, day and night, and not been able to get more than about a quarter of your usual allowance of rest--i will indeed. mrs. roberts. i'm very sorry that i've disturbed you, and i'll try to be more quiet. i didn't suppose i was speaking so loud; but the cars keep up such a rattling that you never can tell how loud you _are_ speaking. did i understand you to say that you were from california? the californian. yes, ma'am. mrs. roberts. san francisco? the californian. yes, ma'am. mrs. roberts. thanks. it's a terribly long journey, isn't it? i know quite how to feel for you. i've a brother myself coming on. in fact we expected him before this. [she scans his face as sharply as the lamp- light will allow, and continues, after a brief hesitation.] it's always such a silly question to ask a person, and i suppose san francisco is a large place, with a great many people always coming and going, so that it would be only one chance in a thousand if you did. the californian (patiently). did what, ma'am? mrs. roberts. oh, i was just wondering if it was possible--but of course it isn't, and it's very flat to ask--that you'd ever happened to meet my brother there. his name is willis campbell. the californian (with more interest). campbell? campbell? yes, i know a man of that name. but i disremember his first name. little low fellow--pretty chunky? mrs. roberts. i don't know. do you mean short and stout? the californian. yes, ma'am. mrs. roberts. i'm sure i can't tell. it's a great many years since he went out there, and i've never seen him in all that time. i thought if you _did_ happen to know him--he's a lawyer. the californian. it's quite likely i know him; and in the morning, ma'am-- mrs. roberts. oh, excuse me. i'm very sorry to have kept you so long awake with my silly questions. the man in the upper berth. don't apologize, madam. i'm not a californian myself, but i'm an orphan, and away from home, and i thank you, on behalf of all our fellow-passengers, for the mental refreshment that your conversation has afforded us. _i_ could lie here and listen to it all night; but there are invalids in some of these berths, and perhaps on their account it will be as well to defer everything till the morning, as our friend suggests. allow me to wish you pleasant dreams, madam. [the californian, while mrs. roberts shrinks back under the curtain of her berth in dismay, and stammers some inaudible excuse, slowly emerges full length from his berth.] the californian. don't you mind me, ma'am; i've got everything but my boots and coat on. now, then [standing beside the berth, and looking in upon the man in the upper tier], you, do you know that this is a lady you're talking to? the upper berth. by your voice and your shaggy personal appearance i shouldn't have taken you for a lady--no, sir. but the light is very imperfect; you may be a bearded lady. the californian. you never mind about my looks. the question is, do you want your head rapped up against the side of this car? the upper berth. with all the frankness of your own pacific slope, no. mrs. roberts (hastily reappearing). oh, no, no, don't hurt him. he's not to blame. i was wrong to keep on talking. oh, please don't hurt him! the californian (to the upper berth). you hear? well, now, don't you speak another word to that lady tonight. just go on, ma'am, and free your mind on any little matter you like. i don't want any sleep. how long has your brother been in california? mrs. roberts. oh, don't let's talk about it now; i don't want to talk about it. i thought--i thought--good-night. oh, dear! i didn't suppose i was making so much trouble. i didn't mean to disturb anybody. i-- [mrs. roberts gives way to the excess of her confusion and mortification in a little sob, and then hides her grief behind the curtains of her berth. the californian slowly emerges again from his couch, and stands beside it, looking in upon the man in the berth above.] the californian. for half a cent i _would_ rap your head up against that wall. making the lady cry, and getting me so mad i can't sleep! now see here, you just apologize. you beg that lady's pardon, or i'll have you out of there before you know yourself. [cries of "good!" "that's right!" and "make him show himself!" hail mrs. roberts's champion, and heads, more or less dishevelled, are thrust from every berth. mrs. roberts remains invisible and silent, and the loud and somewhat complicated respiration of her aunt makes itself heard in the general hush of expectancy. a remark to the effect that "the old lady seems to enjoy her rest" achieves a facile applause. the californian again addresses the culprit.] come, now, what do you say? i'll give you just one-half a minute. mrs. roberts (from her shelter). oh, please, _please_ don't make him say anything. it was very trying in me to keep him awake, and i know he didn't mean any offence. oh, _do_ let him be! the californian. you hear that? you stay quiet the rest of the time; and if that lady choses to keep us all awake the whole night, don't _you_ say a word, or i'll settle with you in the morning. [loud and continued applause, amidst which the californian turns from the man in the berth before him, and restores order by marching along the aisle of the car in his stocking feet. the heads vanish behind the curtains. as the laughter subsides, he returns to his berth, and after a stare up and down the tranquillized car, he is about to retire.] a voice. oh, don't just bow. speak! [a fresh burst of laughter greets this sally. the californian erects himself again with an air of baited wrath, and then suddenly breaks into a helpless laugh.] the californian. gentlemen, you're too many for _me_. [he gets into his berth, and after cries of "good for california!" "you're all right, william nye!" and "you're several ahead yet!" the occupants of the different berths gradually relapse into silence, and at last, as the car lunges onward through the darkness, nothing is heard but the rhythmical clank of the machinery, with now and then a burst of audible slumber from mrs. roberts's aunt mary.] ii. at worcester, where the train has made the usual stop, the porter, with his lantern on his arm, enters the car, preceding a gentleman somewhat anxiously smiling; his nervous speech contrasts painfully with the business-like impassiveness of the porter, who refuses, with an air of incredulity, to enter into the confidences which the gentleman seems reluctant to bestow. mr. edward roberts. this is the governor marcy, isn't it? the porter. yes, sah. mr. roberts. came on from albany, and not from new york? the porter. yes, sah, it did. mr. roberts. ah! it must be all right. i-- the porter. was your wife expecting you to come on board here? mr. roberts. well, no, not exactly. she was expecting me to meet her at boston. but i--[struggling to give the situation dignity, but failing, and throwing himself, with self-convicted silliness, upon the porter's mercy.] the fact is, i thought i would surprise her by joining her here. the porter (refusing to have any mercy). oh! how did you expect to find her? mr. roberts. well--well--i don't know. i didn't consider. [he looks down the aisle in despair at the close-drawn curtains of the berths, and up at the dangling hats and bags and bonnets, and down at the chaos of boots of both sexes on the floor.] i don't know _how_ i expected to find her. [mr. roberts's countenance falls, and he visibly sinks so low in his own esteem and an imaginary public opinion that the porter begins to have a little compassion.] the porter. dey's so many ladies on board _i_ couldn't find her. mr. roberts. oh, no, no, of course not. i didn't expect that. the porter. don't like to go routing 'em all up, you know. i wouldn't be allowed to. mr. roberts. i don't ask it; that would be preposterous. the porter. what sort of looking lady was she? mr. roberts. well, i don't know, really. not very tall, rather slight, blue eyes. i--i don't know what you'd call her nose. and--stop! oh yes, she had a child with her, a little boy. yes! the porter (thoughtfully looking down the aisle). dey was three ladies had children. i didn't notice whether dey was boys or girls, or _what_ dey was. didn't have anybody with her? mr. roberts. no, no. only the child. the porter. well, i don't know what you are going to do, sah. it won't be a great while now till morning, you know. here comes the conductor. maybe he'll know what to do. [mr. roberts makes some futile, inarticulate attempts to prevent the porter from laying the case before the conductor, and then stands guiltily smiling, overwhelmed with the hopeless absurdity of his position.] the conductor (entering the car, and stopping before the porter, and looking at mr. roberts). gentleman want a berth? the porter (grinning). well, no, sah. he's lookin' for his wife. the conductor (with suspicion). is she aboard this car? mr. roberts (striving to propitiate the conductor by a dastardly amiability). oh, yes, yes. there's no mistake about the car--the governor marcy. she telegraphed the name just before you left albany, so that i could find her at boston in the morning. ah! the conductor. at boston. [sternly.] then what are you trying to find her at worcester in the middle of the night for? mr. roberts. why--i--that is-- the porter (taking compassion on mr. roberts's inability to continue). says he wanted to surprise her. mr. roberts. ha--yes, exactly. a little caprice, you know. the conductor. well, that may all be so. [mr. roberts continues to smile in agonized helplessness against the conductor's injurious tone, which becomes more and more offensively patronizing.] but _i_ can't do anything for you. here are all these people asleep in their berths, and i can't go round waking them up because you want to surprise your wife. mr. roberts. no, no; of course not. i never thought-- the conductor. my advice to _you_ is to have a berth made up, and go to bed till we get to boston, and surprise your wife by telling her what you tried to do. mr. roberts (unable to resent the patronage of this suggestion). well, i don't know but i will. the conductor (going out). the porter will make up the berth for you. mr. roberts (to the porter, who is about to pull down the upper berth over a vacant seat). ah! er--i--i don't think i'll trouble you to make it up; it's so near morning now. just bring me a pillow, and i'll try to get a nap without lying down. [he takes the vacant seat.] the porter. all right, sah. [he goes to the end of the car and returns with a pillow.] mr. roberts. ah--porter! the porter. yes, sah. mr. roberts. of course you didn't notice; but you don't think you _did_ notice who was in that berth yonder? [he indicates a certain berth.] the porter. dat's a gen'leman in dat berth, i think, sah. mr. roberts (astutely). there's a bonnet hanging from the hook at the top. i'm not sure, but it looks like my wife's bonnet. the porter (evidently shaken by this reasoning, but recovering his firmness). yes, sah. but you can't depend upon de ladies to hang deir bonnets on de right hook. jes' likely as not dat lady's took de hook at de foot of her berth instead o' de head. sometimes dey takes both. mr. roberts. ah! [after a pause.] porter! the porter. yes, sah. mr. roberts. you wouldn't feel justified in looking? the porter. i couldn't, sah; i couldn't, indeed. mr. roberts (reaching his left hand toward the porter's, and pressing a half dollar into his instantly responsive palm). but there's nothing to prevent _my_ looking if i feel perfectly sure of the bonnet? the porter. n-no, sah. mr. roberts. all right. [the porter retires to the end of the car, and resumes the work of polishing the passengers' boots. after an interval of quiet, mr. roberts rises, and, looking about him with what he feels to be melodramatic stealth, approaches the suspected berth. he unloops the curtain with a trembling hand, and peers ineffectually in; he advances his head further and further into the darkened recess, and then suddenly dodges back again, with the californian hanging to his neckcloth with one hand.] the californian (savagely). what do you want? mr. roberts (struggling and breathless). i--i--i want my wife. the californian. want your wife! have _i_ got your wife? mr. roberts. no--ah--that is--ah, excuse me--i thought you _were_ my wife. the californian (getting out of the berth, but at the same time keeping hold of mr. roberts). thought i was your _wife_! do i look like your wife? you can't play that on me, old man. porter! conductor! mr. roberts (agonized). oh, i beseech you, my dear sir, don't--don't! i can explain it--i can indeed. i know it has an ugly look; but if you will allow me two words--only two words-- mrs. roberts (suddenly parting the curtain of her berth, and springing out into the aisle, with her hair wildly dishevelled). edward! mr. roberts. oh, agnes, explain to this gentleman! [imploringly.] don't you know me? a voice. make him show you the strawberry mark on his left arm. mrs. roberts. edward! edward! [the californian mechanically looses his grip, and they fly into each other's embrace.] where did you come from? a voice. centre door, left hand, one back. the conductor (returning with his lantern). hallo! what's the matter here? a voice. train robbers! throw up your hands! tell the express-messenger to bring his safe. [the passengers emerge from their berths in various deshabille and bewilderment.] the conductor (to mr. roberts). have you been making all this row, waking up my passengers? the californian. no, sir, he hasn't. i've been making this row. this gentleman was peaceably looking for his wife, and i misunderstood him. you want to say anything to me? the conductor (silently taking the californian's measure with his eye, as he stands six fret in his stockings). if i did, i'd get the biggest brakeman i could find to do it for me. _i've_ got nothing to say except that i think you'd better all go back to bed again. [he goes out, and the passengers disappear one by one, leaving the robertses and the californian alone.] the californian (to mr. roberts). stranger, i'm sorry i got you into this scrape. mr. roberts. oh, don't speak of it, my dear sir. i'm sure we owe you all sorts of apologies, which i shall be most happy to offer you at my house in boston, with every needful explanation. [he takes out his card, and gives it to the californian, who looks at it, and then looks at mr. roberts curiously.] there's my address, and i'm sure we shall both be glad to have you call. mrs. roberts. oh, yes indeed. [the californian parts the curtains of his berth to re-enter it.] good-night, sir, and i assure you _we_ shall do nothing more to disturb you--shall we, edward? mr. roberts. no. and now, dear, i think you'd better go back to your berth. mrs. roberts. i couldn't sleep, and i shall not go back. is this your place? i will just rest my head on your shoulder; and we must both be perfectly quiet. you've no idea what a nuisance i have been making of myself. the whole car was perfectly furious at me one time, i kept talking so loud. i don't know how i came to do it, but i suppose it was thinking about you and willis meeting without knowing each other made me nervous, and i couldn't be still. i woke everybody up with my talking, and some of them were quite outrageous in their remarks; but i didn't blame them the least bit, for i should have been just as bad. that california gentleman was perfectly splendid, though. i can tell you _he_ made them stop. we struck up quite a friendship. i told him i had a brother coming on from california, and he's going to try to think whether he knows willis. [groans and inarticulate protests make themselves heard from different berths.] i declare, i've got to talking again! there, now, i _shall_ stop, and they won't hear another squeak from me the rest of the night. [she lifts her head from her husband's shoulder.] i wonder if baby will roll out. he _does_ kick so! and i just sprang up and left him when i heard your voice, without putting anything to keep him in. i _must_ go and have a look at him, or i never can settle down. no, no, don't you go, edward; you'll be prying into all the wrong berths in the car, you poor thing! you stay here, and i'll be back in half a second. i wonder which is my berth. ah! that's it; i know the one now. [she makes a sudden dash at a berth, and pulling open the curtains is confronted by the bearded visage of the californian.] ah! ow! ow! edward! ah! i--i beg your pardon, sir; excuse me; i didn't know it was you. i came for my baby. the californian (solemnly). i haven't got any baby, ma'am. mrs. roberts. no--no--i thought you were my baby. the californian. perhaps i am, ma'am; i've lost so much sleep i could cry, anyway. do i _look_ like your baby? mrs. roberts. no, no, you don't. [in distress that overcomes her mortification.] oh, where is my baby? i left him all uncovered, and he'll take his death of cold, even if he doesn't roll out. oh, edward, edward, help me to find baby! mr. roberts (bustling aimlessly about). yes, yes; certainly, my dear. but don't be alarmed; we shall find him. the californian (getting out in his stocking feet). we shall find him, ma'am, if we have to search every berth in this car. don't you take on. that baby's going to be found if he's aboard the train, now, you bet! [he looks about and then tears open the curtains of a berth at random.] that your baby, ma'am? mrs. roberts (flying upon the infant thus exposed). oh, _baby_, baby, baby!! i thought i had lost you. um! um! um! [she clasps him in her arms, and covers his face and neck with kisses.] the californian (as he gets back into his berth, sotto voce). i wish i _had_ been her baby. mrs. roberts (returning with her husband to his seat, and bringing the baby with her). there! did you ever see such a sleeper, edward? [in her ecstasy she abandons all control of her voice, and joyfully exclaims.] he has slept all through this excitement, without a wink. a solemn voice from one of the berths. i envy him. [a laugh follows, in which all the passengers join.] mrs. roberts (in a hoarse whisper, breaking a little with laughter). oh, my goodness! there i went again. but how funny! i assure you, edward, that if their remarks had not been about me, i could have really quite enjoyed some of them. i wish there had been somebody here to take them down. and i hope i shall see some of the speakers in the morning before--edward, i've got an idea! mr. roberts (endeavoring to teach his wife by example to lower her voice, which has risen again). what--what is it, my dear? mrs. roberts. why, don't you see? how perfectly ridiculous it was of me not to think of it before! though i did think of it once, and hadn't the courage to insist upon it. but of course it is; and it accounts for his being so polite and kind to me through all, and it's the only thing that can. yes, yes, it must be. mr. roberts (mystified). what? mrs. roberts. willis. mr. roberts. who? mrs. roberts. this californian. mr. roberts. oh! mrs. roberts. no _stranger_ could have been so patient and--and--attentive; and i know that he recognized me from the first, and he's just kept it up for a joke, so as to surprise us and have a good laugh at us when we get to boston. of _course_ it's willis. mr. roberts (doubtfully). do you think so, my dear? mrs. roberts. i _know_ it. didn't you notice how he looked at your card? and i want you to go at once and speak to him, and turn the tables on him. mr. roberts. i--i'd rather _not_, my dear. mrs. roberts. why, edward, what can you mean? mr. roberts. he's very violent. suppose it _shouldn't_ be willis? mrs. roberts. nonsense! it _is_ willis. come, let's both go and just tax him with it. he can't deny it, after all he's done for me. [she pulls her reluctant husband toward the californian's berth, and they each draw a curtain.] willis! the californian (with plaintive endurance). well, ma'am? mrs. roberts (triumphantly). there! i knew it was you all along. how could you play such a joke on me? the californian. i didn't know there'd been any joke; but i suppose there must have been, if you say so. who am i now, ma'am--your husband, or your baby, or your husband's wife, or-- mrs. roberts. how funny you are! you _know_ you're willis campbell, my only brother. now _don't_ try to keep it up any longer, willis. [voices from various berths. "give us a rest, willis!" "joke's too thin, willis!" "you're played out, willis!" "own up, old fellow--own up!"] the californian (issuing from his berth, and walking up and down the aisle, as before, till quiet is restored). i haven't got any sister, and my name ain't willis, and it ain't campbell. i'm very sorry, because i'd like to oblige you any way i could. mrs. roberts (in deep mortification). it's i who ought to apologize, and i do most humbly. i don't know what to say; but when i got to thinking about it, and how kind you had been to me, and how sweet you had been under all my--interruptions, i felt perfectly sure that you couldn't be a mere stranger, and then the idea struck me that you must be my brother in disguise; and i was so certain of it that i couldn't help just letting you know that we'd found you out, and-- mr. roberts (offering a belated and feeble moral support). yes. mrs. roberts (promptly turning upon him). and _you_ ought to have kept me from making such a simpleton of myself, edward. the californian (soothingly). well, ma'am, that ain't always so easy. a man may mean well, and yet not be able to carry out his intentions. but it's all right. and i reckon we'd better try to quiet down again, and get what rest we can. mrs. roberts. why, yes, certainly; and i will try--oh, i will _try_ not to disturb you again. and if there's anything we can do in reparation after we reach boston, we shall be so glad to do it! [they bow themselves away, and return to their seat, while the californian re-enters his berth.] iii. the train stops at framingham, and the porter comes in with a passenger whom he shows to the seat opposite mr. and mrs. roberts. the porter. you can sit here, sah. we'll be in in about an hour now. hang up your bag for you, sah? the passenger. no, leave it on the seat here. [the porter goes out, and the robertses maintain a dejected silence. the bottom of the bag, thrown carelessly on the seat, is toward the robertses, who regard it listlessly.] mrs. roberts (suddenly clutching her husband's arm, and hissing in his ear). see! [she points to the white lettering on the bag, where the name "willis campbell, san francisco," is distinctly legible.] but it can't be; it must be some other campbell. i can't risk it. mr. roberts. but there's the name. it would be very strange if there were two people from san francisco of exactly the same name. _i_ will speak. mrs. roberts (as wildly as one can in whisper). no, no, i can't let you. we've made ourselves the laughing-stock of the whole car already with our mistakes, and i can't go on. i would rather perish than ask him. you don't suppose it _could_ be? no, it couldn't. there may be twenty willis campbells in san francisco, and there probably are. do you think he looks like me! he has a straight nose; but you can't tell anything about the lower part of his face, the beard covers it so; and i can't make out the color of his eyes by this light. but of course it's all nonsense. still if it _should_ be! it would be very stupid of us to ride all the way from framingham to boston with that name staring one in the eyes. i wish he would turn it away. if it really turned out to _be_ willis, he would think we were awfully stiff and cold. but i can't help it; i _can't_ go attacking every stranger i see, and accusing him of being my brother. no, no, i can't, and i _won't_, and that's all about it. [she leans forward and addresses the stranger with sudden sweetness.] excuse me, sir, but i _am_ very much interested by the name on your bag. not that i think you are even acquainted with him, and there are probably a great many of them there; but your coming from the same city and all _does_ seem a little queer, and i hope you won't think me intrusive in speaking to you, because if you _should_ happen, by the thousandth of a chance, to be the right one, i should be _so_ happy! campbell. the right what, madam? mrs. roberts. the right willis campbell. campbell. i hope i'm not the wrong one; though after a week's pull on the railroad it's pretty hard for a man to tell which willis campbell he is. may i ask if your willis campbell had friends in boston? mrs. roberts (eagerly). he had a sister and a brother-in-law and a nephew. campbell. name of roberts? mrs. roberts. every one. campbell. then you're-- mrs. roberts (ecstatically). agnes! campbell. and he's-- mrs. roberts. mr. roberts! campbell. and the baby's-- mrs. roberts. asleep! campbell. then _i_ am the right one. mrs. roberts. oh, willis! willis! willis! to think of our meeting in this way! [she kisses and embraces him, while mr. roberts shakes one of his hands which he finds disengaged.] _how_ in the world did it happen? campbell. ah, i found myself a little ahead of time, and i stopped off with an old friend of mine at framingham; i didn't want to disappoint you when you came to meet this train, or get you up last night at midnight. mrs. roberts. and i was in albany, and i've been moving heaven and earth to get home before you arrived; and edward came aboard at worcester to surprise me, and--oh, you've never seen the baby! i'll run right and get him this instant, just as he is, and bring him. edward, you be explaining to willis--oh, my goodness! [looking wildly about.] i don't remember the berth, and i shall be sure to wake up that poor california gentleman again. _what_ shall i do? campbell. what california gentleman? mrs. roberts. oh, somebody we've been stirring up the whole blessed night. first i took him for baby, and then edward took him for me, and then i took him for baby again, and then we both took him for you. campbell. did he look like any of us? mrs. roberts. like _us_? he's eight feet tall, if he's an inch, in his stockings--and he's always in them--and he has a long black beard and mustaches, and he's very lanky, and stoops over a good deal; but he's just as lovely as he can be and live, and he's been as kind and patient as twenty jobs. campbell. speaks in a sort of soft, slow grind? mrs. roberts. yes. campbell. gentle and deferential to ladies? mrs. roberts. as pie. campbell. it's tom goodall. i'll have him out of there in half a second. i want you to take him home with you, agnes. he's the best fellow in the world. _which_ is his berth? mrs. roberts. don't ask me, willis. but if you'd go for baby, you'll be sure to find him. mr. roberts (timidly indicating a berth). i think that's the one. campbell (plunging at it, and pulling the curtains open). you old tom goodall! the californian (appearing). i ain't any tom goodall. my name's abram sawyer. campbell (falling back). well, sir, you're right. i'm awfully sorry to disturb you; but, from my sister's description here, i felt certain you must be my old friend tom goodall. the californian. i ain't surprised at it. i'm only surprised i _ain't_ tom goodall. i've been a baby twice, and i've been a man's wife once, and once i've been a long-lost brother. campbell (laughing). oh, they've found _him_. _i'm_ the long-lost brother. the californian (sleepily). has she found the other one? campbell. yes; all right, i believe. the californian. has _he_ found what _he_ wanted? campbell. yes; we're all together here. [the californian makes a movement to get into bed again.] oh, don't! you'd better make a night of it now. it's almost morning anyway. we want you to go home with us, and mrs. roberts will give you a bed at her house, and let you sleep a week. the californian. well, i reckon you're right, stranger. i seem to be in the hands of providence tonight anyhow. [he pulls on his boots and coat, and takes his seat beside campbell.] i reckon there ain't any use in fighting against providence. mrs. roberts (briskly, as if she had often tried it and failed). oh, not the least in the world. i'm sure it was all intended; and if you had turned out to be willis at last, i should be _certain_ of it. what surprises me is that you shouldn't turn out to be anybody, after all. the californian. yes, it is kind of curious. but i couldn't help it. i did my best. mrs. roberts. oh, don't speak of it. _we_ are the ones who ought to apologize. but if you only had been somebody, it would have been such a good joke! we could always have had such a laugh over it, don't you see? the californian. yes, ma'am, it would have been funny. but i hope you've enjoyed it as it is. mrs. roberts. oh, very much, thanks to you. only i can't seem to get reconciled to your not being anybody, after all. you _must_ at least be some one we've heard about, don't you think? it's so strange that you and willis never even met. don't you think you have some acquaintances in common? campbell. look here, agnes, do you always shout at the top of your voice in this way when you converse in a sleeping-car? mrs. roberts. was i talking loud again? well, you can't help it if you want to make people hear you. campbell. but there must be a lot of them who don't want to hear you. i wonder that the passengers who are not blood-relations don't throw things at you--boots and hand-bags and language. mrs. roberts. why, that's what they've _been_ doing--language, at least--and i'm only surprised they're not doing it now. the californian (rising). they'd better not, ma'am. [he patrols the car from end to end, and quells some rising murmurs, halting at the rebellious berths as he passes.] mrs. roberts (enraptured by his companionship). oh, he _must_ be some connection. [she glances through the window.] i do believe that was newton, or newtonville, or west newton, or newton centre. i must run and wake up baby, and get him dressed. i shan't want to wait an instant after we get in. why, we're slowing up! why, i do believe we're there! edward, we're there! only fancy being there already! mr. roberts. yes, my dear. only we're not quite there yet. hadn't we better call your aunt mary? mrs. roberts. i'd forgotten her. campbell. is aunt mary with you? mrs. roberts. to be sure she is. didn't i tell you? she came on expressly to meet you. campbell (starting up impetuously). which berth is she in? mrs. roberts. right over baby. campbell. and which berth is baby in? mrs. roberts (distractedly). why, that's just what i can't _tell_. it was bad enough when they were all filled up, but now since the people have begun to come out of them, and some of them are made into seats i can't tell. the californian. i'll look for you, ma'am. i should like to wake up all the wrong passengers on this car. i'd take a pleasure in it. if you could make sure of any berth that _ain't_ the one, i'll begin on that. mrs. roberts. i can't even be sure of the wrong one. no, no; you mustn't--[the californian moves away, and pauses in front of one of the berths, looking back inquiringly at mrs. roberts.] oh, don't ask _me_! _i_ can't tell. [to campbell.] _isn't_ he amusing? so like all those californians that one reads of--so chivalrous and _so_ humorous! aunt mary (thrusting her head from the curtains of the berth before which the californian is standing). go along with you! what do you want? the californian. aunt mary. aunt mary. go away. aunt mary, indeed! mrs. roberts (running toward her, followed by campbell and mr. roberts). why, aunt mary, it _is_ you! and here's willis, and here's edward. aunt mary. nonsense! how did they get aboard? mrs. roberts. edward came on at worcester and willis at framingham, to surprise me. aunt mary. and a very silly performance. let them wait till i'm dressed, and then i'll talk to them. send for the porter. [she withdraws her head behind the curtain, and then thrusts it out again.] and who, pray, may _this_ be? [she indicates the californian.] mrs. roberts. oh, a friend of ours from california, who's been so kind to us all night, and who's going home with us. aunt mary. another ridiculous surprise, i suppose. but he shall not surprise _me_. young man, isn't your name sawyer? the californian. yes, ma'am. aunt mary. abram? the californian. abram sawyer. you're right there, ma'am. mrs. roberts. oh! oh! i knew it! i knew that he must be somebody belonging to us. oh, thank you, aunty, for thinking-- aunt mary. don't be absurd, agnes. then you're my-- a voice from one of the berths. lost step-son. found! found at last! [the californian looks vainly round in an endeavor to identify the speaker, and then turns again to aunt mary.] aunt mary. weren't your parents from bath? the californian (eagerly). both of 'em, ma'am--both of 'em. the voice. o my prophetic soul, my uncle! aunt mary. then you're my old friend kate harris's daughter? the californian. i might be her _son_, ma'am; but _my_ mother's name was susan wakeman. aunt mary (in sharp disgust). call the porter, please. [she withdraws her head and pulls her curtains together; the rest look blankly at one another.] campbell. another failure, and just when we thought we were sure of you. i don't know what we shall do about you, mr. sawyer. the voice. adopt him. campbell. that's a good idea. we will adopt you. you shall be our adoptive-- the voice. baby boy. another voice. wife. a third voice. brother. a fourth voice. early friend. a fifth voice. kate harris's daughter. campbell (laying his hand on the californian's shoulder, and breaking into a laugh). don't mind them. they don't mean anything. it's just their way. you come home with my sister, and spend christmas, and let us devote the rest of our lives to making your declining years happy. voices. "good for you, willis!" "we'll all come!" "no ceremony!" "small and early!" campbell (looking round). we appear to have fallen in with a party of dry-goods drummers. it makes a gentleman feel like an intruder. [the train stops; he looks out of the window.] we've arrived. come, agnes; come, roberts; come, mr. sawyer--let's be going. [they gather up their several wraps and bags, and move with great dignity toward the door.] aunt mary (putting out her head). agnes! if you must forget your aunt, at least remember your child. mrs. roberts (running back in an agony of remorse). oh, _baby_, did i forget you? campbell. oh, _aunty_, did she forget you? [he runs back, and extends his arms to his aunt.] let me help you down, aunt mary. aunt mary. nonsense, willis. send the porter. campbell (turning round and confronting the porter). he was here upon instinct. shall he fetch a step-ladder? aunt mary. _he_ will know what to do. go away, willis; go away with that child, agnes. if i should happen to fall on you--[they retreat; the curtain drops, and her voice is heard behind it addressing the porter.] give me your hand; now your back; now your knee. so! and very well done. thanks. the adventures of a special correspondent among the various races and countries of central asia being the exploits and experiences of claudius bombarnac of "the twentieth century" by jules verne biography and bibliography jules verne, french author, was born at nantes, france, in , and died in . in he wrote a comedy in verse, but he eventually confined himself to the writing of scientific and geographical romances, achieving a great reputation. he visited the united states in , sailing for new york on the _great eastern_, and his book, _a floating city_, was the result of this voyage. his best-known books are: _a captain at fifteen, a two years' vacation, a voyage to the center of the earth_ ( ), _from the earth to the moon_ ( ), _ , leagues under the sea_ ( ), _a tour of the world in eighty days_ ( ), _michael strogoff_ ( ), _mrs. branica_ ( ), _clovis dordentor_ ( ), _the brothers kip_ ( ). most of his works have been translated into english. claudius bombarnac chapter i. claudius bombarnac, _special correspondent_, "_twentieth century._" _tiflis, transcaucasia._ such is the address of the telegram i found on the th of may when i arrived at tiflis. this is what the telegram said: "as the matters in hand will terminate on the th instant claudius bombarnac will repair to uzun ada, a port on the east coast of the caspian. there he will take the train by the direct grand transasiatic between the european frontier and the capital of the celestial empire. he will transmit his impressions in the way of news, interviewing remarkable people on the road, and report the most trivial incidents by letter or telegram as necessity dictates. the _twentieth century_ trusts to the zeal, intelligence, activity and tact of its correspondent, who can draw on its bankers to any extent he may deem necessary." it was the very morning i had arrived at tiflis with the intention of spending three weeks there in a visit to the georgian provinces for the benefit of my newspaper, and also, i hoped, for that of its readers. here was the unexpected, indeed; the uncertainty of a special correspondent's life. at this time the russian railways had been connected with the line between poti, tiflis and baku. after a long and increasing run through the southern russian provinces i had crossed the caucasus, and imagined i was to have a little rest in the capital of transcaucasia. and here was the imperious administration of the _twentieth century_ giving me only half a day's halt in this town! i had hardly arrived before i was obliged to be off again without unstrapping my portmanteau! but what would you have? we must bow to the exigencies of special correspondence and the modern interview! but all the same i had been carefully studying this transcaucasian district, and was well provided with geographic and ethnologic memoranda. perhaps it may be as well for you to know that the fur cap, in the shape of a turban, which forms the headgear of the mountaineers and cossacks is called a "papakha," that the overcoat gathered in at the waist, over which the cartridge belt is hung, is called a "tcherkeska" by some and "bechmet" by others! be prepared to assert that the georgians and armenians wear a sugar-loaf hat, that the merchants wear a "touloupa," a sort of sheepskin cape, that the kurd and parsee still wear the "bourka," a cloak in a material something like plush which is always waterproofed. and of the headgear of the georgian ladies, the "tassakravi," composed of a light ribbon, a woolen veil, or piece of muslin round such lovely faces; and their gowns of startling colors, with the wide open sleeves, their under skirts fitted to the figure, their winter cloak of velvet, trimmed with fur and silver gimp, their summer mantle of white cotton, the "tchadre," which they tie tight on the neck--all those fashions in fact so carefully entered in my notebook, what shall i say of them? learn, then, that their national orchestras are composed of "zournas," which are shrill flutes; "salamouris," which are squeaky clarinets; mandolines, with copper strings, twanged with a feather; "tchianouris," violins, which are played upright; "dimplipitos," a kind of cymbals which rattle like hail on a window pane. know that the "schaska" is a sword hung from a bandolier trimmed with studs and silver embroidery, that the "kindjall" or "kandijar" is a dagger worn in the belt, that the armament of the soldiers of the caucasus is completed by a long damascus gun ornamented with bands of chiseled metal. know that the "tarantass" is a sort of berline hung on five pieces of rather elastic wood between wheels placed rather wide apart and of moderate height; that this carriage is driven by a "yemtchik," on the front seat, who has three horses, to whom is added a postilion, the "falétre," when it is necessary to hire a fourth horse from the "smatritel," who is the postmaster on the caucasian roads. know, then, that the verst is two-thirds of a mile, that the different nomadic people of the governments of transcaucasia are composed of kalmucks, descendants of the eleuthes, fifteen thousand, kirghizes of mussulman origin eight thousand, koundrof tartars eleven hundred, sartof tartars a hundred and twelve, nogais eight thousand five hundred, turkomans nearly four thousand. and thus, after having so minutely absorbed my georgia, here was this ukase obliging me to abandon it! and i should not even have time to visit mount ararat or publish my impressions of a journey in transcaucasia, losing a thousand lines of copy at the least, and for which i had at my disposal the , words of my language actually recognized by the french academy. it was hard, but there was no way out of it. and to begin with, at what o'clock did the train for tiflis start from the caspian? the station at tiflis is the junction of three lines of railway: the western line ending at poti on the black sea, where the passengers land coming from europe, the eastern line which ends at baku, where the passengers embark to cross the caspian, and the line which the russians have just made for a length of about a hundred miles between ciscaucasia and transcaucasia, from vladikarkaz to tiflis, crossing the arkhot range at a height of four thousand five hundred feet, and which connects the georgian capital with the railways of southern russia. i went to the railway station at a run, and rushed into the departure office. "when is there a train for baku?" i asked. "you are going to baku?" answered the clerk. and from his trap-door he gave me one of those looks more military than civil, which are invariably found under the peak of a muscovite cap. "i think so," said i, perhaps a little sharply, "that is, if it is not forbidden to go to baku." "no," he replied, dryly, "that is, if you are provided with a proper passport." "i will have a proper passport," i replied to this ferocious functionary, who, like all the others in holy russia, seemed to me an intensified gendarme. then i again asked what time the train left for baku. "six o'clock to-night." "and when does it get there?" "seven o'clock in the morning." "is that in time to catch the boat for uzun ada?" "in time." and the man at the trap-door replied to my salute by a salute of mechanical precision. the question of passport did not trouble me. the french consul would know how to give me all the references required by the russian administration. six o'clock to-night, and it is already nine o'clock in the morning! bah! when certain guide books tell you how to explore paris in two days, rome in three days, and london in four days, it would be rather curious if i could not do tiflis in a half day. either one is a correspondent or one is not! it goes without saying that my newspaper would not have sent me to russia, if i could not speak fluently in russian, english and german. to require a newspaper man to know the few thousand languages which are used to express thought in the five parts of the world would be too much; but with the three languages above named, and french added, one can go far across the two continents. it is true, there is turkish of which i had picked up a few phrases, and there is chinese of which i did not understand a single word. but i had no fear of remaining dumb in turkestan and the celestial empire. there would be interpreters on the road, and i did not expect to lose a detail of my run on the grand transasiatic. i knew how to see, and see i would. why should i hide it from myself? i am one of those who think that everything here below can serve as copy for a newspaper man; that the earth, the moon, the sky, the universe were only made as fitting subjects for newspaper articles, and that my pen was in no fear of a holiday on the road. before starting off round tiflis let us have done with this passport business. fortunately i had no need for a "poderojnaia," which was formerly indispensable to whoever traveled in russia. that was in the time of the couriers, of the post horses, and thanks to its powers that official exeat cleared away all difficulties, assured the most rapid relays, the most amiable civilities from the postilions, the greatest rapidity of transport, and that to such a pitch that a well-recommended traveler could traverse in eight days five hours the two thousand seven hundred versts which separate tiflis from petersburg. but what difficulties there were in procuring that passport! a mere permission to move about would do for to-day, a certificate attesting in a certain way that you are not a murderer or even a political criminal, that you are what is called an honest man, in a civilized country. thanks to the assistance i received from our consul at tiflis, i was soon all in due order with the muscovite authorities. it was an affair of two hours and two roubles. i then devoted myself entirely, eyes, ears, legs, to the exploration of the georgian capital, without taking a guide, for guides are a horror to me. it is true that i should have been capable of guiding no matter what stranger, through the mazes of this capital which i had so carefully studied beforehand. that is a natural gift. here is what i recognized as i wandered about haphazard: first, there was the "douma," which is the town hall, where the "golova," or mayor, resides; if you had done me the honor to accompany me, i would have taken you to the promenade of krasnoia-gora on the left bank of the koura, the champs elysées of the place, something like the tivoli of copenhagen, or the fair of the belleville boulevard with its "katchélis," delightful seesaws, the artfully managed undulations of which will make you seasick. and everywhere amid the confusion of market booths, the women in holiday costume, moving about with faces uncovered, both georgians and armenians, thereby showing that they are christians. as to the men, they are apollos of the belvedere, not so simply clothed, having the air of princes, and i should like to know if they are not so. are they not descended from them? but i will genealogize later on. let us continue our exploration at full stride. a minute lost is ten lines of correspondence, and ten lines of correspondence is--that depends on the generosity of the newspaper and its managers. quick to the grand caravanserai. there you will find the caravans from all points of the asiatic continent. here is one just coming in, composed of armenian merchants. there is one going out, formed of traders in persia and russian turkestan. i should like to arrive with one and depart with the other. that is not possible, and i am sorry for it. since the establishment of the transasiatic railways, it is not often that you can meet with those interminable and picturesque lines of horsemen, pedestrians, horses, camels, asses, carts. bah! i have no fear that my journey across central asia will fail for want of interest. a special correspondent of the _twentieth century_ will know how to make it interesting. here now are the bazaars with the thousand products of persia, china, turkey, siberia, mongolia. there is a profusion of the fabrics of teheran, shiraz, kandahar, kabul, carpets marvelous in weaving and colors, silks, which are not worth as much as those of lyons. will i buy any? no; to embarrass oneself with packages on a trip from the caspian to the celestial empire, never! the little portmanteau i can carry in my hand, the bag slung across my shoulders, and a traveling suit will be enough for me. linen? i will get it on the road, in english fashion. let us stop in front of the famous baths of tiflis, the thermal waters of which attain a temperature of degrees centigrade. there you will find in use the highest development of massage, the suppling of the spine, the cracking of the joints. i remember what was said by our great dumas whose peregrinations were never devoid of incidents; he invented them when he wanted them, that genial precursor of high-pressure correspondence! but i have no time to be shampooed, or to be cracked or suppled. stop! the hôtel de france. where is there not a hôtel de france? i enter, i order breakfast--a georgian breakfast watered with a certain kachelie wine, which is said to never make you drunk, that is, if you do not sniff up as much as you drink in using the large-necked bottles into which you dip your nose before your lips. at least that is the proceeding dear to the natives of transcaucasia. as to the russians, who are generally sober, the infusion of tea is enough for them, not without a certain addition of vodka, which is the muscovite brandy. i, a frenchman, and even a gascon, am content to drink my bottle of kachelie, as we drank our château laffite, in those regretted days, when the sun still distilled it on the hillsides of pauillac. in truth this caucasian wine, although rather sour, accompanied by the boiled fowl, known as pilau--has rather a pleasant taste about it. it is over and paid for. let us mingle with the sixteen thousand inhabitants of the georgian capital. let us lose ourselves in the labyrinth of its streets, among its cosmopolitan population. many jews who button their coats from left to right, as they write--the contrary way to the other aryan peoples. perhaps the sons of israel are not masters in this country, as in so many others? that is so, undoubtedly; a local proverb says it takes six jews to outwit an armenian, and armenians are plentiful in these transcaucasian provinces. i reach a sandy square, where camels, with their heads out straight, and their feet bent under in front, are sitting in hundreds. they used to be here in thousands, but since the opening of the transcaspian railway some years ago now, the number of these humped beasts of burden has sensibly diminished. just compare one of these beasts with a goods truck or a luggage van! following the slope of the streets, i come out on the quays by the koura, the bed of which divides the town into two unequal parts. on each side rise the houses, one above the other, each one looking over the roof of its neighbors. in the neighborhood of the river there is a good deal of trade. there you will find much moving about of vendors of wine, with their goatskins bellying out like balloons, and vendors of water with their buffalo skins, fitted with pipes looking like elephants' trunks. here am i wandering at a venture; but to wander is human, says the collegians of bordeaux, as they muse on the quays of the gironde. "sir," says a good little jew to me, showing me a certain habitation which seems a very ordinary one, "you are a stranger?" "quite." "then do not pass this house without stopping a moment to admire it." "and why?" "there lived the famous tenor satar, who sang the _contre-fa_ from his chest. and they paid him for it!" i told the worthy patriarch that i hoped he would be able to sing a _contre-sol_ even better paid for; and i went up the hill to the right of the koura, so as to have a view of the whole town. at the top of the hill, on a little open space where a reciter is declaiming with vigorous gestures the verses of saadi, the adorable persian poet, i abandon myself to the contemplation of the transcaucasian capital. what i am doing here, i propose to do again in a fortnight at pekin. but the pagodas and yamens of the celestial empire can wait awhile, here is tiflis before my eyes; walls of the citadels, belfries of the temples belonging to the different religions, a metropolitan church with its double cross, houses of russian, persian, or armenian construction; a few roofs, but many terraces; a few ornamental frontages, but many balconies and verandas; then two well-marked zones, the lower zone remaining georgian, the higher zone, more modern, traversed by a long boulevard planted with fine trees, among which is seen the palace of prince bariatinsky, a capricious, unexpected marvel of irregularity, which the horizon borders with its grand frontier of mountains. it is now five o'clock. i have no time to deliver myself in a remunerative torrent of descriptive phrases. let us hurry off to the railway station. there is a crowd of armenians, georgians, mingrelians, tartars, kurds, israelites, russians, from the shores of the caspian, some taking their tickets--oh! the oriental color--direct for baku, some for intermediate stations. this time i was completely in order. neither the clerk with the gendarme's face, nor the gendarmes themselves could hinder my departure. i take a ticket for baku, first class. i go down on the platform to the carriages. according to my custom, i install myself in a comfortable corner. a few travelers follow me while the cosmopolitan populace invade the second and third-class carriages. the doors are shut after the visit of the ticket inspector. a last scream of the whistle announces that the train is about to start. suddenly there is a shout--a shout in which anger is mingled with despair, and i catch these words in german: "stop! stop!" i put down the window and look out. a fat man, bag in hand, traveling cap on head, his legs embarrassed in the skirts of a huge overcoat, short and breathless. he is late. the porters try to stop him. try to stop a bomb in the middle of its trajectory! once again has right to give place to might. the teuton bomb describes a well-calculated curve, and has just fallen into the compartment next to ours, through the door a traveler had obligingly left open. the train begins to move at the same instant, the engine wheels begin to slip on the rails, then the speed increases. we are off. chapter ii. we were three minutes late in starting; it is well to be precise. a special correspondent who is not precise is a geometer who neglects to run out his calculations to the tenth decimal. this delay of three minutes made the german our traveling companion. i have an idea that this good man will furnish me with some copy, but it is only a presentiment. it is still daylight at six o'clock in the evening in this latitude. i have bought a time-table and i consult it. the map which accompanies it shows me station by station the course of the line between tiflis and baku. not to know the direction taken by the engine, to be ignorant if the train is going northeast or southeast, would be insupportable to me, all the more as when night comes, i shall see nothing, for i cannot see in the dark as if i were an owl or a cat. my time-table shows me that the railway skirts for a little distance the carriage road between tiflis and the caspian, running through saganlong, poily, elisabethpol, karascal, aliat, to baku, along the valley of the koura. we cannot tolerate a railway which winds about; it must keep to a straight line as much as possible. and that is what the transgeorgian does. among the stations there is one i would have gladly stopped at if i had had time, elisabethpol. before i received the telegram from the _twentieth century_, i had intended to stay there a week. i had read such attractive descriptions of it, and i had but a five minutes' stop there, and that between two and three o'clock in the morning! instead of a town resplendent in the rays of the sun, i could only obtain a view of a vague mass confusedly discoverable in the pale beams of the moon! having ended my careful examination of the time-table, i began to examine my traveling companions. there were four of us, and i need scarcely say that we occupied the four corners of the compartment. i had taken the farthest corner facing the engine. at the two opposite angles two travelers were seated facing each other. as soon as they got in they had pulled their caps down on their eyes and wrapped themselves up in their cloaks--evidently they were georgians as far as i could see. but they belonged to that special and privileged race who sleep on the railway, and they did not wake up until we reached baku. there was nothing to be got out of those people; the carriage is not a carriage for them, it is a bed. in front of me was quite a different type with nothing of the oriental about it; thirty-two to thirty-five years old, face with a reddish beard, very much alive in look, nose like that of a dog standing at point, mouth only too glad to talk, hands free and easy, ready for a shake with anybody; a tall, vigorous, broad-shouldered, powerful man. by the way in which he settled himself and put down his bag, and unrolled his traveling rug of bright-hued tartan, i had recognized the anglo-saxon traveler, more accustomed to long journeys by land and sea than to the comforts of his home, if he had a home. he looked like a commercial traveler. i noticed that his jewelry was in profusion; rings on his fingers, pin in his scarf, studs on his cuffs, with photographic views in them, showy trinkets hanging from the watch-chain across his waistcoat. although he had no earrings and did not wear a ring at his nose i should not have been surprised if he turned out to be an american--probably a yankee. that is my business. to find out who are my traveling companions, whence they come, where they go, is that not the duty of a special correspondent in search of interviews? i will begin with my neighbor in front of me. that will not be difficult, i imagine. he is not dreaming or sleeping, or looking out on the landscape lighted by the last rays of the sun. if i am not mistaken he will be just as glad to speak to me as i am to speak to him--and reciprocally. i will see. but a fear restrains me. suppose this american--and i am sure he is one--should also be a special, perhaps for the _world_ or the _new york herald_, and suppose he has also been ordered off to do this grand asiatic. that would be most annoying! he would be a rival! my hesitation is prolonged. shall i speak, shall i not speak? already night has begun to fall. at last i was about to open my mouth when my companion prevented me. "you are a frenchman?" he said in my native tongue. "yes, sir," i replied in his. evidently we could understand each other. the ice was broken, and then question followed on question rather rapidly between us. you know the oriental proverb: "a fool asks more questions in an hour than a wise man in a year." but as neither my companion nor myself had any pretensions to wisdom we asked away merrily. "_wait a bit_," said my american. i italicize this phrase because it will recur frequently, like the pull of the rope which gives the impetus to the swing. "_wait a bit_! i'll lay ten to one that you are a reporter!" "and you would win! yes. i am a reporter sent by the _twentieth century_ to do this journey." "going all the way to pekin?" "to pekin." "so am i," replied the yankee. and that was what i was afraid of. "same trade?" said i indifferently. "no. you need not excite yourself. we don't sell the same stuff, sir." "claudius bombarnac, of bordeaux, is delighted to be on the same road as--" "fulk ephrinell, of the firm of strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, new york, u.s.a." and he really added u.s.a. we were mutually introduced. i a traveler in news, and he a traveler in--in what? that i had to find out. the conversation continues. ephrinell, as may be supposed, has been everywhere--and even farther, as he observes. he knows both americas and almost all europe. but this is the first time he has set foot in asia. he talks and talks, and always jerks in _wait a bit_, with inexhaustible loquacity. has the hunson the same properties as the garonne? i listen to him for two hours. i have hardly heard the names of the stations yelled out at each stop, saganlong, poily, and the others. and i really should have liked to examine the landscape in the soft light of the moon, and made a few notes on the road. fortunately my fellow traveler had already crossed these eastern parts of georgia. he pointed out the spots of interest, the villages, the watercourses, the mountains on the horizon. but i hardly saw them. confound these railways! you start, you arrive, and you have seen nothing on the road! "no!" i exclaim, "there is none of the charm about it as there is in traveling by post, in troika, tarantass, with the surprises of the road, the originality of the inns, the confusion when you change horses, the glass of vodka of the yemtchiks--and occasionally the meeting with those honest brigands whose race is nearly extinct." "mr. bombarnac," said ephrinell to me, "are you serious in regretting all those fine things?" "quite serious," i reply. "with the advantages of the straight line of railway we lose the picturesqueness of the curved line, or the broken line of the highways of the past. and, monsieur ephrinell, when you read of traveling in transcaucasia forty years ago, do you not regret it? shall i see one of those villages inhabited by cossacks who are soldiers and farmers at one and the same time? shall i be present at one of those merry-makings which charm the tourist? those djiquitovkas with the men upright on their horses, throwing their swords, discharging their pistols, and escorting you if you are in the company of some high functionary, or a colonel of the staniza." "undoubtedly we have lost all those fine things," replies my yankee. "but, thanks to these iron ribbons which will eventually encircle our globe like a hogshead of cider or a bale of cotton, we can go in thirteen days from tiflis to pekin. that is why, if you expect any incidents, to enliven you--" "certainly, monsieur ephrinell." "illusions, mr. bombarnac! nothing will happen either to you or me. wait a bit, i promise you a journey, the most prosaic, the most homely, the flattest--flat as the steppes of kara koum, which the grand transasiatic traverses in turkestan, and the plains of the desert of gobi it crosses in china--" "well, we shall see, for i travel for the pleasure of my readers." "and i travel merely for my own business." and at this reply the idea recurred to me that ephrinell would not be quite the traveling companion i had dreamed of. he had goods to sell, i had none to buy. i foresaw that our meeting would not lead to a sufficient intimacy during our long journey. he was one of those yankees who, as they say, hold a dollar between their teeth, which it is impossible to get away from them, and i should get nothing out of him that was worth having. and although i knew that he traveled for strong, bulbul & co., of new york, i had never heard of the firm. to listen to their representative, it would appear that strong, bulbul & co. ought to be known throughout the world. but then, how was it that they were unknown to me, a pupil of chincholle, our master in everything! i was quite at a loss because i had never heard of the firm of strong, bulbul & co. i was about to interrogate ephrinell on this point, when he said to me: "have you ever been in the united states, mr. bombarnac?" "no, monsieur ephrinell." "you will come to our country some day?" "perhaps." "then you will not forget to explore the establishment of strong, bulbul & co.?" "explore it?" "that is the proper word." "good! i shall not fail to do so." "you will see one of the most remarkable industrial establishments of the new continent." "i have no doubt of it; but how am i to know it?" "wait a bit, mr. bombarnac. imagine a colossal workshop, immense buildings for the mounting and adjusting of the pieces, a steam engine of fifteen hundred horse-power, ventilators making six hundred revolutions a minute, boilers consuming a hundred tons of coals a day, a chimney stack four hundred and fifty feet high, vast outhouses for the storage of our goods, which we send to the five parts of the world, a general manager, two sub-managers, four secretaries, eight under-secretaries, a staff of five hundred clerks and nine hundred workmen, a whole regiment of travelers like your servant, working in europe, asia, africa, america, australasia, in short, a turnover exceeding annually one hundred million dollars! and all that, mr. bombarnac, for making millions of--yes, i said millions--" at this moment the train commenced to slow under the action of its automatic brakes, and he stopped. "elisabethpol! elisabethpol!" shout the guard and the porters on the station. our conversation is interrupted. i lower the window on my side, and open the door, being desirous of stretching my legs. ephrinell did not get out. here was i striding along the platform of a very poorly lighted station. a dozen travelers had already left the train. five or six georgians were crowding on the steps of the compartments. ten minutes at elisabethpol; the time-table allowed us no more. as soon as the bell begins to ring i return to our carriage, and when i have shut the door i notice that my place is taken. yes! facing the american, a lady has installed herself with that anglo-saxon coolness which is as unlimited as the infinite. is she young? is she old? is she pretty? is she plain? the obscurity does not allow me to judge. in any case, my french gallantry prevents me from claiming my corner, and i sit down beside this person who makes no attempt at apology. ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing what it is that strong, bulbul & co., of new york, manufacture by the million. the train has started. we have left elisabethpol behind. what have i seen of this charming town of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the gandja-tchaï, a tributary of the koura, which i had specially worked up before my arrival? nothing of its brick houses hidden under verdure, nothing of its curious ruins, nothing of its superb mosque built at the beginning of the eighteenth century. of its admirable plane trees, so sought after by crows and blackbirds, and which maintain a supportable temperature during the excessive heats of summer, i had scarcely seen the higher branches with the moon shining on them. and on the banks of the stream which bears its silvery murmuring waters along the principal street, i had only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small crenelated fortresses. all that remained in my memory would be an indecisive outline, seized in flight from between the steam puffs of our engine. and why are these houses always in a state of defence? because elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to the frequent attacks of the lesghians of chirvan, and these mountaineers, according to the best-informed historians, are directly descended from attila's hordes. it was nearly midnight. weariness invited me to sleep, and yet, like a good reporter, i must sleep with one eye and one ear open. i fall into that sort of slumber provoked by the regular trepidations of a train on the road, mingled with ear-splitting whistles and the grind of the brakes as the speed is slowed, and tumultuous roars as passing trains are met with, besides the names of the stations shouted out during the short stoppages, and the banging of the doors which are opened or shut with metallic sonority. in this way i heard the shouts of geran, varvara, oudjarry, kiourdamir, klourdane, then karasoul, navagi. i sat up, but as i no longer occupied the corner from which i had been so cavalierly evicted, it was impossible for me to look through the window. and then i began to ask what is hidden beneath this mass of veils and wraps and petticoats, which has usurped my place. is this lady going to be my companion all the way to the terminus of the grand transasiatic? shall i exchange a sympathetic salute with her in the streets of pekin? and from her my thoughts wander to my companion who is snoring in the corner in a way that would make all the ventilators of strong, bulbul & co. quite jealous. and what is it these big people make? is it iron bridges, or locomotives, or armor plates, or steam boilers, or mining pumps? from what my american told me, i might find a rival to creusot or cokerill or essen in this formidable establishment in the united states of america. at least unless he has been taking a rise out of me, for he does not seem to be "green," as they say in his country, which means to say that he does not look very much like an idiot, this ephrinell! and yet it seems that i must gradually have fallen sound asleep. withdrawn from exterior influences, i did not even hear the stentorian respiration of the yankee. the train arrived at aliat, and stayed there ten minutes without my being aware of it. i am sorry for it, for aliat is a little seaport, and i should like to have had a first glimpse of the caspian, and of the countries ravaged by peter the great. two columns of the historico-fantastic might have been made out of that, with the aid of bouillet and larousse. "baku! baku!" the word repeated as the train stopped awoke me. it was seven o'clock in the morning. chapter iii. the boat did not start until three o'clock in the afternoon. those of my companions who intended to cross the caspian hurried off to the harbor; it being necessary to engage a cabin, or to mark one's place in the steamer's saloon. ephrinell precipitately left me with these words: "i have not an instant to lose. i must see about the transport of my baggage." "have you much?" "forty-two cases." "forty-two cases!" i exclaimed. "and i am sorry i have not double as many. allow me--" if he had had a voyage of eight days, instead of one of twenty-four hours, and had to cross the atlantic instead of the caspian, he could not have been in a greater hurry. as you may imagine, the yankee did not for a moment think of offering his hand to assist our companion in descending from the carriage. i took his place. the lady leaned on my arm and jumped--no, gently put her foot on the ground. my reward was a _thank you, sir_, uttered in a hard, dry, unmistakably british voice. thackeray has said somewhere that a well-brought-up englishwoman is the completest of the works of god on this earth. my only wish is to verify this gallant affirmation in the case of my companion. she has put back her veil. is she a young woman or an old girl? with these englishwomen one never knows! twenty-five years is apparently about her age, she has an albionesque complexion, a jerky walk, a high dress like an equinoctial tide, no spectacles, although she has eyes of the intense blue which are generally short-sighted. while i bend my back as i bow, she honors me with a nod, which only brings into play the vertebrae of her long neck, and she walks off straight toward the way out. probably i shall meet this person again on the steamboat. for my part, i shall not go down to the harbor until it is time to start. i am at baku: i have half a day to see baku, and i shall not lose an hour, now that the chances of my wanderings have brought me to baku. it is possible that the name may in no way excite the reader's curiosity. but perhaps it may inflame his imagination if i tell him that baku is the town of the guebres, the city of the parsees, the metropolis of the fire-worshippers. encircled by a triple girdle of black battlemented walls, the town is built near cape apcheron, on the extreme spur of the caucasian range. but am i in persia or in russia? in russia undoubtedly, for georgia is a russian province; but we can still believe we are in persia, for baku has retained its persian physiognomy. i visit a palace of the khans, a pure product of the architecture of the time of schahriar and scheherazade, "daughter of the moon," his gifted romancer, a palace in which the delicate sculpture is as fresh as it came from the chisel. further on rise some slender minarets, and not the bulbous roofs of moscow the holy, at the angles of an old mosque, into which one can enter without taking off one's boots. true, the muezzin no longer declaims from it some sonorous verse of the koran at the hour of prayer. and yet baku has portions of it which are real russian in manners and aspect, with their wooden houses without a trace of oriental color, a railway station of imposing aspect, worthy of a great city in europe or america, and at the end of one of the roads, a modern harbor, the atmosphere of which is foul with the coal smoke vomited from the steamer funnels. and, in truth, one asks what they are doing with coal in this town of naphtha. what is the good of coal when the bare and arid soil of apcheron, which grows only the pontic absinthium, is so rich in mineral oil? at eighty francs the hundred kilos, it yields naphtha, black or white, which the exigencies of supply will not exhaust for centuries. a marvelous phenomenon indeed! do you want a light or a fire? nothing can be simpler; make a hole in the ground, the gas escapes, and you apply a match. that is a natural gasometer within the reach of all purses. i should have liked to visit the famous sanctuary of atesh gah; but it is twenty-two versts from the town, and time failed me. there burns the eternal fire, kept up for centuries by the parsee priests from india, who never touch animal food. this reminds me that i have not yet breakfasted, and as eleven o'clock strikes, i make my way to the restaurant at the railway, where i have no intention of conforming myself to the alimentary code of the parsees of atesh gah. as i am entering, ephrinell rushes out. "breakfast?" say i. "i have had it," he replies. "and your cases?" "i have still twenty-nine to get down to the steamer. but, pardon, i have not a moment to lose. when a man represents the firm of strong, bulbul & co., who send out every week five thousand cases of their goods--" "go, go, monsieur ephrinell, we will meet on board. by the by, you have not met our traveling companion?" "what traveling companion?" "the young lady who took my place in the carriage." "was there a young lady with us?" "of course." "well you are the first to tell me so, mr. bombarnac. you are the first to tell me so." and thereupon the american goes out of the door and disappears. it is to be hoped i shall know before we get to pekin what it is that strong, bulbul & co. send out in such quantities. five thousand cases a week--what an output, and what a turnover! i had soon finished my breakfast and was off again. during my walk i was able to admire a few magnificent lesghians; these wore the grayish tcherkesse, with the cartridge belts on the chest, the bechmet of bright red silk, the gaiters embroidered with silver, the boots flat, without a heel, the white papak on the head, the long gun on the shoulders, the schaska and kandijar at the belt--in short men of the arsenal as there are men of the orchestra, but of superb aspect and who ought to have a marvelous effect in the processions of the russian emperor. it is already two o'clock, and i think i had better get down to the boat. i must call at the railway station, where i have left my light luggage at the cloakroom. soon i am off again, bag in one hand, stick in the other, hastening down one of the roads leading to the harbor. at the break in the wall where access is obtained to the quay, my attention is, i do not know why, attracted by two people walking along together. the man is from thirty to thirty-five years old, the woman from twenty-five to thirty, the man already a grayish brown, with mobile face, lively look, easy walk with a certain swinging of the hips. the woman still a pretty blonde, blue eyes, a rather fresh complexion, her hair frizzed under a cap, a traveling costume which is in good taste neither in its unfashionable cut nor in its glaring color. evidently a married couple come in the train from tiflis, and unless i am mistaken they are french. but although i look at them with curiosity, they take no notice of me. they are too much occupied to see me. in their hands, on their shoulders, they have bags and cushions and wraps and sticks and sunshades and umbrellas. they are carrying every kind of little package you can think of which they do not care to put with the luggage on the steamer. i have a good mind to go and help them. is it not a happy chance--and a rare one--to meet with french people away from france? just as i am walking up to them, ephrinell appears, drags me away, and i leave the couple behind. it is only a postponement. i will meet them again on the steamboat and make their acquaintance on the voyage. "well," said i to the yankee, "how are you getting on with your cargo?" "at this moment, sir, the thirty-seventh case is on the road." "and no accident up to now? "no accident." "and what may be in those cases, if you please? "in those cases? ah! there is the thirty-seventh!" he exclaimed, and he ran out to meet a truck which had just come onto the quay. there was a good deal of bustle about, and all the animation of departures and arrivals. baku is the most frequented and the safest port on the caspian. derbent, situated more to the north, cannot keep up with it, and it absorbs almost the entire maritime traffic of this sea, or rather this great lake which has no communication with the neighboring seas. the establishment of uzun ada on the opposite coast has doubled the trade which used to pass through baku. the transcaspian now open for passengers and goods is the chief commercial route between europe and turkestan. in the near future there will perhaps be a second route along the persian frontier connecting the south russian railways with those of british india, and that will save travelers the navigation of the caspian. and when this vast basin has dried up through evaporation, why should not a railroad be run across its sandy bed, so that trains can run through without transhipment at baku and uzun ada? while we are waiting for the realization of this desideratum, it is necessary to take the steamboat, and that i am preparing to do in company with many others. our steamer is called the _astara_, of the caucasus and mercury company. she is a big paddle steamer, making three trips a week from coast to coast. she is a very roomy boat, designed to carry a large cargo, and the builders have thought considerably more of the cargo than of the passengers. after all, there is not much to make a fuss about in a day's voyage. there is a noisy crowd on the quay of people who are going off, and people who have come to see them off, recruited from the cosmopolitan population of baku. i notice that the travelers are mostly turkomans, with about a score of europeans of different nationalities, a few persians, and two representatives of the celestial empire. evidently their destination is china. . the _astara_ is loaded up. the hold is not big enough, and a good deal of the cargo has overflowed onto the deck. the stern is reserved for passengers, but from the bridge forward to the topgallant forecastle, there is a heap of cases covered with tarpaulins to protect them from the sea. there ephrinell's cases have been put. he has lent a hand with yankee energy, determined not to lose sight of his valuable property, which is in cubical cases, about two feet on the side, covered with patent leather, carefully strapped, and on which can be read the stenciled words, "strong, bulbul & co., now york." "are all your goods on board?" i asked the american. "there is the forty-second case just coming," he replied. and there was the said case on the back of a porter already coming along the gangway. it seemed to me that the porter was rather tottery, owing perhaps to a lengthy absorption of vodka. "wait a bit!" shouted ephrinell. then in good russian, so as to be better understood, he shouted: "look out! look out!" it is good advice, but it is too late. the porter has just made a false step. the case slips from his shoulders, falls--luckily over the rail of the _astara_--breaks in two, and a quantity of little packets of paper scatter their contents on the deck. what a shout of indignation did ephrinell raise! what a whack with his fist did he administer to the unfortunate porter as he repeated in a voice of despair: "my teeth, my poor teeth!" and he went down on his knees to gather up his little bits of artificial ivory that were scattered all about, while i could hardly keep from laughing. yes! it was teeth which strong, bulbul & co., of new york made! it was for manufacturing five thousand cases a week for the five parts of the world that this huge concern existed! it was for supplying the dentists of the old and new worlds; it was for sending teeth as far as china, that their factory required fifteen hundred horse power, and burned a hundred tons of coal a day! that is quite american! after all, the population of the globe is fourteen hundred million, and as there are thirty-two teeth per inhabitant, that makes forty-five thousand millions; so that if it ever became necessary to replace all the true teeth by false ones, the firm of strong, bulbul & co. would not be able to supply them. but we must leave ephrinell gathering up the odontological treasures of the forty-second case. the bell is ringing for the last time. all the passengers are aboard. the _astara_ is casting off her warps. suddenly there are shouts from the quay. i recognize them as being in german, the same as i had heard at tiflis when the train was starting for baku. it is the same man. he is panting, he runs, he cannot run much farther. the gangway has been drawn ashore, and the steamer is already moving off. how will this late comer get on board? luckily there is a rope out astern which still keeps the _astara_ near the quay. the german appears just as two sailors are manoeuvring with the fender. they each give him a hand and help him on board. evidently this fat man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and i should not be surprised if he did not arrive at his destination. however, the _astara_ is under way, her powerful paddles are at work, and we are soon out of the harbor. about a quarter of a mile out there is a sort of boiling, agitating the surface of the sea, and showing some deep trouble in the waters. i was then near the rail on the starboard quarter, and, smoking my cigar, was looking at the harbor disappearing behind the point round cape apcheron, while the range of the caucasus ran up into the western horizon. of my cigar there remained only the end between my lips, and taking a last whiff, i threw it overboard. in an instant a sheet of flame burst out all round the steamer the boiling came from a submarine spring of naphtha, and the cigar end had set it alight. screams arise. the _astara_ rolls amid sheaves of flame; but a movement of the helm steers us away from the flaming spring, and we are out of danger. the captain comes aft and says to me in a frigid tone: "that was a foolish thing to do." and i reply, as i usually reply under such circumstances: "really, captain, i did not know--" "you ought always to know, sir!" these words are uttered in a dry, cantankerous tone a few feet away from me. i turn to see who it is. it is the englishwoman who has read me this little lesson. chapter iv. i am always suspicious of a traveler's "impressions." these impressions are subjective--a word i use because it is the fashion, although i am not quite sure what it means. a cheerful man looks at things cheerfully, a sorrowful man looks at them sorrowfully. democritus would have found something enchanting about the banks of the jordan and the shores of the dead sea. heraclitus would have found something disagreeable about the bay of naples and the beach of the bosphorus. i am of a happy nature--you must really pardon me if i am rather egotistic in this history, for it is so seldom that an author's personality is so mixed up with what he is writing about--like hugo, dumas, lamartine, and so many others. shakespeare is an exception, and i am not shakespeare--and, as far as that goes, i am not lamartine, nor dumas, nor hugo. however, opposed as i am to the doctrines of schopenhauer and leopardi, i will admit that the shores of the caspian did seem rather gloomy and dispiriting. there seemed to be nothing alive on the coast; no vegetation, no birds. there was nothing to make you think you were on a great sea. true, the caspian is only a lake about eighty feet below the level of the mediterranean, but this lake is often troubled by violent storms. a ship cannot "get away," as sailors say: it is only about a hundred leagues wide. the coast is quickly reached eastward or westward, and harbors of refuge are not numerous on either the asiatic or the european side. there are a hundred passengers on board the _astara_--a large number of them caucasians trading with turkestan, and who will be with us all the way to the eastern provinces of the celestial empire. for some years now the transcaspian has been running between uzun ada and the chinese frontier. even between this part and samarkand it has no less than sixty-three stations; and it is in this section of the line that most of the passengers will alight. i need not worry about them, and i will lose no time in studying them. suppose one of them proves interesting, i may pump him and peg away at him, and just at the critical moment he will get out. no! all my attention i must devote to those who are going through with me. i have already secured ephrinell, and perhaps that charming englishwoman, who seems to me to be going to pekin. i shall meet with other traveling companions at uzun ada. with regard to the french couple, there is nothing more at present, but the passage of the caspian will not be accomplished before i know something about them. there are also these two chinamen who are evidently going to china. if i only knew a hundred words of the "kouan-hoa," which is the language spoken in the celestial empire, i might perhaps make something out of these curious guys. what i really want is some personage with a story, some mysterious hero traveling _incognito_, a lord or a bandit. i must not forget my trade as a reporter of occurrences and an interviewer of mankind--at so much a line and well selected. he who makes a good choice has a good chance. i go down the stairs to the saloon aft. there is not a place vacant. the cabins are already occupied by the passengers who are afraid of the pitching and rolling. they went to bed as soon as they came on board, and they will not get up until the boat is alongside the wharf at uzun ada. the cabins being full, other travelers have installed themselves on the couches, amid a lot of little packages, and they will not move from there. as i am going to pass the night on deck, i return up the cabin stairs. the american is there, just finishing the repacking of his case. "would you believe it!" he exclaims, "that that drunken moujik actually asked me for something to drink?" "i hope you have lost nothing, monsieur ephrinell?" i reply. "no; fortunately." "may i ask how many teeth you are importing into china in those cases?" "eighteen hundred thousand, without counting the wisdom teeth!" and ephrinell began to laugh at this little joke, which he fired off on several other occasions during the voyage. i left him and went onto the bridge between the paddle boxes. it is a beautiful night, with the northerly wind beginning to freshen. in the offing, long, greenish streaks are sweeping over the surface of the sea. it is possible that the night may be rougher than we expect. in the forepart of the steamer are many passengers, turkomans in rags, kirghizes wrapped up to the eyes, moujiks in emigrant costume--poor fellows, in fact, stretched on the spare spars, against the sides, and along the tarpaulins. they are almost all smoking or nibbling at the provisions they have brought for the voyage. the others are trying to sleep and forget their fatigue, and perhaps their hunger. it occurs to me to take a stroll among these groups. i am like a hunter beating the brushwood before getting into the hiding place. and i go among this heap of packages, looking them over as if i were a custom house officer. a rather large deal case, covered with a tarpaulin, attracts my attention. it measures about a yard and a half in height, and a yard in width and depth. it has been placed here with the care required by these words in russian, written on the side, "glass--fragile--keep from damp," and then directions, "top--bottom," which have been respected. and then there is the address, "mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, petchili, china." this zinca klork--her name showed it--ought to be a roumanian, and she was taking advantage of this through train on the grand transasiatic to get her glass forwarded. was this an article in request at the shops of the middle kingdom? how otherwise could the fair celestials admire their almond eyes and their elaborate hair? the bell rang and announced the six-o'clock dinner. the dining-room is forward. i went down to it, and found it already occupied by some forty people. ephrinell had installed himself nearly in the middle. there was a vacant seat near him; he beckoned to me to occupy it, and i hastened to take possession. was it by chance? i know not; but the englishwoman was seated on ephrinell's left and talking to him. he introduced me. "miss horatia bluett," he said. opposite i saw the french couple conscientiously studying the bill of fare. at the other end of the table, close to where the food came from--and where the people got served first--was the german passenger, a man strongly built and with a ruddy face, fair hair, reddish beard, clumsy hands, and a very long nose which reminded one of the proboscidean feature of the plantigrades. he had that peculiar look of the officers of the landsturm threatened with premature obesity. "he is not late this time," said i to ephrinell. "the dinner hour is never forgotten in the german empire!" replied the american. "do you know that german's name?" "baron weissschnitzerdörfer." "and with that name is he going to pekin?" "to pekin, like that russian major who is sitting near the captain of the _astara_." i looked at the man indicated. he was about fifty years of age, of true muscovite type, beard and hair turning gray, face prepossessing. i knew russian: he ought to know french. perhaps he was the fellow traveler of whom i had dreamed. "you said he was a major, mr. ephrinell?" "yes, a doctor in the russian army, and they call him major noltitz." evidently the american was some distance ahead of me, and yet he was not a reporter by profession. as the rolling was not yet very great, we could dine in comfort. ephrinell chatted with miss horatia bluett, and i understood that there was an understanding between these two perfectly anglo-saxon natures. in fact, one was a traveler in teeth and the other was a traveler in hair. miss horatia bluett represented an important firm in london, messrs. holmes-holme, to whom the celestial empire annually exports two millions of female heads of hair. she was going to pekin on account of the said firm, to open an office as a center for the collection of the chinese hair crop. it seemed a promising enterprise, as the secret society of the blue lotus was agitating for the abolition of the pigtail, which is the emblem of the servitude of the chinese to the manchu tartars. "come," thought i, "if china sends her hair to england, america sends her teeth: that is a capital exchange, and everything is for the best." we had been at the table for a quarter of an hour, and nothing had happened. the traveler with the smooth complexion and his blonde companion seemed to listen to us when we spoke in french. it evidently pleased them, and they were already showing an inclination to join in our talk. i was not mistaken, then; they are compatriots, but of what class? at this moment the _astara_ gave a lurch. the plates rattled on the table; the covers slipped; the glasses upset some of their contents; the hanging lamps swung out of the vertical--or rather our seats and the table moved in accordance with the roll of the ship. it is a curious effect, when one is sailor enough to bear it without alarm. "eh!" said the american; "here is the good old caspian shaking her skin." "are you subject to seasickness?" i asked. "no more than a porpoise," said he. "are you ever seasick?" he continued to his neighbor. "never," said miss horatia bluett. on the other side of the table there was an interchange of a few words in french. "you are not unwell, madame caterna?" "no, adolphe, not yet; but if this continues, i am afraid--" "well, caroline, we had better go on deck. the wind has hauled a point to the eastward, and the _astara_ will soon be sticking her nose in the feathers." his way of expressing himself shows that "monsieur caterna"--if that was his name--was a sailor, or ought to have been one. that explains the way he rolls his hips as he walks. the pitching now becomes very violent. the majority of the company cannot stand it. about thirty of the passengers have left the table for the deck. i hope the fresh air will do them good. we are now only a dozen in the dining room, including the captain, with whom major noltitz is quietly conversing. ephrinell and miss bluett seem to be thoroughly accustomed to these inevitable incidents of navigation. the german baron drinks and eats as if he had taken up his quarters in some bier-halle at munich, or frankfort, holding his knife in his right hand, his fork in his left, and making up little heaps of meat, which he salts and peppers and covers with sauce, and then inserts under his hairy lip on the point of his knife. fie! what behavior! and yet he gets on splendidly, and neither rolling nor pitching makes him lose a mouthful of food or drink. a little way off are the two celestials, whom i watch with curiosity. one is a young man of distinguished bearing, about twenty-five years old, of pleasant physiognomy, in spite of his yellow skin and his narrow eyes. a few years spent in europe have evidently europeanized his manners and even his dress. his mustache is silky, his eye is intelligent his hair is much more french than chinese. he seems to me a nice fellow, of a cheerful temperament, who would not ascend the "tower of regret," as the chinese have it, oftener than he could help. his companion, on the contrary, whom he always appears to be making fun of, is of the type of the true porcelain doll, with the moving head; he is from fifty to fifty-five years old, like a monkey in the face, the top of his head half shaven, the pigtail down his back, the traditional costume, frock, vest, belt, baggy trousers, many-colored slippers; a china vase of the green family. he, however, could hold out no longer, and after a tremendous pitch, accompanied by a long rattle of the crockery, he got up and hurried on deck. and as he did so, the younger chinaman shouted after him, "cornaro! cornaro!" at the same time holding out a little volume he had left on the table. what was the meaning of this italian word in an oriental mouth? did the chinaman speak the language of boccaccio? the _twentieth century_ ought to know, and it would know. madame caterna arose, very pale, and monsieur caterna, a model husband, followed her on deck. the dinner over, leaving ephrinell and miss bluett to talk of brokerages and prices current, i went for a stroll on the poop of the _astara_. night had nearly closed in. the hurrying clouds, driven from the eastward, draped in deep folds the higher zones of the sky, with here and there a few stars peeping through. the wind was rising. the white light of the steamer clicked as it swung on the foremast. the red and green lights rolled with the ship, and projected their long colored rays onto the troubled waters. i met ephrinell, miss horatia bluett having retired to her cabin; he was going down into the saloon to find a comfortable corner on one of the couches. i wished him good night, and he left me after gratifying me with a similar wish. as for me, i will wrap myself in my rug and lie down in a corner of the deck, and sleep like a sailor during his watch below. it is only eight o'clock. i light my cigar, and with my legs wide apart, to assure my stability as the ship rolled, i begin to walk up and down the deck. the deck is already abandoned by the first-class passengers, and i am almost alone. on the bridge is the mate, pacing backward and forward, and watching the course he has given to the man at the wheel, who is close to him. the paddles are impetuously beating into the sea, and now and then breaking into thunder, as one or the other of the wheels runs wild, as the rolling lifts it clear of the water. a thick smoke rises from the funnel, which occasionally belches forth a shower of sparks. at nine o'clock the night is very dark. i try to make out some steamer's lights in the distance, but in vain, for the caspian has not many ships on it. i can hear only the cry of the sea birds, gulls and scoters, who are abandoning themselves to the caprices of the wind. during my promenade, one thought besets me: is the voyage to end without my getting anything out of it as copy for my journal? my instructions made me responsible for producing something, and surely not without reason. what? not an adventure from tiflis to pekin? evidently that could only be my fault! and i resolved to do everything to avoid such a misfortune. it is half-past ten when i sit down on one of the seats in the stern of the _astara_. but with this increasing wind it is impossible for me to remain there. i rise, therefore, and make my way forward. under the bridge, between the paddle boxes, the wind is so strong that i seek shelter among the packages covered by the tarpaulin. stretched on one of the boxes, wrapped in my rug, with my head resting against the tarpaulin, i shall soon be asleep. after some time, i do not exactly know how much, i am awakened by a curious noise. whence comes this noise? i listen more attentively. it seems as though some one is snoring close to my ear. "that is some steerage passenger," i think. "he has got under the tarpaulin between the cases, and he will not do so badly in his improvised cabin." by the light which filters down from the lower part of the binnacle, i see nothing. i listen again. the noise has ceased. i look about. there is no one on this part of the deck, for the second-class passengers are all forward. then i must have been dreaming, and i resume my position and try again to sleep. this time there is no mistake. the snoring has begun again, and i am sure it is coming from the case against which i am leaning my head. "goodness!" i say. "there must be an animal in here!" an animal? what? a dog? a cat? why have they hidden a domestic animal in this case? is it a wild animal? a panther, a tiger, a lion? now i am off on the trail! it must be a wild animal on its way from some menagerie to some sultan of central asia. this case is a cage, and if the cage opens, if the animal springs out onto the deck--here is an incident, here is something worth chronicling; and here i am with my professional enthusiasm running mad. i must know at all costs to whom this wild beast is being sent; is it going to uzon ada, or is it going to china? the address ought to be on the case. i light a wax vesta, and as i am sheltered from the wind, the flame keeps upright. by its light what do i read? the case containing the wild beast is the very one with the address: "_mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china."_ _fragile_, my wild beast! _keep from damp_, my lion! quite so! but for what does miss zinca klork, this pretty--for the roumanian ought to be pretty, and she is certainly a roumanian--for what does she want a wild beast sent in this way? let us think about it and be reasonable. this animal, whatever it may be, must eat and drink. from the time it starts from uzon ada it will take eleven days to cross asia, and reach the capital of the celestial empire. well, what do they give it to drink, what do they give it to eat, if he is not going to get out of his cage, if he is going to be shut up during the whole of the journey? the officials of the grand transasiatic will be no more careful in their attentions to the said wild beast than if he were a glass, for he is described as such; and he will die of inanition! all these things sent my brain whirling. my thoughts bewildered me. "is it a lovely dream that dazes me, or am i awake?" as margaret says in faust, more lyrically than dramatically. to resist is impossible. i have a two-pound weight on each eyelid. i lay down along by the tarpaulin; my rug wraps me more closely, and i fall into a deep sleep. how long have i slept? perhaps for three or four hours. one thing is certain, and that is that it is not yet daylight when i awake. i rub my eyes, i rise, i go and lean against the rail. the _astara_ is not so lively, for the wind has shifted to the northeast. the night is cold. i warm myself by walking about briskly for half an hour. i think no more of my wild beast. suddenly remembrance returns to me. should i not call the attention of the stationmaster to this disquieting case? but that is no business of mine. we shall see before we start. i look at my watch. it is only three o'clock in the morning. i will go back to my place. and i do so with my head against the side of the case. i shut my eyes. suddenly there is a new sound. this time i am not mistaken. a half-stifled sneeze shakes the side of the case. never did an animal sneeze like that! is it possible? a human being is hidden in this case and is being fraudulently carried by the grand transasiatic to the pretty roumanian! but is it a man or a woman? it seems as though the sneeze had a masculine sound about it. it is impossible to sleep now. how long the day is coming! how eager i am to examine this box! i wanted incidents--well! and here is one, and if i do not get five lines out of this-- the eastern horizon grows brighter. the clouds in the zenith are the first to color. the sun appears at last all watery with the mists of the sea. i look; it is indeed the case addressed to pekin. i notice that certain holes are pierced here and there, by which the air inside can be renewed. perhaps two eyes are looking through these holes, watching what is going on outside? do not be indiscreet! at breakfast gather all the passengers whom the sea has not affected: the young chinaman, major noltitz, ephrinell, miss bluett, monsieur caterna, the baron weissschnitzerdörfer, and seven or eight other passengers. i am careful not to let the american into the secret of the case. he would be guilty of some indiscretion, and then good-by to my news par! about noon the land is reported to the eastward, a low, yellowish land, with no rocky margin, but a few sandhills in the neighborhood of krasnovodsk. in an hour we are in sight of uzun ada, and twenty-seven minutes afterward we set foot in asia. chapter v. travelers used to land at mikhailov, a little port at the end of the transcaspian line; but ships of moderate tonnage hardly had water enough there to come alongside. on this account, general annenkof, the creator of the new railway, the eminent engineer whose name will frequently recur in my narrative, was led to found uzun ada, and thereby considerably shorten the crossing of the caspian. the station was built in three months, and it was opened on the th of may, . fortunately i had read the account given by boulangier, the engineer, relating to the prodigious work of general annenkof, so that i shall not be so very much abroad during the railway journey between uzun ada and samarkand, and, besides, i trust to major noltitz, who knows all about the matter. i have a presentiment that we shall become good friends, and in spite of the proverb which says, "though your friend be of honey do not lick him!" i intend to "lick" my companion often enough for the benefit of my readers. we often hear of the extraordinary rapidity with which the americans have thrown their railroads across the plains of the far west. but the russians are in no whit behind them, if even they have not surpassed them in rapidity as well as in industrial audacity. people are fully acquainted with the adventurous campaign of general skobeleff against the turkomans, a campaign of which the building of the railway assured the definite success. since then the political state of central asia has been entirely changed, and turkestan is merely a province of asiatic russia, extending to the frontiers of the chinese empire. and already chinese turkestan is very visibly submitting to the muscovite influence which the vertiginous heights of the pamir plateau have not been able to check in its civilizing march. i was about to cross the countries which were formerly ravaged by tamerlane and genghis khan, those fabulous countries of which the russians in possessed six hundred and fifteen thousand square kilometres, with thirteen hundred thousand inhabitants. the southern part of this region now forms the transcaspian province, divided into six districts, fort alexandrovski, krasnovodsk, askhabad, karibent, merv, pendjeh, governed by muscovite colonels or lieutenant-colonels. as may be imagined, it hardly takes an hour to see uzun ada, the name of which means long island. it is almost a town, but a modern town, traced with a square, drawn with a line or a large carpet of yellow sand. no monuments, no memories, bridges of planks, houses of wood, to which comfort is beginning to add a few mansions in stone. one can see what this, first station of the transcaspian will be like in fifty years; a great city after having been a great railway station. do not think that there are no hotels. among others there is the hôtel du czar, which has a good table, good rooms and good beds. but the question of beds has no interest for me. as the train starts at four o'clock this afternoon, to begin with, i must telegraph to the _twentieth century,_ by the caspian cable, that i am at my post at the uzun ada station. that done, i can see if i can pick up anything worth reporting. nothing is more simple. it consists in opening an account with those of my companions with whom i may have to do during the journey. that is my custom, i always find it answers, and while waiting for the unknown, i write down the known in my pocketbook, with a number to distinguish each: . fulk ephrinell, american. . miss horatia bluett, english. . major noltitz, russian. . monsieur caterna, french. . madame caterna, french. . baron weissschnitzerdörfer, german. as to the chinese, they will have a number later on, when i have made up my mind about them. as to the individual in the box, i intend to enter into communication with him, or her, and to be of assistance in that quarter if i can do so without betraying the secret. the train is already marshaled in the station. it is composed of first and second-class cars, a restaurant car and two baggage vans. these cars are painted of a light color, an excellent precaution against the heat and against the cold. for in the central asian provinces the temperature ranges between fifty degrees centigrade above zero and twenty below, and in a range of seventy degrees it is only prudent to minimize the effects. these cars are in a convenient manner joined together by gangways, on the american plan. instead of being shut up in a compartment, the traveler strolls about along the whole length of the train. there is room to pass between the stuffed seats, and in the front and rear of each car are the platforms united by the gangways. this facility of communication assures the security of the train. our engine has a bogie on four small wheels, and is thus able to negotiate the sharpest curves; a tender with water and fuel; then come a front van, three first-class cars with twenty-four places each, a restaurant car with pantry and kitchen, four second-class cars and a rear van; in all twelve vehicles, counting in the locomotive and tender. the first class cars are provided with dressing rooms, and their seats, by very simple mechanism, are convertible into beds, which, in fact, are indispensable for long journeys. the second-class travelers are not so comfortably treated, and besides, they have to bring their victuals with them, unless they prefer to take their meals at the stations. there are not many, however, who travel the complete journey between the caspian and the eastern provinces of china--that is to say about six thousand kilometres. most of them go to the principal towns and villages of russian turkestan, which have been reached by the transcaspian railway for some years, and which up to the chinese frontier has a length of over , miles. this grand transasiatic has only been open six weeks and the company is as yet only running two trains a week. all has gone well up to the present; but i ought to add the significant detail that the railway men carry a supply of revolvers to arm the passengers with if necessary. this is a wise precaution in crossing the chinese deserts, where an attack on the train is not improbable. i believe the company are doing their best to ensure the punctuality of their trains; but the chinese section is managed by celestials, and who knows what has been the past life of those people? will they not be more intent on the security of their dividends than of their passengers? as i wait for the departure i stroll about on the platform, looking through the windows of the cars, which have no doors along the sides, the entrances being at the ends. everything is new; the engine is as bright as it can be, the carriages are brilliant in their new paint, their springs have not begun to give with wear, and their wheels run true on the rails. then there is the rolling stock with which we are going to cross a continent. there is no railway as long as this--not even in america. the canadian line measures five thousand kilometres, the central union, five thousand two hundred and sixty, the santa fe line, four thousand eight hundred and seventy-five, the atlantic pacific, five thousand six hundred and thirty, the northern pacific, six thousand two hundred and fifty. there is only one line which will be longer when it is finished, and that is the grand transsiberian, from the urals to vladivostock, which will measure six thousand five hundred kilometres. between tiflis and pekin our journey will not last more than thirteen days, from uzun ada it will only last eleven. the train will only stop at the smaller stations to take in fuel and water. at the chief towns like merv, bokhara, samarkand, tashkend, kachgar, kokhand, sou tcheou, lan tcheou, tai youan, it will stop a few hours--and that will enable me to do these towns in reporter style. of course, the same driver and stoker will not take us through. they will be relieved every six hours. russians will take us up to the frontier of turkestan, and chinese will take us on through china. but there is one representative of the company who will not leave his post, and that is popof, our head guard, a true russian of soldierly bearing, hairy and bearded, with a folded overcoat and a muscovite cap. i intend to talk a good deal with this gallant fellow, although he is not very talkative. if he does not despise a glass of vodka, opportunity offered, he may have a good deal to say to me; for ten years he has been on the transcaspian between uzun ada and the pamirs, and during the last month he has been all along the line to pekin. i call him no. in my notebook, and i hope he will give me information enough. i only want a few incidents of the journey, just a few little incidents worthy of the _twentieth century._ among the passengers i see on the platform are a few jews, recognizable more by their faces than their attire. formerly, in central asia, they could only wear the "toppe," a sort of round cap, and a plain rope belt, without any silk ornamentation--under pain of death. and i am told that they could ride on asses in certain towns and walk on foot in others. now they wear the oriental turban and roll in their carriages if their purse allows of it. who would hinder them now they are subjects of the white czar, russian citizens, rejoicing in civil and political rights equal to those of their turkoman compatriots? there are a few tadjiks of persian origin, the handsomest men you can imagine. they have booked for merv, or bokhara, or samarkand, or tachkend, or kokhand, and will not pass the russo-chinese frontier. as a rule they are second-class passengers. among the first-class passengers i noticed a few usbegs of the ordinary type, with retreating foreheads and prominent cheek bones, and brown complexions, who were the lords of the country, and from whose families come the emirs and khans of central asia. but are there not any europeans in this grand transasiatic train? it must be confessed that i can only count five or six. there are a few commercial travelers from south russia, and one of those inevitable gentlemen from the united kingdom, who are inevitably to be found on the railways and steamboats. it is still necessary to obtain permission to travel on the transcaspian, permission which the russian administration does not willingly accord to an englishman; but this man has apparently been able to get one. and he seems to me to be worth notice. he is tall and thin, and looks quite the fifty years that his gray hairs proclaim him to be. his characteristic expression is one of haughtiness, or rather disdain, composed in equal parts of love of all things english and contempt for all things that are not. this type is occasionally so insupportable, even to his compatriots, that dickens, thackeray and others have often made fun of it. how he turned up his nose at the station at uzun ada, at the train, at the men, at the car in which he had secured a seat by placing in it his traveling bag! let us call him no. in my pocketbook. there seem to be no personages of importance. that is a pity. if only the emperor of russia, on one side, or the son of heaven, on the other, were to enter the train to meet officially on the frontier of the two empires, what festivities there would be, what grandeur, what descriptions, what copy for letters and telegrams! it occurs to me to have a look at the mysterious box. has it not a right to be so called? yes, certainly. i must really find out where it has been put and how to get at it easily. the front van is already full of ephrinell's baggage. it does not open at the side, but in front and behind, like the cars. it is also furnished with a platform and a gangway. an interior passage allows the guard to go through it to reach the tender and locomotive if necessary. popof's little cabin is on the platform of the first car, in the left-hand corner. at night it will be easy for me to visit the van, for it is only shut in by the doors at the ends of the passage arranged between the packages. if this van is reserved for luggage registered through to china, the luggage for the turkestan stations ought to be in the van at the rear. when i arrived the famous box was still on the platform. in looking at it closely i observe that airholes have been bored on each of its sides, and that on one side it has two panels, one of which can be made to slide on the other from the inside. and i am led to think that the prisoner has had it made so in order that he can, if necessary, leave his prison--probably during the night. just now the porters are beginning to lift the box. i have the satisfaction of seeing that they attend to the directions inscribed on it. it is placed, with great care, near the entrance to the van, on the left, the side with the panels outward, as if it were the door of a cupboard. and is not the box a cupboard? a cupboard i propose to open? it remains to be seen if the guard in charge of the luggage is to remain in this van. no. i find that his post is just outside it. "there it is, all right!" said one of the porters, looking to see that the case was as it should be, top where top should be, and so on. "there is no fear of its moving," said another porter; "the glass will reach pekin all right, unless the train runs off the metals." "or it does not run into anything," said the other; "and that remains to be seen." they were right--these good fellows--it remained to be seen--and it would be seen. the american came up to me and took a last look at his stock of incisors, molars and canines, with a repetition of his invariable "wait a bit." "you know, monsieur bombarnac," he said to me, "that the passengers are going to dine at the hôtel du czar before the departure of the train. it is time now. will you come with me?" "i follow you." and we entered the dining room. all my numbers are there: , ephrinell, taking his place as usual by the side of , miss horatia bluett. the french couple, and , are also side by side. number , that is major noltitz, is seated in front of numbers and , the two chinese to whom i have just given numbers in my notebook. as to the fat german, number , he has already got his long nose into his soup plate. i see also that the guard popol, number , has his place at the foot of the table. the other passengers, europeans and asiatics, are installed, _passim_ with the evident intention of doing justice to the repast. ah! i forgot my number , the disdainful gentleman whose name i don't yet know, and who seems determined to find the russian cookery inferior to the english. i also notice with what attention monsieur caterna looks after his wife, and encourages her to make up for the time lost when she was unwell on board the _astara_. he keeps her glass filled, he chooses the best pieces for her, etc. "what a good thing it is," i hear him say, "that we are not to leeward of the teuton, for there would be nothing left for us!" he is to windward of him--that is to say, the dishes reach him before they get to the baron, which, however, does not prevent his clearing them without shame. the observation, in sea language, made me smile, and caterna, noticing it, gave me a wink with a slight movement of the shoulder toward the baron. it is evident that these french people are not of high distinction, they do not belong to the upper circles; but they are good people, i will answer for it, and when we have to rub shoulders with compatriots, we must not be too particular in turkestan. the dinner ends ten minutes before the time fixed for our departure. the bell rings and we all make a move for the train, the engine of which is blowing off steam. mentally, i offer a last prayer to the god of reporters and ask him not to spare me adventures. then, after satisfying myself that all my numbers are in the first-class cars, so that i can keep an eye on them, i take my place. the baron weissschnitzerdörfer--what an interminable name--is not behindhand this time. on the contrary, it is the train this time which is five minutes late in starting; and the german has begun to complain, to chafe and to swear, and threatens to sue the company for damages. ten thousand roubles--not a penny less!--if it causes him to fail. fail in what, considering that he is going to pekin? at length the last shriek of the whistle cleaves the air, the cars begin to move, and a loud cheer salutes the departure of the grand transasiatic express. chapter vi. the ideas of a man on horseback are different to those which occur to him when he is on foot. the difference is even more noticeable when he is on the railway. the association of his thoughts, the character of his reflections are all affected by the speed of the train. they "roll" in his head, as he rolls in his car. and so it comes about that i am in a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. that is the rate at which we are to travel through turkestan, and when we reach the celestial empire we shall have to be content with eighteen. that is what i have just ascertained by consulting my time-table, which i bought at the station. it is accompanied by a long slip map, folded and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line between the caspian and the eastern coast of china. i study, then, my transasiatic, on leaving uzun ada, just as i studied my transgeorgian when i left tiflis. the gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches--as is usual on the russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of other european countries. it is said, with regard to this, that the germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they have to invade russia. i should like to think that the russians have taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their having to invade germany. on either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train runs out from uzun ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which separates long island from the continent, it crosses an embankment about , yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against the violence of the waves. we have already passed several stations without stopping, among others mikhailov, a league from uzun ada. now they are from ten to eleven miles apart. those i have seen, as yet, look like villas, with balustrades and italian roofs, which has a curious effect in turkestan and the neighborhood of persia. the desert extends up to the neighborhood of uzun ada, and the railway stations form so many little oases, made by the hand of man. it is man, in fact, who has planted these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets fall back into an elegant vase. without these hydraulic works there would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. they are the nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives. the truth is that i have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from uzun ada. when general annenkof commenced his works at mikhailov, he was obliged to distil the water from the caspian sea, as if he were on board ship. but if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is necessary to vaporize the water. the readers of the _twentieth century_ will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is neither coal nor wood? are there stores of these things at the principal stations of the transcaspian? not at all. they have simply put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist, sainte-claire deville, when first petroleum was used in france. the furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which baku and derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. at certain stations on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted fireboxes. in a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the volga and the other affluents of the caspian. i repeat, the country is not particularly varied. the ground is nearly flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains, where the brackish water stagnates in pools. nothing could be better for a line of railway. there are no cuttings, no embankments, no viaducts, no works of art--to use a term dear to engineers, very "dear," i should say. here and there are a few wooden bridges from two hundred to three hundred feet long. under such circumstances the cost per kilometre of the transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five thousand francs. the monotony of the journey would only be broken on the vast oases of merv, bokhara and samarkand. but let us busy ourselves with the passengers, as we can do all the more easily from our being able to walk from one end to the other of the train. with a little imagination we can make ourselves believe we are in a sort of traveling village, and i am just going to take a run down main street. remember that the engine and tender are followed by the van at the angle of which is placed the mysterious case, and that popof's compartment is in the left-hand corner of the platform of the first car. inside this car i notice a few sarthes of tall figure and haughty face, draped in their long robes of bright colors, from beneath which appear the braided leather boots. they have splendid eyes, a superb beard, arched nose, and you would take them for real lords, provided we ignore the word sarthe, which means a pedlar, and these were going evidently to tachkend, where these pedlars swarm. in this car the two chinese have taken their places, opposite each other. the young celestial looks out of window. the old one--ta-lao-ye, that is to say, a person well advanced in years--is incessantly turning over the pages of his book. this volume, a small mo, looks like our _annuaire du bureau des longitudes_, and is covered in plush, like a breviary, and when it is shut its covers are kept in place by an elastic band. what astonishes me is that the proprietor of this little book does not seem to read it from right to left. is it not written in chinese characters? we must see into this! on two adjoining seats are ephrinell and miss horatia bluett. their talk is of nothing but figures. i don't know if the practical american murmurs at the ear of the practical englishwoman the adorable verse which made the heart of lydia palpitate: "nee tecum possum vivere sine te," but i do know that ephrinell can very well live without me. i have been quite right in not reckoning on his company to charm away the tedium of the journey. the yankee has completely "left" me--that is the word--for this angular daughter of albion. i reach the platform. i cross the gangway and i am at the door of the second car. in the right-hand corner is baron weissschnitzerdörfer. his long nose--this teuton is as short-sighted as a mole--rubs the lines of the book he reads. the book is the time-table. the impatient traveler is ascertaining if the train passes the stations at the stated time. whenever it is behind there are new recriminations and menaces against the grand transasiatic company. in this car there are also the caternas, who have made themselves quite comfortable. in his cheery way, the husband is talking with a good deal of gesticulation, sometimes touching his wife's hands, sometimes putting his arms round her waist; and then he turns his head toward the platform and says something aside. madame caterna leans toward him, makes little confused grimaces, and then leans back into the corner and seems to reply to her husband, who in turn replies to her. and as i leave i hear the chorus of an operetta in the deep voice of monsieur caterna. in the third car, occupied by many turkomans and three or four russians, i perceive major noltitz. he is talking with one of his countrymen. i will willingly join in their conversation if they make me any advances, but i had better maintain a certain reserve; the journey has only begun. i then visit the dining car. it is a third longer than the other cars, a regular dining room, with one long table. at the back is a pantry on one side, a kitchen on the other, where the cook and steward are at work, both of them russians. this dining car appears to me capitally arranged. passing through it, i reach the second part of the train, where the second-class passengers are installed. kirghizes who do not look very intelligent with their depressed heads, their prognathous jaws stuck well out in front, their little beards, flat cossack noses and very brown skins. these wretched fellows are mahometans and belong either to the grand horde wandering on the frontier between china and siberia, or to the little horde between the ural mountains and the aral sea. a second-class car, or even a third-class car, is a palace for these people, accustomed to the encampments on the steppes, to the miserable "iourts" of villages. neither their beds nor their seats are as good as the stuffed benches on which they have seated themselves with true asiatic gravity. with them are two or three nogais going to eastern turkestan. of a higher race than the kirghizes, being tartars, it is from them that come the learned men and professors who have made illustrious the opulent cities of bokhara and samarkand. but science and its teaching do not yield much of a livelihood, even when reduced to the mere necessaries of life, in these provinces of central asia. and so these nogais take employment as interpreters. unfortunately, since the diffusion of the russian language, their trade is not very remunerative. now i know the places of my numbers, and i know where to find them when i want them. as to those going through to pekin, i have no doubt of ephrinell and miss horatia bluett nor the german baron, nor the two chinese, nor major noltitz, nor the caternas, nor even for the haughty gentleman whose bony outline i perceive in the corner of the second car. as to these travelers who are not going across the frontier, they are of most perfect insignificance in my eyes. but among my companions i have not yet found the hero of my chronicle! let us hope he will declare himself as we proceed. my intention is to take notes hour by hour--what did i say? to "minute" my journey. before the night closes in i go out on the platform of the car to have a last look at the surrounding country. an hour with my cigar will take me to kizil arvat, where the train has to stop for some time. in going from the second to the first car i meet major noltitz. i step aside to let him pass. he salutes me with that grace which distinguishes well-bred russians. i return his salute. our meeting is restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken. popof is not just now in his seat. the door of the luggage van being open, i conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver. on the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place. it is only half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the gratification of my curiosity. the train advances through the open desert. this is the kara koum, the black desert. it extends from khiva over all turkestan comprised between the persian frontier and the course of the amou daria. in reality the sands of the kara koum are no more black than the waters of the black sea or than those of the white sea are white, those of the red sea red, or those of the yellow river yellow. but i like these colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be. in landscapes the eye is caught by colors. and is there not a good deal of landscape about geography? it appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central basin. it has dried up, as the caspian will dry up, and this evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar rays on the surface of the territories between the sea of aral and the plateau of the pamir. the kara koum is formed of low sandy hills which the high winds are constantly shifting and forming. these "barkans," as the russians call them, vary in height from thirty to ninety feet. they expose a wide surface to the northern hurricanes which drive them gradually southward. and on this account there is a well-justified fear for the safety of the transcaspian. it had to be protected in some efficacious way, and general annenkof would have been much embarrassed if provident nature had not, at the same time as she gave the land favorable for the railway to be laid along, given the means of stopping the shifting of the barkanes. behind these sand hills grow a number of spring shrubs, clumps of tamarisk, star thistles, and that _haloxylon ammodendron_ which russians call, not so scientifically, "saksaoul." its deep, strong roots are as well adapted for binding together the ground as those of _hippophaë rhamnoides_, an arbutus of the eleagnaceous family, which is used for binding together the sands in southern europe. to these plantations of saksaouls the engineers of the line have added in different places a series of slopes of worked clay, and in the most dangerous places a line of palisades. these precautions are doubtless of use; but if the road is protected, the passengers are hardly so, when the sand flies like a bullet hail, and the wind sweeps up from the plain the whitish efflorescences of salt. it is a good thing for us that we are not in the height of the hot season; and it is not in june or july or august that i would advise you to take a trip on the grand transasiatic. i am sorry that major noltitz does not think of coming out on the gangway to breathe the fresh air of the kara koum. i would offer him one of those choice regalias with which my case is well provided. he would tell me if these stations i see on my time-table, balla-ischem, aïdine, pereval, kansandjik, ouchak, are of any interest--which they do not seem to be. but it would not do for me to disturb his siesta. and yet his conversation ought to be interesting, for as a surgeon in the russian army he took part in the campaigns of generals skobeleff and annenkof. when our train ran through the little stations that it honors only with a whistle, he could tell me if this one or that one had been the scene of any incident of the war. as a frenchman i am justified in questioning him about the russian expedition across turkestan, and i have no doubt that my fellow passenger will be pleased to gratify me. he is the only one i can really trust besides popof. but why is popof not in his seat? he also is not insensible to the charms of a cigar. it would seem that his conversation with the engineer has not finished yet. ah! here he is coming from the front of the luggage van. he comes out of it and shuts the door; he remains for a moment and is about to take a seat. a hand which holds a cigar, is stretched out toward him. popof smiles and soon his perfumed puffs are mingling voluptuously with mine. for fifteen years i think i said our guard had been in the transcaspian service. he knows the country up to the chinese frontier, and five or six times already he has been over the whole line known as the grand transasiatic. popof was on duty on the section between mikhailov and kizil arvat when the line opened--a section which was begun in the december of and finished in ten months, in november, . five years later the locomotive entered merv, on the th july, , and eighteen months later it was welcomed at samarkand. now the road through turkestan joins the road through the celestial empire, and the ribbon of iron extends without interruption from the caspian sea to pekin. when popof had given me this information, i asked if he knew anything of our fellow travelers, i meant those who were going through to china. and in the first place of major noltitz? "the major," said popof, "has lived a long time in the turkestan provinces, and he is going to pekin to organize the staff of a hospital for our compatriots, with the permission of the czar, of course." "i like this major noltitz," i said, "and i hope to make his acquaintance very soon." "he would be equally pleased to make yours," replied popof. "and these two chinese, do you know them?" "not in the least, monsieur bombarnac; all i know is the name on the luggage." "what is that?" "the younger man's name is pan-chao, the elder's is tio-king. probably they have been traveling in europe for some years. as to saying where they come from, i cannot. i imagine that pan-chao belongs to some rich family, for he is accompanied by his doctor." "this tio-king?" "yes, doctor tio-king." "and do they only speak chinese?" "probably; i have not heard them speak any other language together." on this information from popof, i will keep to the number nine i have given to young pan-chao, and to the ten with which i have labelled doctor tio-king. "the american," began popof. "ephrinell?" i exclaimed, "and miss horatia bluett, the englishwoman? oh! you can tell me nothing about them i don't know." "shall i tell you what i think about that couple, monsieur bombarnac?" "what do you think?" "that as soon as they reach pekin, miss bluett will become mrs. ephrinell." "and may heaven bless their union, popof, for they are really made for each other." i saw that on this subject popof and i held similar ideas. "and the two french people, that couple so affectionate." i asked, "who are they?" "have they not told you?" "no, popof." "you need not be anxious, monsieur bombarnac. besides, if you wish to know their profession, it is written at full length on all their luggage. "and that is?" "stage people who are going to a theater in china." stage people! if that explains the attitudes, and mobile physiognomy, and demonstrative gestures of caterna, it does not explain his maritime allusions. "and do you know what line these players are in?" "the husband is comic lead." "and the wife?" "she is leading lady." "and where are these lyrical people going?" "to shanghai, where they have an engagement at the french theater." that is capital. i will talk about the theater, and behind the scenes, and such matters, and, as popof said, i shall soon make the acquaintance of the cheery comedian and his charming wife. but it is not in their company that i shall discover the hero of romance who is the object of my desire. as to the scornful gentleman, our guide knew nothing beyond that his luggage bore the address in full: sir francis trevellyan, trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire. "a gentleman who does not answer when he is spoken to!" added popof. well, my number eight will have to be dumb man, and that will do very well. "now we get to the german," said i. "baron weissschnitzerdörfer?" "he is going to pekin, i think." "to pekin and beyond." "beyond?" "yes; he is on a trip round the world." "a trip round the world?" "in thirty-nine days." and so after mrs. bisland who did the famous tour in seventy-three days, and train who did it in seventy, this german was attempting to do it in thirty-nine? true, the means of communication are more rapid the line is more direct, and by using the grand transasiatic which puts pekin within a fortnight of the prussian capital, the baron might halve the old time by suez and singapore--but-- "he will never do it!" i exclaimed. "why not?" asked popof. "because he is always late. he nearly missed the train at tiflis, he nearly missed the boat at baku--" "but he did not miss the start from uzun ada." "it doesn't matter, popof. i shall be much surprised if this german beats an american at globe trotting." * * * * * chapter vii. the train arrived at kizil arvat, two hundred and forty-two versts from the caspian, at thirteen minutes past seven in the evening instead of seven o'clock. this slight delay provoked thirteen objurgations from the baron, one for each minute. we have two hours to wait at kizil arvat. although the day is closing in, i could not employ my time better than in visiting this little town, which contains more than two thousand inhabitants, russians, persians and turkomans. there is not much to see, however, either within it or around it; there are no trees--not even a palm tree--only pasturages and fields of cereals, watered by a narrow stream. my good fortune furnished me with a companion, or i should rather say a guide, in major noltitz. our acquaintance was made very simply. the major came up to me, and i went up to him as soon as we set foot on the platform of the railway station. "sir," said i, "i am a frenchman, claudius bombarnac, special correspondent of the _twentieth century_, and you are major noltitz of the russian army. you are going to pekin, so am i. i can speak your language, and it is very likely that you can speak mine." the major made a sign of assent. "well, major noltitz, instead of remaining strangers to each other during the long transit of central asia, would it please you for us to become more than mere traveling companions? you know all about this country that i do not know, and it would be a pleasure for me to learn from you." "monsieur bombarnac," replied the major in french, without a trace of accent, "i quite agree with you." then he added with a smile: "as to learning from me, one of your most eminent critics, if i remember rightly, has said that the french only like to learn what they know." "i see that you have read sainte beuve, major noltitz; perhaps this sceptical academician was right in a general way. but for my part, i am an exception to the rule, and i wish to learn what i do not know. and in all that concerns russian turkestan, i am in a state of ignorance." "i am entirely at your disposal," said the major, "and i will be happy to tell you all about general annenkof, for i was all through the work with him." "i thank you, major noltitz. i expected no less than the courtesy of a russian towards a frenchman." "and," said the major, "if you will allow me to quote that celebrated sentence in the _danicheffs_, 'it will be always thus so long as there are frenchmen and russians.'" "the younger dumas after sainte beuve?" i exclaimed. "i see, major, that i am talking to a parisian--" "of petersburg, monsieur bombarnac." and we cordially shook hands. a minute afterwards, we were on our way through the town, and this is what major noltitz told me: it was towards the end of that general annenkof finished, at kizil arvat, the first portion of this railway measuring about miles, of which were through a desert which did not yield a single drop of water. but before telling me how this extraordinary work was accomplished, major noltitz reminded me of the facts which had gradually prepared the conquest of turkestan and its definite incorporation with the russian empire. as far back as the russians had imposed a treaty of alliance on the khan of khiva. some years afterwards, eager to pursue their march towards the east, the campaigns of and had given them the khanats of kokhand and bokhara. two years later, samarkand passed under their dominion after the battles of irdjar and zera-buleh. there remained to be conquered the southern portion of turkestan, and chiefly the oasis of akhal tekke, which is contiguous to persia. generals sourakine and lazareff attempted this in their expeditions of and . their plans failed, and it was to the celebrated skobeleff, the hero of plevna, that the czar confided the task of subduing the valiant turkoman tribes. skobeleff landed at the port of mikhailov--the port of uzun ada was not then in existence--and it was in view of facilitating his march across the desert that his second in command, annenkof, constructed the strategic railway which in ten months reached kizil arvat. this is how the russians built the line with a rapidity superior, as i have said, to that of the americans in the far west, a line that was to be of use for commerce and for war. to begin with, the general got together a construction train consisting of thirty-four wagons. four of these were two-decked for the officers, twenty more had two decks and were used by the workmen and soldiers; one wagon served as a dining room, four as kitchens, one as an ambulance, one as a telegraph office, one as a forge, one as a provision store, and one was held in reserve. these were his traveling workshops and also his barracks in which fifteen hundred workmen, soldiers and otherwise, found their board and lodging. the train advanced as the rails were laid. the workmen were divided into two brigades; they each worked six hours a day, with the assistance of the country people who lived in tents and numbered about fifteen thousand. a telegraph wire united the works with mikhailov, and from there a little decauville engine worked the trains which brought along the rails and sleepers. in this way, helped by the horizontality of the ground, a day's work yielded nearly five miles of track, whereas in the plains of the united states only about half that rate was accomplished. labor cost little; forty-five francs a month for the men from the oasis, fifty centimes a day for those who came from bokhara. it was in this way that skobeleff's soldiers were taken to kizil arvat, and then eighty-four miles beyond to gheok tepe. this town did not surrender until after the destruction of its ramparts and the massacre of twelve thousand of its defenders; but the oasis of akhal tekke was in the power of the russians. the inhabitants of the atek oasis were only too ready to submit, and that all the more willingly as they had implored the help of the czar in their struggle with kouli khan, the chief of the mervians. these latter to the number of two hundred and fifty thousand, followed their example, and the first locomotive entered merv station in july, . "and the english?" i asked major noltitz. "in what way have they looked upon the progress of the russians through central asia?" "jealously, of course. think for a moment what it means when the russian railways are united with the chinese, instead of the indian. the transcaspian in connection with the line between herat and delhi! and consider that the english have not been as fortunate in afghanistan as we have been in turkestan. you have noticed the gentleman in our train?" "i have. he is sir francis trevellyan of trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire." "well, sir francis trevellyan has nothing but looks of contempt and shrugs of the shoulder for all we have done. his nation's jealousy is incarnate in him, and england will never be content that our railways should go from europe to the pacific ocean, while the british railways end at the indian ocean." this interesting conversation had lasted for the hour and a half during which we walked about the streets of kizil arvat. it was time to return to the station, and we did so. of course, matters did not end here. it was agreed that the major should leave his seat in the third car and occupy that next to mine in the first. we had already been two inhabitants of the same town; well, we would become two neighbors in the house, or, rather, two friends in the same room. at nine o'clock the signal to start was given. the train leaving kizil arvat went off in a southwesterly direction towards askhabad, along the persian frontier. for another half hour the major and i continued to talk of one thing or another. he told me that if the sun had not set, i should have been able to see the summits of the great and little balkans of asia which rise above the bay of krasnovodsk. already most of our companions had taken up their quarters for the night on their seats, which by an ingenious mechanism could be transformed into beds, on which you could stretch yourself at full length, lay your head on a pillow, wrap yourself in rugs, and if you didn't sleep well it would be on account of a troubled conscience. major noltitz had nothing to reproach himself with apparently, for a few minutes after he had said good night he was deep in the sleep of the just. as for me, if i remained awake it was because i was troubled in my mind. i was thinking of my famous packing case, of the man it contained, and this very night i had resolved to enter into communication with him. i thought of the people who had done this sort of thing before. in , , and , an austrian tailor, hermann zeitung, had come from vienna to paris, from amsterdam to brussels, from antwerp to christiania in a box, and two sweethearts of barcelona, erres and flora anglora, had shared a box between them from spain into france. but i must wait until popof had retired to rest. the train would not stop until it reached gheok tepe at one o'clock in the morning. during the run from kizil arvat to gheok tepe i reckoned that popof would have a good sleep, and then, or never, i would put my plan into execution. hold! an idea! suppose it is zeitung who makes a trade of this sort of thing and manages to make a little money out of public generosity? it ought to be zeitung, it must be! confound it! he is not at all interesting! and here was i reckoning on this fellow. well, we shall see. i shall know him by his photographs, and perhaps i may make use of him. half an hour went by, and the noise of a door shutting on the platform of the car told me that our guard had just entered his little box. in spite of my desire to visit the baggage car i waited patiently, for it was possible that popof was not yet sound asleep. within, all is quiet under the veiled light of the lamps. without, the night is very dark, and the rattle of the train mingles with the whistling of the rather high wind. i rise. i draw aside the curtain of one of the lamps. i look at my watch. it is a few minutes past eleven. still two hours to gheok tepe. the moment has come. i glide between the seats to the door of the car. i open it gently and shut it after me without being heard by my companions, without waking any one. here i am on the platform, which shakes as the train travels. amid the unfathomable darkness which envelops the kara koum, i experience the feeling of a night at sea when on shipboard. a feeble light filters through the blind of the guard's box. shall i wait till it is extinct, or, as is very probable, will it not last till the morning? anyhow, popof is not asleep, as i discover by the noise he makes in turning over. i keep quiet, leaning against the balustrade of the platform. leaning forward my looks are attracted by the luminous ray thrown forward by the headlight of the engine. it seems as though we are running on a road of fire. above me the clouds are racing across with great rapidity, and a few constellations glitter through their rifts, cassiopeia, the little bear, in the north, and in the zenith vega of lyra. at length absolute silence reigns on the platforms. popof, who is in charge of the train, has his eyes closed in sleep. assured of safety i cross the gangway and am in front of the baggage van. the door is only fastened with a bar which is hung between two staples. i open it and shut it behind me. i do this without noise, for if i do not want to attract popof's attention, i do not want as yet to attract the attention of the man in the packing case. although the darkness is deep in the van, although there is no side window, i know my position. i know where the case is placed; it is in the left corner as i enter. the thing is not to knock against any other case--not against one of those belonging to ephrinell, for what a row there would be if i set all those artificial teeth chattering! carefully feeling with feet and hands, i reach the case. no cat could have been more gentle or more silent as i felt its edges. i leaned over and placed my ear timidly against the outer panel. there was no sound of breathing. the products of the house of strong, bulbul & co., of new york, could not be more noiseless in their boxes. a fear seizes upon me--the fear of seeing all my reporter's hopes vanish. was i deceived on board the _astara_? that respiration, that sneeze; had i dreamed it all? was there no one in the case, not even zeitung? were these really glass goods exported to miss zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china? no! feeble as it is, i detect a movement inside the case! it becomes more distinct, and i ask if the panel is going to slide, if the prisoner is coming out of his prison to breathe the fresh air? what i had better do to see and not to be seen is to hide between two cases. thanks to the darkness there is nothing to fear. suddenly a slight cracking greets my ear. i am not the sport of an illusion; it is the crack of a match being lighted. almost immediately a few feeble rays pierce the ventilation holes of the case. if i had had any doubts as to the position held by the prisoner in the scale of being, i have none now. at the least it must be an ape who knows the use of fire, and also the handling of matches. travelers tell us that such animals exist, but we have to take the statement on trust. why should i not confess it? a certain emotion came over me and i had to take care i did not run away. a minute elapsed. nothing shows that the panel has been moved, nothing gives me reason to suppose that the unknown is coming out. cautiously i wait. then i have an idea to make something out of this light. the case is lighted within; if i were to peep through those holes? i creep toward the case. a single apprehension chills my brain. if the light were suddenly extinguished! i am against the panel, which i take care not to touch, and i put my eyes close to one of the holes. there is a man in the box, and it is not the austrian tailor, zeitung! thank heaven! i will soon make him my no. . the man's features i can make out clearly. he is from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age. he does not shave, and his beard is brown. he is of the true roumanian type, and that confirms me in my notion regarding his roumanian correspondent. he is good-looking, although his face denotes great energy of character, and he must be energetic to have shut himself up in a box like this for such a long journey. but if he has nothing of the malefactor about him, i must confess that he does not look like the hero i am in search of as the chief personage in my story. after all, they were not heroes, that austrian and that spaniard who traveled in their packing cases. they were young men, very simple, very ordinary, and yet they yielded columns of copy. and so this brave no. , with amplifications, antonyms, diaphoreses, epitases, tropes, metaphors, and other figures of that sort, i will beat out, i will enlarge, i will develop--as they develop a photographic negative. besides to travel in a box from tiflis to pekin is quite another affair than traveling from vienna or barcelona to paris, as was done by zeitung, erres and flora anglora. i add that i will not betray my roumanian; i will report him to no one. he may rely on my discretion; he may reckon on my good offices if i can be of use to him when he is found out. but what is he doing now? well, he is seated on the bottom of his case and placidly eating his supper by the light of a little lamp. a box of preserves is on his knee, biscuit is not wanting, and in a little cupboard i notice some full bottles, besides a rug and overcoat hooked up on the wall. evidently no. is quite at home. he is there in his cell like a snail in his shell. his house goes with him; and he saves the thousand francs it would have cost him to journey from tiflis to pekin, second-class. i know he is committing a fraud, and that the law punishes such fraud. he can come out of his box when he likes and take a walk in the van, or even at night venture on the platform. no! i do not blame him, and when i think of his being sent to the pretty roumanian, i would willingly take his place. an idea occurs to me which may not perhaps be as good as it seems. that is to rap lightly on the box so as to enter into communication with my new companion, and learn who he is, and whence he comes, for i know whither he goes. an ardent curiosity devours me, i must gratify it. there are moments when a special correspondent is metamorphosed into a daughter of eve. but how will the poor fellow take it? very well, i am sure. i will tell him that i am a frenchman, and a roumanian knows he can always trust a frenchman. i will offer him my services. i will propose to soften the rigors of his imprisonment by my interviews, and to make up the scarcity of his meals by little odds and ends. he will have nothing to fear from my imprudences. i rap the panel. the light suddenly goes out. the prisoner has suspended his respiration. i must reassure him. "open!" i say to him gently in russian. "open--" i cannot finish the sentence; for the train gives a sudden jump and slackens speed. but we cannot yet have reached gheok tepe? there is a noise outside. i rush out of the van and shut the door behind me. it was time. i have scarcely reached the platform before popofs door opens, and without seeing me he hurries through the van on to the engine. almost immediately the train resumes its normal speed and popof reappears a minute afterwards. "what is the matter, popof?" "what is often the matter, monsieur bombarnac. we have smashed a dromedary." "poor brute!" "poor brute? he might have thrown us off the line!" "stupid brute, then!" chapter viii. before the train reaches gheok tepe i am back in the car. confound this dromedary! if he had not managed to get smashed so clumsily no. would no longer be unknown to me. he would have opened his panel, we would have talked in a friendly way, and separated with a friendly shake of the hand. now he will be full of anxiety, he knows his fraud is discovered, that there is some one who has reason to suspect his intentions, some one who may not hesitate to betray his secret. and then, after being taken out of his case, he will be put under guard at the next station, and it will be useless for mademoiselle zinca klork to expect him in the capital of the chinese empire! yes! it would be better for me to relieve his anxiety this very night. that is impossible, for the train will soon stop at gheok tepe, and then at askhabad which it will leave in the first hour of daylight. i can no longer trust to popof's going to sleep. i am absorbed in these reflections, when the locomotive stops in gheok tepe station at one o'clock in the morning. none of my companions have left their beds. i get out on to the platform and prowl around the van. it would be too risky to try and get inside. i should have been glad to visit the town, but the darkness prevents me from seeing anything. according to what major noltitz says it still retains the traces of skobeleffs terrible assault in --dismantled walls, bastions in ruins. i must content myself with having seen all that with the major's eyes. the train starts at two o'clock in the morning, after having been joined by a few passengers who popof tells me are turkomans. i will have a look at them when daylight comes. for ten minutes i remained on the car platform and watched the heights of the persian frontier on the extreme limit of the horizon. beyond the stretch of verdant oasis watered by a number of creeks, we crossed wide cultivated plains through which the line made frequent diversions. having discovered that popof did not intend to go to sleep again, i went back to my corner. at three o'clock there was another stop. the name of askhabad was shouted along the platform. as i could not remain still i got out, leaving my companions sound asleep, and i ventured into the town. askhabad is the headquarters of the transcaspian, and i opportunely remembered what boulangier, the engineer, had said about it in the course of that interesting journey he had made to merv. all that i saw on the left as i went out of the station, was the gloomy outline of the turkoman fort, dominating the new town, the population of which has doubled since . it forms a confused mass behind a thick curtain of trees. when i returned at half-past three, popof was going through the luggage van, i know not why. what must be the roumanian's anxiety during this movement to and fro in front of his box! as soon as popof reappeared i said to him: "anything fresh?" "nothing, except the morning breeze!" said he. "very fresh!" said i. "is there a refreshment bar in the station?" "there is one for the convenience of the passengers." "and for the convenience of the guards, i suppose? come along, popof." and popof did not want asking twice. the bar was open, but there did not seem to be much to choose from. the only liquor was "koumiss," which is fermented mare's milk, and is the color of faded ink, very nourishing, although very liquid. you must be a tartar to appreciate this koumiss. at least that is the effect it produced on me. but popof thought it excellent, and that was the important point. most of the sarthes and kirghizes who got out at askhabad, have been replaced by other second-class passengers, afghan merchants and smugglers, the latter particularly clever in their line of business. all the green tea consumed in central asia is brought by them from china through india, and although the transport is much longer, they sell it at a much lower price than the russian tea. i need not say that their luggage was examined with muscovite minuteness. the train started again at four o'clock. our car was still a sleeper. i envied the sleep of my companions, and as that was all i could do, i returned to the platform. the dawn was appearing in the east. here and there were the ruins of the ancient city, a citadel girdled with high ramparts and a succession of long porticos extending over fifteen hundred yards. running over a few embankments, necessitated by the inequalities of the sandy ground, the train reaches the horizontal steppe. we are running at a speed of thirty miles an hour in a southwesterly direction, along the persian frontier. it is only beyond douchak that the line begins to leave it. during this three hours' run the two stations at which the train stops are gheours, the junction for the road to mesched, whence the heights of the iran plateau are visible, and artyk where water is abundant although slightly brackish. the train then traverses the oasis of the atek, which is an important tributary of the caspian. verdure and trees are everywhere. this oasis justifies its name, and would not disgrace the sahara. it extends to the station of douchak at the six hundred and sixtieth verst, which we reach at six o'clock in the morning. we stop here two hours, that is to say, there are two hours for us to walk about. i am off to look at douchak with major noltitz as my cicerone. a traveler precedes us out of the railway station; i recognize sir francis trevellyan. the major makes me notice that this gentleman's face is more sullen than usual, his lip more scornful, his attitude more anglo-saxon. "and do you know why, monsieur bombarnac? because this station at douchak might be the terminus of a line from british india through the afghan frontier, kandahar, the bolan pass and the pendjeh oasis, that would unite the two systems." "and how long would the line be?" "about six hundred miles. but the english will not meet the russians in a friendly way. but if we could put calcutta within twelve days of london, what an advantage that would be for their trade!" talking in this way the major and i "did" douchak. some years ago it was foreseen how important this village would be. a branch line unites it with teheran in persia, while there has, as yet, been no survey for a line to india. while gentlemen cast in the mould of sir francis trevellyan are in the majority in the united kingdom, the asiatic network of railways will never be complete. i was led to question the major regarding the safety of the grand transasiatic across the provinces of central asia. in turkestan, he told me, the safety is well assured. the russian police keep constant watch over it; there is a regular police force at the stations, and as the stations are not far apart, i don't think the travelers have much to fear from the nomad tribes. besides, the turkomans are kept in their place by the russian administration. during the years the transcaspian has been at work, there has been no attack to hinder the train service. "that is comforting, major noltitz. and as to the section between the frontier and pekin?" "that is another matter," replied the major. "over the pamir plateau, up to kachgar, the road is carefully guarded; but beyond that, the grand transasiatic is under chinese control, and i have not much confidence in that." "are the stations very far from each other?" i asked. "very far, sometimes." "and the russians in charge of the train are replaced by chinese, are they not?" "yes, with the exception of popof, who goes through with us." "so that we shall have chinese engine drivers and stokers? well, major, that seems rather alarming, and the safety of the travelers--" "let me undeceive you, monsieur bombarnac. these chinese are just as clever as we are. they are excellent mechanics, and it is the same with the engineers who laid out the line through the celestial empire. they are certainly a very intelligent race, and very fit for industrial progress." "i think, major, that they will one day become masters of the world--after the slavs, of course!" "i do not know what the future may have in store," said major noltitz, with a smile. "but, returning to the chinese, i say that they are of quick comprehension, with an astonishing facility of assimilation. i have seen them at work, and i speak from experience." "agreed," said i; "but if there is no danger under this head, are there not a lot of scoundrels prowling about mongolia and northern china?" "and you think these scoundrels will be daring enough to attack the train?" "exactly, major, and that is what makes me feel easy." "what? makes you feel easy?" "quite so, for my sole anxiety is that our journey may not be devoid of incident." "really, mr. special correspondent, i admire you. you must have incidents--" "as a doctor must have patients. now a real good adventure--" "well, monsieur bombarnac, i am afraid you will be disappointed, as i have heard that the company has treated several chiefs of the robber bands--" "as the greek government treated hadji stavros in about's romance." "precisely; and who knows that if in their wisdom--" "i don't believe it." "why not? it would be quite in the modern style, this way of assuring the safety of the trains during the run through the celestial empire. anyhow, there is one of these highwaymen, who has retained his independence and liberty of action, a certain ki-tsang." "who is he?" "a bold bandit chief, half-chinaman, half-mongol. having for some time been a terror to yunnan, he was being too closely pursued, and has now moved into the northern provinces. his presence has ever been reported in that part of mongolia served by the grand transasiatic." "well, he ought to furnish a few paragraphs." "the paragraphs ki-tsang will furnish you with may cost you too dearly." "bah! major, the _twentieth century_ is quite rich enough to pay for its glory." "to pay with its money, perhaps, but we may have to pay with our lives! luckily our companions have not heard you talk in this way, or they might come in a body and demand your expulsion from the train. so be careful, and keep a guard on your desires as a newspaper man in quest of adventures. above all, don't have anything to do with this ki-tsang. it would be all the better in the interest of the passengers." "but not of the passage, major." we returned towards the station. the stoppage at douchak had another half hour to last. as i walked on the quay, i observed something going on which would change the make-up of our train. another van had arrived from teheran by the branch line to mesphed, which puts the persian capital in communication with the transcaspian. this van was bolted and barred, and accompanied by a squad of persian police, whose orders seemed to be not to lose sight of it. i don't know what made me think so, but it seemed as though this van had something mysterious about it, and as the major had left me, i went and spoke to popof, who was watching over the proceedings. "popof, where is that van going?" "to pekin." "and what has it got in it?" "what has it got in it? an exalted personage." "an exalted personage?" "are you surprised?" "i am. in this van?" "it is his own idea." "well, popof, when this exalted personage gets out perhaps you will let me know?" "he will not get out." "why not?" "because he is dead." "dead?" "yes, and it is his body they are taking to pekin, where he will be interred with all the honors due to him." so that we were to have an important personage in our train--in the shape of a corpse, it is true. never mind! i asked popof to discover the name of the defunct. he ought to be some mandarin of mark. as soon as i knew it i would send a telegram to the _twentieth century_. while i was looking at this van, a new passenger came up and examined it with no less curiosity than i did. this traveler was a fine-looking man of about forty, wearing gracefully the costume of the richer mongols, a tall fellow, with rather a gloomy look, a military moustache, tawny complexion, and eyes that never shut. "here is a splendid fellow," i said to myself. "i don't know if he will turn out the hero of the drama i am in search of, but, anyhow, i will number him twelve in my traveling troupe." this leading star, i soon learned from popof, bore the name of faruskiar. he was accompanied by another mongol, of inferior rank, of about the same age, whose name was ghangir. as they looked at the van being attached to the tail of the train in front of the luggage van, they exchanged a few words. as soon as the arrangements were complete the persians took their places in the second-class car, which preceded the mortuary van, so as to have the precious corpse always under their surveillance. at this moment there was a shout on the station platform i recognized the voice. it was the baron weissschnitzerdörfer shouting: "stop! stop!" this time it was not a train on the start, but a hat in distress. a sudden gust had swept through the station and borne off the baron's hat--a helmet-shaped hat of a bluish color. it rolled on the platform, it rolled on the rails, it skimmed the enclosure and went out over the wall, and its owner ran his hardest to stop it. at the sight of this wild pursuit the caternas held their sides, the young chinaman, pan chao, shouted with laughter, while dr. tio-king remained imperturbably serious. the german purple, puffling and panting, could do no more. twice he had got his hand on his hat, and twice it had escaped him, and now suddenly he fell full length with his head lost under the folds of his overcoat; whereupon caterna began to sing the celebrated air from "miss helyett": "ah! the superb point of view--ew--ew--ew! ah! the view unexpected by you--you--you--you!" i know nothing more annoying than a hat carried away by the wind, which bounds hither and thither, and spins and jumps, and glides, and slides, and darts off just as you think you are going to catch it. and if that should happen to me i will forgive those who laugh at the comic endeavor. but the baron was in no mood for forgiveness. he bounded here, and bounded there, he jumped on to the line. they shouted to him, "look out! look out!" for the merv was coming in at some speed. it brought death to the hat, the engine smashed it pitilessly, and it was only a torn rag when it was handed to the baron. and then began again a series of imprecations on the grand transasiatic. the signal is given. the passengers, old and new, hurry to their places. among the new ones i notice three mongols, of forbidding appearance, who get into the second-class car. as i put my foot on the platform i hear the young chinese say to his companion: "well, dr. tio-king, did you see the german with his performing hat? how i laughed!" and so pan chao speaks french. what do i say? better than french--he speaks persian! most extraordinary! i must have a talk with him. chapter ix. we started to time. the baron could not complain this time. after all, i understood his impatience; a minute's delay might cause him to lose the mail boat from tien tsin to japan. the day looked promising, that is to say, there might have been a wind strong enough to put out the sun as if it were a candle, such a hurricane as sometimes stops the locomotives of the grand transasiatic, but to-day it is blowing from the west, and will be supportable, as it blows the train along. we can remain out on the platforms. i want to enter into conversation with pan chao. popof was right; he must be the son of some family of distinction who has been spending some years in paris for education and amusement. he ought to be one of the most regular visitors at the _twentieth century_ "five o'clocks." meanwhile i will attend to other business. there is that man in the case. a whole day will elapse before i can relieve his anxiety. in what a state he must be! but as it would be unwise for me to enter the van during the day, i must wait until night. i must not forget that an interview with the caternas is included in the programme. there will be no difficulty in that, apparently. what will not be so easy is to get into conversation with my no. , his superb lordship faruskiar. he seems rather stiff, does this oriental. ah! there is a name i must know as soon as possible, that of the mandarin returning to china in the form of a mortuary parcel. with a little ingenuity popof may manage to ascertain it from one of the persians in charge of his excellency. if it would only be that of some grand functionary, the pao-wang, or the ko-wang, or the viceroy of the two kiangs, the prince king in person! for an hour the train is running through the oasis. we shall soon be in the open desert. the soil is formed of alluvial beds extending up to the environs of merv. i must get accustomed to this monotony of the journey which will last up to the frontier of turkestan. oasis and desert, desert and oasis. as we approach the pamir the scenery will change a little. there are picturesque bits of landscape in that orographic knot which the russians have had to cut as alexander cut the gordian knot that was worth something to the macedonian conqueror of asia. here is a good augury for the russian conquest. but i must wait for this crossing of the pamir and its varied scenery. beyond lay the interminable plains of chinese turkestan, the immense sandy desert of gobi, where the monotony of the journey will begin again. it is half-past ten. breakfast will soon be served in the dining car. let us take a walk through the length of the train. where is ephrinell? i do not see him at his post by the side of miss horatia bluett, whom i questioned on the subject after saluting her politely. "mr. ephrinell has gone to give an eye to his cases," she replies. in the rear of the second car faruskiar and ghangir have installed themselves; they are alone at this moment, and are talking together in a low tone. as i return i meet ephrinell, who is coming back to his traveling companion. he shakes my hand yankee fashion. i tell him that miss horatia bluett has given me news of him. "oh!" says he, "what a woman yonder! what a splendid saleswoman! one of those english--" "who are good enough to be americans!" i add. "wait a bit!" he replies, with a significant smile. as i am going put, i notice that the two chinamen are already in the dining car, and that dr. tio-king's little book is on the table. i do not consider it too much of a liberty for a reporter to pick up this little book, to open it and to read the title, which is as follows: the temperate and regular life, or the art of living long in perfect health. translated from the italian of louis cornaro, a venetian noble. to which is added the way of correcting a bad constitution, and enjoying perfect felicity to the most advanced years. and to die only from the using up of the original humidity in extreme old age. salerno, . and this is the favorite reading of dr. tio-king! and that is why his disrespectful pupil occasionally gives him the nickname of cornaro! i have not time to see anything else in this volume than _abstinentia adjicit vitam_; but this motto of the noble venetian i have no intention of putting in practice, at least at breakfast time. there is no change in the order in which we sit down to table. i find myself close to major noltitz, who is looking attentively at faruskiar and his companion, placed at the extremity of the table. we are asking ourselves who this haughty mongol could be. "ah!" said i, laughing at the thought which crossed my mind, "if that is--" "who?" asked the major. "the chief of the brigands, the famous ki-tsang." "have your joke, monsieur bombarnac, but under your breath, i advise you!" "you see, major, he would then be an interesting personage and worth a long interview!" we enjoyed our meal as we talked. the breakfast was excellent, the provisions having come freshly on board at askhabad and douchak. for drink we had tea, and crimean wine, and kazan beer; for meat we had mutton cutlets and excellent preserves; for dessert a melon with pears and grapes of the best quality. after breakfast i went to smoke my cigar on the platform behind the dining car. caterna almost immediately joins me. evidently the estimable comedian has seized the opportunity to enter into conversation with me. his intelligent eyes, his smooth face, his cheeks accustomed to false whiskers, his lips accustomed to false moustaches, his head accustomed to wigs red, black, or gray, bald or hairy, according to his part, everything denoted the actor made for the life of the boards. but he had such an open, cheery face, such an honest look, so frank an attitude, that he was evidently a really good fellow. "sir," said he to me, "are two frenchmen going all the way from baku to pekin without making each other's acquaintance?" "sir," i replied, "when i meet a compatriot--" "who is a parisian--" "and consequently a frenchman twice over," i added, "i am only too glad to shake hands with him! and so, monsieur caterna--" "you know my name?" "as you know mine, i am sure." "of course, monsieur claudius bombarnac, correspondent of the _twentieth century_." "at your service, believe me." "a thousand thanks, monsieur bombarnac, and even ten thousand, as they say in china, whither madame caterna and i are bound." "to appear at shanghai in the french troupe at the residency as--" "you know all that, then?" "a reporter!" "quite so." "i may add, from sundry nautical phrases i have noticed, that you have been to sea." "i believe you, sir. formerly coxswain of admiral de boissondy's launch on board the _redoubtable_." "then i beg to ask why you, a sailor, did not go by way of the sea?" "ah, there it is, monsieur bombarnac. know that madame caterna, who is incontestably the first leading lady of the provinces, and there is not one to beat her as a waiting maid or in a man's part, cannot stand the sea. and when i heard of the grand transasiatic, i said to her, 'be easy, caroline! do not worry yourself about the perfidious element. we will cross russia, turkestan, and china, without leaving _terra firma_!' and that pleased her, the little darling, so brave and so devoted, so--i am at a loss for a word--well, a lady who will play the duenna in case of need, rather than leave the manager in a mess! an artiste, a true artiste!" it was a pleasure to listen to caterna; he was in steam, as the engineer says, and the only thing to do was to let him blow off. surprising as it may seem, he adored his wife, and i believe she was equally fond of him. a well-matched couple, evidently, from what i learned from my comedian, never embarrassed, very wide awake, content with his lot, liking nothing so much as the theater--above all the provincial theater--where he and his wife had played in drama, vaudeville, comedy, operetta, opera comique, opera, spectacle, pantomime, happy in the entertainment which began at five o'clock in the afternoon and ended at one o'clock in the morning, in the grand theaters of the chief cities, in the saloon of the mayor, in the barn of the village, without boots, without patches, without orchestra, sometimes even without spectators--thus saving the return of the money--professionals fit for anything, no matter what. as a parisian, caterna must have been the wag of the forecastle when he was at sea. as clever with his instrument of brass or wood, he possessed a most varied and complete assortment of jokes, songs, monologues, and dialogues. this he told me with an immense amount of attitude and gesture, now here, now there, legs, arms, hands, and feet all going together. i should never feel dull in the company of such a merry companion. "and where were you before you left france?" i asked. "at la ferté-sous-jouarre, where madame caterna achieved a genuine success as elsa in 'lohengrin,' which we played without music. but it is an interesting piece, and it was well done." "you must have been a good deal about the world, monsieur caterna?" "i believe you; russia, england, both americas. ah! monsieur claudius." he already called me claudius. "ah! monsieur claudius, there was a time when i was the idol of buenos ayres, and the pet of rio janeiro! do not think i would tell you an untruth! no! i know myself. bad at paris, i am excellent in the provinces. in paris you play for yourself; in the provinces you play for the others! and then what a repertory!" "my compliments, my dear compatriot!" "i accept them, monsieur claudius, for i like my trade. what would you haye? all the world cannot expect to be a senator or--a special correspondent." "there, that is wicked, monsieur caterna," said i, with a laugh. "no; it is the last word." and while the unwearied actor ran on in this way, stations appeared one after the other between the shrieks of the whistle, kulka, nisachurch, kulla minor and others, not particularly cheerful to look at; then bairam ali at the seven hundred and ninety-fifth verst and kourlan kala at the eight hundred and fifteenth. "and to tell you the truth," continued caterna, "we have made a little money by going about from town to town. at the bottom of our boxes are a few northern debentures, of which i think a good deal, and take much care, and they have been honestly got, monsieur claudius. although we live under a democratic government, the rule of equality, the time is still far off when you will see the noble father dining beside the prefect at the table of the judge of appeal, and the actress open the ball with the prefect at the house of the general-in-chief! well! we can dine and dance among ourselves--" "and be just as happy, monsieur caterna." "certainly no less, monsieur claudius," replied the future premier comic of shanghai, shaking an imaginary frill with the graceful ease of one of louis xv.'s noblemen. at this point, madame caterna came up. she was in every way worthy of her husband, sent into the world to reply to him in life as on the stage, one of those genial theater folks, born one knows not where or how, but thoroughly genuine and good-natured. "i beg to introduce you to caroline caterna," said the actor, in much the same tone as he would have introduced me to patti or sarah bernhardt. "having shaken hands with your husband," said i, "i shall be happy to shake hands with you, madame caterna." "there you are, then," said the actress, "and without ceremony, foot to the front, and no prompting." "as you see, no nonsense about her, and the best of wives--" "as he is the best of husbands." "i believe i am, monsieur claudius," said the actor, "and why? because i believe that marriage consists entirely in the precept to which husbands should always conform, and that is, that what the wife likes the husband should eat often." it will be understood that it was touching to see this honest give-and-take, so different from the dry business style of the two commercials who were in conversation in the adjoining car. but here is baron weissschnitzerdörfer, wearing a traveling cap, coming out of the dining car, where i imagine he has not spent his time consulting the time-table. "the good man of the hat trick!" said caterna, after the baron went back into the car without favoring us with a salute. "he is quite german enough!" said madame caterna. "and to think that henry heine called those people sentimental oaks!" i added. "then he could not have known that one!" said caterna. "oak, i admit, but sentimental--" "do you know why the baron has patronized the grand transasiatic?" i asked. "to eat sauerkraut at pekin!" said caterna. "not at all. to rival miss nelly bly. he is trying to get around the world in thirty-nine days." "thirty-nine days!" exclaimed gaterna. "you should say a hundred and thirty-nine!" and in a voice like a husky clarinet the actor struck up the well-known air from the cloches de corneville: "i thrice have been around the world." adding, for the baron's benefit: "he will not do the half." chapter x. at a quarter-past twelve our train passed the station of kari bata, which resembles one of the stations on the line from naples to sorrento, with its italian roofs. i noticed a vast asiatico-russian camp, the flags waving in the fresh breeze. we have entered the mervian oasis, eighty miles long and eight wide, and containing about six hundred thousand hectares--there is nothing like being precise at the finish. right and left are cultivated fields, clumps of fine trees, an uninterrupted succession of villages, huts among the thickets, fruit gardens between the houses, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle among the pastures. all this rich country is watered by the mourgab--the white water--or its tributaries, and pheasants swarm like crows on the plains of normandy. at one o'clock in the afternoon the train stopped at merv station, over five hundred miles from uzun ada. the town has been often destroyed and rebuilt. the wars of turkestan have not spared it. formerly, it seems, it was a haunt of robbers and bandits, and it is a pity that the renowned ki-tsang did not live in those days. perhaps he would have become a genghis khan? major noltitz told me of a turkoman saying to the following effect: "if you meet a mervian and a viper, begin by killing the mervian and leave the viper till afterwards." i fancy it would be better to begin with killing the viper now that the mervian has become a russian. we have seven hours to stop at merv. i shall have time to visit this curious town. its physical and moral transformation has been profound, owing to the somewhat arbitrary proceedings of the russian administration. it is fortunate that its fortress, five miles round, built by nour verdy in , was not strong enough to prevent its capture by the czar, so that the old nest of malefactors has become one of the most important cities of the transcaspian. i said to major noltitz: "if it is not trespassing on your kindness, may i ask you to go with me?" "willingly," he answered; "and as far as i am concerned, i shall be very pleased to see merv again." we set out at a good pace. "i ought to tell you," said the major, "that it is the new town we are going to see." "and why not the old one first? that would be more logical and more chronological." "because old merv is eighteen miles away, and you will hardly see it as you pass. so you must refer to the accurate description given of it by your great geographer elisée reclus." and certainly readers will not lose anything by the change. the distance from the station to new merv is not great. but what an abominable dust! the commercial town is built on the left of the river--a town in the american style, which would please ephrinell, wide streets straight as a line crossing at right angles; straight boulevards with rows of trees; much bustle and movement among the merchants in oriental costume, in jewish costume, merchants of every kind; a number of camels and dromedaries, the latter much in request for their powers of withstanding fatigue and which differ in their hinder parts from their african congeners. not many women along the sunny roads which seem white hot. some of the feminine types are, however, sufficiently remarkable, dressed out in a quasi-military costume, wearing soft boots and a cartouche belt in the circassian style. you must take care of the stray dogs, hungry brutes with long hair and disquieting fangs, of a breed reminding one of the dogs of the caucasus, and these animals--according to boulangier the engineer--have eaten a russian general. "not entirely," replies the major, confirming the statement. "they left his boots." in the commercial quarter, in the depths of the gloomy ground floors, inhabited by the persians and the jews, within the miserable shops are sold carpets of incredible fineness, and colors artistically combined, woven mostly by old women without any jacquard cards. on both banks of the mourgab the russians have their military establishment. there parade the turkoman soldiers in the service of the czar. they wear the blue cap and the white epaulettes with their ordinary uniform, and drill under the orders of russian officers. a wooden bridge, fifty yards long, crosses the river. it is practicable not only for foot-passengers, but for trains, and telegraph wires are stretched above its parapets. on the opposite bank is the administrative town, which contains a considerable number of civil servants, wearing the usual russian cap. in reality the most interesting place to see is a sort of annexe, a tekke village, in the middle of merv, whose inhabitants have retained the villainous characteristics of this decaying race, the muscular bodies, large ears, thick lips, black beard. and this gives the last bit of local color to be found in the new town. at a turning in the commercial quarter we met the commercials, american and english. "mr. ephrinell," i said, "there is nothing curious in this modern merv." "on the contrary, mr. bombarnac, the town is almost yankee, and it will soon see the day when the russians will give it tramways and gaslights!" "that will come!" "i hope it will, and then merv will have a right to call itself a city." "for my part, i should have preferred a visit to the old town, with its mosque, its fortress, and its palace. but that is a little too far off, and the train does not stop there, which i regret." "pooh!" said the yankee. "what i regret is, that there is no business to be done in these turkoman countries! the men all have teeth--" "and the women all have hair," added horatia bluett. "well, miss, buy their hair, and you will not lose your time." "that is exactly what holmes-holme of london will do as soon as we have exhausted the capillary stock of the celestial empire." and thereupon the pair left us. i then suggested to major noltitz--it was six o'clock--to dine at merv, before the departure of the train. he consented, but he was wrong to consent. an ill-fortune took us to the hotel slav, which is very inferior to our dining car--at least as regards its bill of fare. it contained, in particular, a national soup called "borchtch," prepared with sour milk, which i would carefully refrain from recommending to the gourmets of the _twentieth century_. with regard to my newspaper, and that telegram relative to the mandarin our train is "conveying" in the funereal acceptation of the word? has popof obtained from the mutes who are on guard the name of this high personage? yes, at last! and hardly are we within the station than he runs up to me, saying: "i know the name." "and it is?" "yen lou, the great mandarin yen lou of pekin." "thank you, popof." i rush to the telegraph office, and from there i send a telegram to the _twentieth century_. "merv, th may, p.m. "train, grand transasiatic, just leaving merv. took from douchak the body of the great mandarin yen lou coming from persia to pekin." it cost a good deal, did this telegram, but you will admit it was well worth its price. the name of yen lou was immediately communicated to our fellow travelers, and it seemed to me that my lord faruskiar smiled when he heard it. we left the station at eight o'clock precisely. forty minutes afterwards we passed near old merv, and the night being dark i could see nothing of it. there was, however, a fortress with square towers and a wall of some burned bricks, and ruined tombs, and a palace and remains of mosques, and a collection of archaeological things, which would have run to quite two hundred lines of small text. "console yourself," said major noltitz. "your satisfaction could not be complete, for old merv has been rebuilt four times. if you had seen the fourth town, bairam ali of the persian period, you would not have seen the third, which was mongol, still less the musalman village of the second epoch, which was called sultan sandjar kala, and still less the town of the first epoch. that was called by some iskander kala, in honor of alexander the macedonian, and by others ghiaour kala, attributing its foundation to zoroaster, the founder of the magian religion, a thousand years before christ. so i should advise you to put your regrets in the waste-paper basket." and that is what i did, as i could do no better with them. our train is running northeast. the stations are twenty or thirty versts apart. the names are not shouted, as we make no stop, and i have to discover them on my time-table. such are keltchi, ravina--why this italian name in this turkoman province?--peski, repetek, etc. we cross the desert, the real desert without a thread of water, where artesian wells have to be sunk to supply the reservoirs along the line. the major tells me that the engineers experienced immense difficulty in fixing the sandhills on this part of the railway. if the palisades had not been sloped obliquely, like the barbs of a feather, the line would have been covered by the sand to such an extent as to stop the running of the trains. as soon as this region of sandhills had been passed we were again on the level plain on which the rails had been laid so easily. gradually my companions go to sleep, and our carriage is transformed into a sleeping car. i then return to my roumanian. ought i to attempt to see him to-night? undoubtedly; and not only to satisfy a very natural curiosity, but also to calm his anxiety. in fact, knowing his secret is known to the person who spoke to him through the panel of his case, suppose the idea occurred to him to get out at one of the stations, give up his journey, and abandon his attempt to rejoin mademoiselle zinca klork, so as to escape the company's pursuit? that is possible, after all, and my intervention may have done the poor fellow harm--to say nothing of my losing no. , one of the most valuable in my collection. i am resolved to visit him before the coming dawn. but, in order to be as careful as possible, i will wait until the train has passed tchardjoui, where it ought to arrive at twenty-seven past two in the morning. there we shall stop a quarter of an hour before proceeding towards the amu-daria. popof will then retire to his den, and i shall be able to slip into the van, without fear of being seen. how long the hours appear! several times i have almost fallen asleep, and twice or thrice i have had to go out into the fresh air on the platform. the train enters tchardjoui station to the minute. it is an important town of the khanate of bokhara, which the transcaspian reached towards the end of , seventeen months after the first sleeper was laid. we are not more than twelve versts from the amu-daria, and beyond that river i shall enter on my adventure. i have said that the stop at tchardjoui ought to last a quarter of an hour. a few travelers alight, for they have booked to this town which contains about thirty thousand inhabitants. others get in to proceed to bokhara and samarkand, but these are only second-class passengers. this produces a certain amount of bustle on the platform. i also get out and take a walk up and down by the side of the front van, and i notice the door silently open and shut. a man creeps out on to the platform and slips away through the station, which is dimly lighted by a few petroleum lamps. it is my roumanian. it can be no one else. he has not been seen, and there he is, lost among the other travelers. why this escape? is it to renew his provisions at the refreshment bar? on the contrary, is not his intention, as i am afraid it is, to get away from us? shall i stop him? i will make myself known to him; promise to help him. i will speak to him in french, in english, in german, in russian--as he pleases. i will say to him: "my friend, trust to my discretion; i will not betray you. provisions? i will bring them to you during the night. encouragements? i will heap them on you as i will the refreshments. do not forget that mademoiselle zinca klork, evidently the most lovely of roumanians, is expecting you at pekin, etc." behold me then following him without appearing to do so. amid all this hurry to and fro he is in little danger of being noticed. neither popof nor any of the company's servants would suspect him to be a swindler. is he going towards the gate to escape me? no! he only wants to stretch his legs better than he can do in the van. after an imprisonment which has lasted since he left baku--that is to say, about sixty hours--he has earned ten minutes of freedom. he is a man of middle height, lithe in his movements, and with a gliding kind of walk. he could roll himself up like a cat and find quite room enough in his case. he wears an old vest, his trousers are held up by a belt, and his cap is a fur one--all of dark color. i am at ease regarding his intentions. he returns towards the van, mounts the platform, and shuts the door gently behind him. as soon as the train is on the move i will knock at the panel, and this time-- more of the unexpected. instead of waiting at tchardjoui one-quarter of an hour we have to wait three. a slight injury to one of the brakes of the engine has had to be repaired, and, notwithstanding the german baron's remonstrances, we do not leave the station before half-past three, as the day is beginning to dawn. it follows from this that if i cannot visit the van i shall at least see the amou-daria. the amou-daria is the oxus of the ancients, the rival of the indus and the ganges. it used to be a tributary of the caspian, as shown on the maps, but now it flows into the sea of aral. fed by the snows and rains of the pamir plateau, its sluggish waters flow between low clay cliffs and banks of sand. it is the river-sea in the turkoman tongue, and it is about two thousand five hundred kilometres long. the train crosses it by a bridge a league long, the line being a hundred feet and more above its surface at low water, and the roadway trembles on the thousand piles which support it, grouped in fives between each of the spans, which are thirty feet wide. in ten months, at a cost of thirty-five thousand roubles, general annenkof built this bridge, the most important one on the grand transasiatic. the river is of a dull-yellow color. a few islands emerge from the current here and there, as far as one can see. popof pointed out the stations for the guards on the parapet of the bridge. "what are they for?" i asked. "for the accommodation of a special staff, whose duty it is to give the alarm in case of fire, and who are provided with fire-extinguishers." this is a wise precaution. not only have sparks from the engines set it on fire in several places, but there are other disasters possible. a large number of boats, for the most part laden with petroleum, pass up and down the amou-daria, and it frequently happens that these become fire-ships. a constant watch is thus only too well justified, for if the bridge were destroyed, its reconstruction would take a year, during which the transport of passengers from one bank to the other would not be without its difficulties. at last the train is going slowly across the bridge. it is broad daylight. the desert begins again at the second station, that of karakoul. beyond can be seen the windings of an affluent of the amou-daria, the zarafchane, "the river that rolls with gold," the course of which extends up to the valley of the sogd, in that fertile oasis on which stands the city of samarkand. at five o'clock in the morning the train stops at the capital of the khanate of bokhara, eleven hundred and seven versts from uzun ada. chapter xi. the khanates of bokhara and samarkand used to form sogdiana, a persian satrapy inhabited by the tadjiks and afterwards by the usbegs, who invaded the country at the close of the fifteenth century. but another invasion, much more modern, is to be feared, that of the sands, now that the saksaouls intended to bring the sandhills to a standstill, have almost completely disappeared. bokhara, the capital of the khanate, is the rome of islam, the noble city, the city of temples, the revered centre of the mahometan religion. it was the town with the seven gates, which an immense wall surrounded in the days of its splendor, and its trade with china has always been considerable. today it contains eighty thousand inhabitants. i was told this by major noltitz, who advised me to visit the town in which he had lived several times. he could not accompany me, having several visits to pay. we were to start again at eleven o'clock in the morning. five hours only to wait and the town some distance from the railway station! if the one were not connected with the other by a decauville--a french name that sounds well in sogdiana--time would fail for having even a slight glimpse of bokhara. it is agreed that the major will accompany me on the decauville; and when we reach our destination he will leave me to attend to his private affairs. i cannot reckon on him. is it possible that i shall have to do without the company of any of my numbers? let us recapitulate. my lord faruskiar? surely he will not have to worry himself about the mandarin yen lou, shut up in this traveling catafalque! fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett? useless to think of them when we are talking about palaces, minarets, mosques and other archaeological inutilities. the actor and the actress? impossible, for madame caterna is tired, and monsieur caterna will consider it his duty to stay with her. the two celestials? they have already left the railway station. ah! sir francis trevellyan. why not? i am not a russian, and it is the russians he cannot stand. i am not the man who conquered central asia. i will try and open this closely shut gentleman. i approach him; i bow; i am about to speak. he gives me a slight inclination and turns on his heel and walks off! the animal! but the decauville gives its last whistle. the major and i occupy one of the open carriages. half an hour afterwards we are through the dervaze gate, the major leaves me, and here am i, wandering through the streets of bokhara. if i told the readers of the _twentieth century_ that i visited the hundred schools of the town, its three hundred mosques--almost as many mosques as there are churches in rome, they would not believe me, in spite of the confidence that reporters invariably receive. and so i will confine myself to the strict truth. as i passed along the dusty roads of the city, i entered at a venture any of the buildings i found open. here it was a bazaar where they sold cotton materials of alternate colors called "al adjas," handkerchiefs as fine as spider webs, leather marvelously worked, silks the rustle of which is called "tchakhtchukh," in bokhariot, a name that meilhac and halevy did wisely in not adopting for their celebrated heroine. there it was a shop where you could buy sixteen sorts of tea, eleven of which are green, that being the only kind used in the interior of china and central asia, and among these the most sought after, the "louka," one leaf of which will perfume a whole teapot. farther on i emerged on the quay of the divanbeghi, reservoirs, bordering one side of a square planted with elms. not far off is the arche, which is the fortified palace of the emir and has a modern clock over the door. arminius vambery thought the palace had a gloomy look, and so do i, although the bronze cannon which defend the entrance appear more artistic than destructive. do not forget that the bokhariot soldiers, who perambulate the streets in white breeches, black tunics, astrakan caps, and enormous boots, are commanded by russian officers freely decorated with golden embroidery. near the palace to the right is the largest mosque of the town, the mosque of mesjidi kelan, which was built by abdallah khan sheibani. it is a world of cupolas, clock towers, and minarets, which the storks appear to make their home, and there are thousands of these birds in the town. rambling on at a venture i reach the shores of the zarafchane on the northeast of the town. its fresh limpid waters fill its bed once or twice a fortnight. excellent this for health! when the waters appear men, women, children, dogs, bipeds, quadrupeds, bathe together in tumultuous promiscuousness, of which i can give no idea, nor recommend as an example. going northwest towards the centre of the city, i came across groups of dervishes with pointed hats, a big stick in their hands, their hair straggling in the breeze, stopping occasionally to take their part in a dance which would not have disgraced the fanatics of the elysée montmartre during a chant, literally vociferated, and accentuated by the most characteristic steps. let us not forget that i went through the book market. there are no less than twenty-six shops where printed books and manuscripts are sold, not by weight like tea or by the box like vegetables, but in the ordinary way. as to the numerous "medresses," the colleges which have given bokhara its renown as a university--i must confess that i did not visit one. weary and worn i sat down under the elms of the divanbeghi quay. there, enormous samovars are continually on the boil, and for a "tenghe," or six pence three farthings, i refreshed myself with "shivin," a tea of superior quality which only in the slightest degree resembles that we consume in europe, which has already been used, so they say, to clean the carpets in the celestial empire. that is the only remembrance i retain of the rome of turkestan. besides, as i was not able to stay a month there, it was as well to stay there only a few hours. at half-past ten, accompanied by major noltitz, whom i found at the terminus of the decauville, i alighted at the railway station, the warehouses of which are crowded with bales of bokhariot cotton, and packs of mervian wool. i see at a glance that all my numbers are on the platform, including my german baron. in the rear of the train the persians are keeping faithful guard round the mandarin yen lou. it seems that three of our traveling companions are observing them with persistent curiosity; these are the suspicious-looking mongols we picked up at douchak. as i pass near them i fancy that faruskiar makes a signal to them, which i do not understand. does he know them? anyhow, this circumstance rather puzzles me. the train is no sooner off than the passengers go to the dining car. the places next to mine and the major's, which had been occupied since the start, are now vacant, and the young chinaman, followed by dr. tio-king, take advantage of it to come near us. pan chao knows i am on the staff of the _twentieth century_, and he is apparently as desirous of talking to me as i am of talking to him. i am not mistaken. he is a true parisian of the boulevard, in the clothes of a celestial. he has spent three years in the world where people amuse themselves, and also in the world where they learn. the only son of a rich merchant in pekin, he has traveled under the wing of this tio-king, a doctor of some sort, who is really the most stupid of baboons, and of whom his pupil makes a good deal of fun. dr. tio-king, since he discovered cornaro's little book on the quays of the seine, has been seeking to make his existence conform to the "art of living long in perfect health." this credulous chinaman of the chinese had become thoroughly absorbed in the study of the precepts so magisterially laid down by the noble venetian. and pan chao is always chaffing him thereupon, though the good man takes no notice. we were not long before we had a few specimens of his monomania, for the doctor, like his pupil, spoke very good french. "before we begin," said pan chao, "tell me, doctor, how many fundamental rules there are for finding the correct amounts of food and drink?" "seven, my young friend," replied tio-king with the greatest seriousness. "the first is to take only just so much nourishment as to enable you to perform the purely spiritual functions." "and the second?" "the second is to take only such an amount of nourishment as will not cause you to feel any dullness, or heaviness, or bodily lassitude. the third--" "ah! we will wait there, to-day, if you don't mind, doctor," replied pan chao. "here is a certain maintuy, which seems rather good, and--" "take care, my dear pupil! that is a sort of pudding made of hashed meat mixed with fat and spices. i fear it may be heavy--" "then, doctor, i would advise you not to eat it. for my part, i will follow these gentlemen." and pan chao did--and rightly so, for the maintuy was delicious--while doctor tio-king contented himself with the lightest dish on the bill of fare. it appeared from what major noltitz said that these maintuys fried in fat are even more savory. and why should they not be, considering that they take the name of "zenbusis," which signifies "women's kisses?" when caterna heard this flattering phrase, he expressed his regret that zenbusis did not figure on the breakfast table. to which his wife replied by so tender a look that i ventured to say to him: "you can find zenbusis elsewhere than in central asia, it seems to me." "yes," he replied, "they are to be met with wherever there are lovable women to make them." and pan chao added, with a laugh: "and it is again at paris that they make them the best." he spoke like a man of experience, did my young celestial. i looked at pan chao; i admired him. how he eats! what an appetite! not of much use to him are the observations of the doctor on the immoderate consumption of his radical humidity. the breakfast continued pleasantly. conversation turned on the work of the russians in asia. pan chao seemed to me well posted up in their progress. not only have they made the transcaspian, but the transsiberian, surveyed in , is being made, and is already considerably advanced. for the first route through iscim, omsk, tomsk, krasnojarsk, nijni-ufimsk, and irkutsk, a second route has been substituted more to the south, passing by orenburg, akmolinsk, minoussinsk, abatoni and vladivostock. when these six thousand kilometres of rails are laid, petersburg will be within six days of the japan sea. and this transsiberian, which will exceed in length the transcontinental of the united states, will cost no more than seven hundred and fifty millions. it will be easily imagined that this conversation on the russian enterprise is not very pleasing to sir francis trevellyan. although he says not a word and does not lift his eyes from the plate, his long face flushes a little. "well, gentlemen," said i, "what we see is nothing to what our nephews will see. we are traveling to-day on the grand transasiatic. but what will it be when the grand transasiatic is in connection with the grand transafrican." "and how is asia to be united by railway with africa?" asked major noltitz. "through russia, turkey, italy, france and spain. travelers will go from pekin to the cape of good hope without change of carriage." "and the straits of gibraltar?" asked pan chao. at this sir francis trevellyan raised his ears. "yes, gibraltar?" said the major. "go under it!" said i. "a tunnel fifteen kilometres long is a mere nothing! there will be no english parliament to oppose it as there is to oppose that between dover and calais! it will all be done some day, all--and that will justify the vein: "_omnia jam fieri quae posse negabam_." my sample of latin erudition was only understood by major noltitz, and i heard caterna say to his wife: "that is volapuk." "there is no doubt," said pan chap, "that the emperor of china has been well advised in giving his hand to the russians instead of the english. instead of building strategic railways in manchouria, which would never have had the approbation of the czar, the son of heaven has preferred to continue the transcaspian across china and chinese turkestan." "and he has done wisely," said the major. "with the english it is only the trade of india that goes to europe, with the russians it is that of the whole asiatic continent." i look at sir francis trevellyan. the color heightens on his cheeks, but he makes no movement. i ask if these attacks in a language he understands perfectly will not oblige him to speak out. and yet i should have been very much embarrassed if i had had to bet on or against it. major noltitz then resumed the conversation by pointing out the incontestable advantages of the transasiatic with regard to the trade between grand asia and europe in the security and rapidity of its communications. the old hatreds will gradually disappear under european influence, and in that respect alone russia deserves the approbation of every civilized nation. is there not a justification for those fine words of skobeleff after the capture of gheok tepe, when the conquered feared reprisals from the victors: "in central asian politics we know no outcasts?" "and in that policy," said the major, "lies our superiority over england." "no one can be superior to the english." such was the phrase i expected from sir francis trevellyan--the phrase i understand english gentlemen always use when traveling about the world. but he said nothing. but when i rose to propose a toast to the emperor of russia and the russians, and the emperor of china and the chinese, sir francis trevellyan abruptly left the table. assuredly i was not to have the pleasure of hearing his voice to-day. i need not say that during all this talk the baron weissschnitzerdörfer was fully occupied in clearing dish after dish, to the extreme amazement of doctor tio-king. here was a german who had never read the precepts of cornaro, or, if he had read them, transgressed them in the most outrageous fashion. for the same reason, i suppose, neither faruskiar nor ghangir took part in it, for they only exchanged a few words in chinese. but i noted rather a strange circumstance which did not escape the major. we were talking about the safety of the grand transasiatic across central asia, and pan chao had said that the road was not so safe as it might be beyond the turkestan frontier, as, in fact, major noltitz had told me. i was then led to ask if he had ever heard of the famous ki tsang before his departure from europe. "often," he said, "for ki tsang was then in the yunnan provinces. i hope we shall not meet him on our road." my pronunciation of the name of the famous bandit was evidently incorrect, for i hardly understood pan chao when he repeated it with the accent of his native tongue. but one thing i can say, and that is that when he uttered the name of ki tsang, faruskiar knitted his brows and his eyes flashed. then, with a look at his companion, he resumed his habitual indifference to all that was being said around him. assuredly i shall have some difficulty in making the acquaintance of this man. these mongols are as close as a safe, and when you have not the word it is difficult to open them. the train is running at high speed. in the ordinary service, when it stops at the eleven stations between bokhara and samarkand, it takes a whole day over the distance. this time it took but three hours to cover the two hundred kilometres which separate the two towns, and at two o'clock in the afternoon it entered the illustrious city of tamerlane. chapter xii. samarkand is situated in the rich oasis watered by the zarafchane in the valley of sogd. a small pamphlet i bought at the railway station informs me that this great city is one of the four sites in which geographers "agree" to place the terrestrial paradise. i leave this discussion to the exegetists of the profession. burned by the armies of cyrus in b.c. , samarkand was in part destroyed by genghis khan, about . when it had become the capital of tamerlane, its position, which certainly could not be improved upon, did not prevent its being ravaged by the nomads of the eighteenth century. such alternations of grandeur and ruin have been the fate of all the important towns of central asia. we had five hours to stop at samarkand during the day, and that promised something pleasant and several pages of copy. but there was no time to lose. as usual, the town is double; one half, built by the russians, is quite modern, with its verdant parks, its avenues of birches, its palaces, its cottages; the other is the old town, still rich in magnificent remains of its splendor, and requiring many weeks to be conscientiously studied. this time i shall not be alone. major noltitz is free; he will accompany me. we had already left the station when the caternas presented themselves. "are you going for a run round the town, monsieur claudius?" asked the actor, with a comprehensive gesture to show the vast surroundings of samarkand. "such is our intention." "will major noltitz and you allow me to join you?" "how so?" "with madame caterna, for i do nothing without her." "our explorations will be so much the more agreeable," said the major, with a bow to the charming actress. "and," i added, with a view to save fatigue and gain time, "my dear friends, allow me to offer you an arba." "an arba!" exclaimed caterna, with a swing of his hips. "what may that be, an arba?" "one of the local vehicles." "let us have an arba." we entered one of the boxes on wheels which were on the rank in front of the railway station. under promise of a good "silao," that is to say, something to drink, the yemtchik or coachman undertook to give wings to his two doves, otherwise his two little horses, and we went off at a good pace. on the left we leave the russian town, arranged like a fan, the governor's house, surrounded by beautiful gardens, the public park and its shady walks, then the house of the chief of the district which is just on the boundary of the old town. as we passed, the major showed us the fortress, round which our arba turned. there are the graves of the russian soldiers who died in the attack in , near the ancient palace of the emir of bokhara. from this point, by a straight narrow road, our arba reached the righistan square, which, as my pamphlet says, "must not be confounded with the square of the same name at bokhara." it is a fine quadrilateral, perhaps a little spoiled by the fact that the russians have paved it and ornamented it with lamps--which would certainly, please ephrinell, if he decides upon visiting samarkand. on three sides of the square are the well-preserved ruins of three medresses, where the mollahs give children a good education. these medresses--there are seventeen of these colleges at samarkand, besides eighty-five mosques--are called tilla-kari, chir dar and oulong beg. in a general way they resemble each other; a portico in the middle leading to interior courts, built of enameled brick, tinted pale blue or pale yellow, arabesques designed in gold lines on a ground of turquoise blue, the dominant color; leaning minarets threatening to fall and never falling, luckily for their coating of enamel, which the intrepid traveller madame de ujfalvy-bourdon, declares to be much superior to the finest of our crackle enamels--and these are not vases to put on a mantelpiece or on a stand, but minarets of good height. these marvels are still in the state described by marco polo, the venetian traveler of the thirteenth century. "well, monsieur bombarnac," asked the major, "do you not admire the square?" "it is superb," i say. "yes," says the actor, "what a splendid scene it would make for a ballet, caroline! that mosque, with a garden alongside, and that other one with a court--" "you are right, adolphe," said his wife; "but we would have to put those towers up straight and have a few luminous fountains." "excellent notion, caroline! write us a drama, monsieur claudius, a spectacle piece, with a third act in this square. as for the title--" "tamerlane is at once suggested!" i reply. the actor made a significant grimace. the conqueror of asia seemed to him to be wanting in actuality. and leaning toward his wife, caterna hastened to say: "as a scene, i have seen a better at the porte-saint martin, in the _fils de la nuit_--" "and i have at the châtelet in _michael strogoff_." we cannot do better than leave our comedians alone. they look at everything from the theatrical point of view. they prefer the air gauze and the sky-blue foliage, the branches of the stage trees, the agitated canvas of the ocean waves, the prospectives of the drop scene, to the sites the curtain represents, a set scene by cambon or rubé or jambon to no matter what landscape; in short, they would rather have art than nature. and i am not the man to try and change their opinions on the subject. as i have mentioned the name of tamerlane, i asked major noltitz if we were going to visit the tomb of the famous tartar. the major replied that we would see it as we returned; and our itinerary brought us in front of the samarkand bazaar. the arba stopped at one of the entrances to this vast rotunda, after taking us in and out through the old town, the houses of which consist of only one story, and seem very comfortless. here is the bazaar in which are accumulated enormous quantities of woollen stuffs, velvet-pile carpets in the brightest of colors, shawls of graceful patterns, all thrown anyhow on the counters of the shops. before these samples the sellers and buyers stand, noisily arriving at the lowest price. among the fabrics is a silk tissue known as kanaous, which is held in high esteem by the samarkand ladies, although they are very far from appreciating the similar product of lyons manufacture, which it excels neither in quality nor appearance. madame caterna appeared extraordinarily tempted, as if she were among the counters of the _bon marché_ or the _louvre_. "that stuff would do well for my costume in the _grande duchesse_!" she said. "and those slippers would suit me down to the ground as ali bajou in the _caid_!" said caterna. and while the actress was investing in a remnant of kanaous, the actor paid for a pair of those green slippers which the turkomans wear when they enter a mosque. but this was not without recourse to the kindness of the major, who acted as interpreter between the caternas and the merchant, whose "yoks! yoks!" sounded like a lot of crackers in his large mouth. the arba started again and went off toward the square of ribi-khanym, where stands the mosque of that name which was that of one of tamerlane's wives. if the square is not as regular as that of righistan, it is in my opinion rather more picturesque. there are strangely grouped ruins, the remains of arcades, half-unroofed cupolas, columns without capitals, the shafts of which have retained all the brightness of their enamelling; then a long row of elliptical porticoes closing in one side of the vast quadrilateral. the effect is really grand, for these old monuments of the splendor of samarkand stand out from a background of sky and verdure that you would seek in vain, even at the grand opera, if our actor does not object. but i must confess we experienced a deeper impression when, toward the northeast of the town, our arba deposited us in front of the finest of the mosques of central asia, which dates from the year of the hegira ( of our era). i cannot, writing straight away, give you an idea of this marvel. if i were to thread the words, mosaics, pediments, spandrels, bas-reliefs, niches, enamels, corbels, all on a string in a sentence, the picture would still be incomplete. it is strokes of the brush that are wanted, not strokes of the pen. imagination remains abashed at the remains of the most splendid architecture left us by asiatic genius. it is in the farthest depths of this mosque that the faithful go to worship at the tomb of kassimben-abbas, a venerated mussulman saint, and we are told that if we open the tomb a living man will come forth from it in all his glory. but the experiment has not been made as yet, and we prefer to believe in the legend. we had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and fortunately the caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of their recollections of the theater. doubtless they had shared in our impressions. we resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the gallop of his doves along shady roads which the russian administration keeps up with care. along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice. their costumes were varied enough, "khalats," in startling colors, and their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. in a population of forty thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. most of them seemed to be tadjiks of iranian origin. they are fine strong fellows, whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and the unclouded sun. here is what madame de ujfalvy-bourdon says of them in her interesting book: "their hair is generally black, as is also their beard, which is very abundant. their eyes are never turned up at the corners, and are almost always brown. the nose is very handsome, the lips are not thick, the teeth are small. the forehead is high, broad, and the general shape of the face is oval." and i cannot refrain from mentioning a note of approval from caterna when he saw one of these tadjiks superbly draped in his many-colored khalat. "what a splendid lead! what an admirable melingue! you can see him in richepins's _nana sahib_ or meurice's _schamyl_." "he would make a lot of money! replied madame caterna. "he just would--i believe you, caroline!" replied the enthusiastic actor. and for him, as for all other theatrical folks, is not the money the most serious and the least disputable manifestation of the dramatic art? it was already five o clock, and in this incomparable city of samarkand scene succeeded scene. there! i am getting into that way of looking at it now. certainly the spectacle should finish before midnight. but as we start at eight o'clock, we shall have to lose the end of the piece. but as i considered that, for the honor of special correspondents in general, it would never do to have been at samarkand without seeing tamerlane's tomb, our arba returned to the southwest, and drew up near the mosque of gour emir, close to the russian town. what a sordid neighborhood, what a heap of mud huts and straw huts, what an agglomeration of miserable hovels we have just been through! the mosque has a grand appearance. it is crowned with its dome, in which the raw blue of the turquoise is the chief color, and which looks like a persian cap; and on its only minaret, which has now lost its head, there glitter the enamelled arabesques which have retained their ancient purity. we visited the central hall beneath the cupola. there stands the tomb of the lame timour the conqueror. surrounded by the four tombs of his sons and his patron saint, beneath a stone of black jade covered with inscriptions, whiten the bones of tamerlane, in whose name is gathered the whole fourteenth century of asiatic history. the walls of the hall are covered with slabs of jade, on which are engraven innumerable scrolls of foliage, and in the southwest stands a little column marking the direction of mecca. madame de ujfalvy-bourdon has justly compared this part of the mosque of gour emir to a sanctuary, and we had the same impression. this impression took a still more religious tone when, by a dark and narrow stairway, we descended to the crypt in which are the tombs of tamerlane's wives and daughters. "but who was this tamerlane?" asked caterna. "this tamerlane everybody is talking about." "tamerlane," replied major noltitz, "was one of the greatest conquerors of the world, perhaps the greatest, if you measure greatness by the extent of the conquests. asia to the east of the caspian sea, persia and the provinces to the north of it, russia to the sea of azof, india, syria, asia minor, china, on which he threw two hundred thousand men--he had a whole continent as the theater of his wars." "and he was lame!" said madame caterna. "yes, madame, like genseric, like shakespeare, like byron, like walter scott, like talleyrand, but that did not hinder his getting along in the world. but how fanatic and bloodthirsty he was! history affirms that at delhi he massacred a hundred thousand captives, and at bagdad he erected an obelisk of eighty thousand heads." "i like the one in the place de la concorde better," said caterna, "and that is only in one piece." at this observation we left the mosque of gour emir, and as it was time to "hurry up," as our actor said, the arba was driven briskly toward the station. for my part, in spite of the observations of the caternas, i was fully in tone with the local color due to the marvels of samarkand, when i was roughly shaken back into modern reality. in the streets--yes--in the streets near the railway station, in the very center of tamerlane's capital, i passed two bicyclists. "ah!" exclaimed caterna. "messrs. wheeler!" and they were turkomans! after that nothing more could be done than leave a town so dishonored by the masterpiece of mechanical locomotion, and that was what we did at eight o'clock. chapter xiii. we dined an hour after the train left. in the dining car were several newcomers, among others two negroes whom caterna began to speak of as darkies. none of these travelers, popof told me, would cross the russo-chinese frontier, so that they interested me little or not at all. during dinner, at which all my numbers were present--i have twelve now, and i do not suppose i shall go beyond that--i noticed that major noltitz continued to keep his eye on his lordship faruskiar. had he begun to suspect him? was it of any importance in his opinion that this mongol seemed to know, without appearing to do so, the three second-class travelers, who were also mongols? was his imagination working with the same activity as mine, and was he taking seriously what was only a joke on my part? that i, a man of letters, a chronicler in search of scenes and incidents, should be pleased to see in his personage a rival of the famous ki tsang, or ki tsang himself, could be understood; but that he, a serious man, doctor in the russian army, should abandon himself to such speculations no one would believe. never mind now, we shall have something more to say about it by and by. as for me, i had soon forgotten all about the mongol for the man in the case. tired as i am after that long run through samarkand, if i get a chance to visit him to-night i will. dinner being over, we all begin to make ourselves comfortable for the night, with the intention of sleeping till we reach tachkend. the distance from samarkand to tachkend is three hundred kilometres. the train will not get in there before seven o'clock in the morning. it will stop three times at small stations for water and fuel--circumstances favorable to the success of my project. i add that the night is dark, the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. it threatens rain; the wind is freshening. it is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks there. it is important to choose the moment when popof is sound asleep. it is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. that the gallant fellow should be reassured--that is the essential point--and he will be, as soon as i have made his acquaintance. a little information concerning him, concerning mademoiselle zinca klork, whence he comes, why he is going to pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to do in the future, etc., etc., and i have done all that a conscientious reporter can do. that is what i want to know; that is what i will ask him. it is not so very much. and in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. that will not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours they have spent in samarkand. the beds were ready immediately after dinner. a few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the gust drove them in very quickly. they have all taken up their places under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding of the train on the steel rails. i remained outside last of all, and popof exchanged a few words with me. "we shall not be disturbed to-night," he said to me, "and i would advise you to make the most of it. to-morrow night we shall be running through the defiles of the pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, i am afraid." "thanks, popof, i will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot." popof wished me good night and went into his cabin. i saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform. it was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the line. the oasis of samarkand had already been passed, and the rails were now laid across a long horizontal plain. many hours would elapse before the train reached the syr daria, over which the line passes by a bridge like that over the amou-daria, but of less importance. it was about half-past eleven when i decided to open the door of the van, which i shut behind me. i knew that the young roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and the fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking from one end to the other of the van. the darkness is complete. no jet of light filters through the holes of the case. that seems all the better for me. it is as well that my no. should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. he is doubtless asleep. i will give two little knocks on the panel, i will awake him, and we will explain matters before he can move. i feel as i go. my hand touches the case; i place my ear against the panel and i listen. there is not a stir, not a breath! is my man not here? has he got away? has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? has my news gone with him? really, i am most uneasy; i listen attentively. no! he has not gone. he is in the case. i hear distinctly his regular and prolonged respiration. he sleeps. he sleeps the sleep of the innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of the swindler of the grand transasiatic. i am just going to knock when the locomotive's whistle emits its strident crow, as we pass through a station. but the train is not going to stop, i know, and i wait until the whistling has ceased. i then give a gentle knock on the panel. there is no reply. however, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before. i knock more loudly. this time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and fright. "open, open!" i say in russian. there is no reply. "open!" i say again. "it is a friend who speaks. you have nothing to fear!" if the panel is not lowered, as i had hoped, there is the crack of a match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case. i look at the prisoner through the holes in the side. there is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard. he does not know whether he is asleep or awake. "open, my friend, i say, open and have confidence. i have discovered your secret. i shall say nothing about it. on the other hand, i may be of use to you." the poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move. "you are a roumanian, i think," i add, "and i am a frenchman." "frenchman? you are a frenchman?" and this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent. one more bond between us. the panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp i can examine my no. , to whom i shall be able to give a less arithmetical designation. "no one can see us, nor hear us?" he asked in a half-stifled voice. "no one." "the guard?" "asleep." my new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. i feel that he seeks a support. he understands he can depend on me. and he murmurs: "do not betray me--do not betray me." "betray you, my boy? did not the french newspapers sympathize with that little austrian tailor, with those two spanish sweethearts, who sent themselves by train in the way you are doing? were not subscriptions opened in their favor? and can you believe that i, a journalist--" "you are a journalist?" "claudius bombarnac, special correspondent of the _twentieth century."_ "a french journal--" "yes, i tell you." "and you are going to pekin?" "through to pekin." "ah! monsieur bombarnac, providence has sent you onto my road." "no, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the powers they hold from providence, courage and confidence. anything i can do for you i will." "thanks, thanks." "what is your name?" "kinko." "kinko? excellent name!" "excellent?" "for my articles! you are a roumanian, are you not?" "roumanian of bucharest." "but you have lived in france?" "four years in paris, where i was apprentice to an upholsterer in the faubourg saint antoine." "and you went back to bucharest?" "yes, to work at my trade there until the day came when it was impossible for me to resist the desire to leave--" "to leave? why?" "to marry!" "to marry--mademoiselle zinca--" "zinca?" "yes, mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china!" "you know?" "certainly. the address is on the box." "true." "as to mademoiselle zinca klork--" "she is a young roumanian. i knew her in paris, where she was learning the trade of a milliner. oh, charming--" "i am sure upon it. you need not dwell on that." "she also returned to bucharest, until she was invited to take the management of a dressmaker's at pekin. we loved, monsieur; she went--and we were separated for a year. three weeks ago she wrote to me. she was getting on over there. if i could go out to her, i would do well. we should get married without delay. she had saved something. i would soon earn as much as she had. and here i am on the road--in my turn--for china." "in this box?" "what would you have, monsieur bombarnac?" asked kinko, reddening. "i had only money enough to buy a packing case, a few provisions, and get myself sent off by an obliging friend. it costs a thousand francs to go from tiflis to pekin. but as soon as i have gained them, the company will be repaid, i assure you." "i believe you, kinko, i believe you; and on your arrival at pekin?" "zinca has been informed. the box will be taken to avenue cha-coua, and she--" "will pay the carriage?" "yes." "and with pleasure, i will answer for it." "you may be sure of it, for we love each other so much." "and besides, kinko, what would one not do for a sweetheart who consents to shut himself up in a box for a fortnight, and arrives labelled 'glass,' 'fragile,' 'beware of damp--'" "ah, you are making fun of a poor fellow." "not at all; and you may rest assured i will neglect nothing which will enable you to arrive dry and in one piece at mademoiselle zinca klork's--in short, in a perfect state of preservation!" "again i thank you," said kinko, pressing my hands. "believe me, you will not find me ungrateful." "ah! friend kinko, i shall be paid, and more than paid!" "and how?" "by relating, as soon as i can do so without danger to you, the particulars of your journey from tiflis to pekin. think now--what a heading for a column: 'a lover in a box! zinca and kinko!! , leagues through central asia in a luggage van!!!'" the young roumanian could not help smiling. "you need not be in too much of a hurry!" he said. "never fear! prudence and discretion, as they say at the matrimonial agencies." then i went to the door of the van to see that we were in no danger of surprise, and then the conversation was resumed. naturally, kinko asked me how i had discovered his secret. i told him all that had passed on the steamer during the voyage across the caspian. his breathing had betrayed him. the idea that at first i took him for a wild beast seemed to amuse him. a wild beast! a faithful poodle, rather! then with a sneeze he went up the animal scale to human rank. "but," said he to me, lowering his voice, "two nights ago i thought all was lost. the van was closed. i had just lighted my little lamp, and had begun my supper when a knock came against the panel--" "i did that, kinko, i did that. and that night we should have become acquainted if the train had not run into a dromedary." "it was you! i breathe again!" said kinko. "in what dreams i have lived! it was known that some one was hidden in this box. i saw myself discovered, handed over to the police, taken to prison at merv or bokhara, and my little zinca waiting for me in vain; and never should i see her again, unless i resumed the journey on foot. well, i would have resumed, yes, i would." and he said it with such an air of resolution that it was impossible not to see that the young roumanian had unusual spirit. "brave kinko!" i answered. "i am awfully sorry to have caused you such apprehensions. now you are at ease again, and i fancy your chances have improved now we have made friends." i then asked kinko to show me how he managed in his box. nothing could be simpler or better arranged. at the bottom was a seat on which he sat with the necessary space for him to stretch his legs when he placed them obliquely; under the seat, shut in by a lid, were a few provisions, and table utensils reduced to a simple pocket knife and metal mug; an overcoat and a rug hung from a nail, and the little lamp he used at nighttime was hooked onto one of the walls. the sliding panel allowed the prisoner to leave his prison occasionally. but if the case had been placed among other packages, if the porters had not deposited it with the precautions due to its fragility, he would not have been able to work the panel, and would have had to make a friend somehow before the end of the journey. fortunately, there is a special providence for lovers, and divine intervention in favor of kinko and zinca klork was manifested in all its plenitude. he told me that very night he had taken a walk either in the van or else on the station platform where the train had stopped. "i know that, kinko. that was at bokhara. i saw you!" "you saw me?" "yes, and i thought you were trying to get away. but if i saw you, it was because i knew of your presence in the van, and i was there watching you, no one else having an idea of spying on you. nevertheless, it was dangerous; do not do it again; let me replenish your larder when i get an opportunity." "thank you, monsieur bombarnac, thank you! i do not believe i am in danger of being discovered, unless at the chinese frontier--or rather at kachgar." "and why?" "the custom house is very keen on goods going into china. i am afraid they will come round the packages, and that my box--" "in fact, kinko," i replied, "there are a few difficult hours for you." "if they find me out?" "i shall be there, and i will do all i can to prevent anything unpleasant happening." "ah! monsieur bombarnac!" exclaimed kinko, in a burst of gratitude. "how can i repay you?" "very easily, kinko." "and in what way?" "ask me to your marriage with the lovely zinca." "i will! and zinca will embrace you." "she will be only doing her duty, friend kinko, and i shall be only doing mine in returning two kisses for one." we exchanged a last grip of the hand; and, really, i think there were tears in the good fellow's eyes when i left him. he put out his lamp, he pushed back the panel, then through the case i heard one more "thanks" and an "_au revoir_." i came out of the van, i shut the door, i assured myself that popof was still asleep. in a few minutes, after a breath or two of the night air, i go into my place near major noltitz. and before i close my eyes my last thought is that, thanks to the appearance of the episodic kinko, the journey of their energetic "special" will not be displeasing to my readers. chapter xiv. in the russians endeavored without success to establish a fair at tachkend which would rival that at nijni-novgorod. some twenty years later the attempt would have succeeded, and as a matter of fact the fair now exists, owing to the making of the transcaspian to unite samarkand and tachkend. and now not only do merchants with their merchandise crowd into this town, but pilgrims with their pilgrimage outfits. and there will be quite a procession, or rather an exodus, when the time comes for the mussulman faithful to ride to mecca by railway. meanwhile we are at tachkend, and the time-table shows that we stop here two hours and a half. of course i shall not have time to visit the town, which would be worth my while to do. but i must confess that these cities of turkestan are very much alike, and to have seen one is to have seen another, unless we can go into details. crossing a fertile region where poplars like distaffs rise gracefully erect, skirting fields bristling with vines, running by gardens where fruit trees abound, our train stops at the new town. as is inevitable since the russian conquest, there are two towns side by side at tachkend as at samarkand, as at bokhara, as at merv. here the old town has tortuous streets, houses of mud and clay, bazaars of poor appearance, caravanserais built of bricks dried in the sun, a few mosques, and schools as numerous as if the czar had decreed by ukase that everything french should be imitated. it is true that the scholars are wanting, but there is no want of schools. the population of tachkend does not differ very much from that met with in other parts of turkestan. it comprises sarthes, usbegs, tadjiks, khirgizes, nogais, israelites, a few afghans and hindoos and--as may be naturally supposed--a fair supply of russians. it is perhaps at tachkend that the jews are gathered in the greatest numbers. and from the day that the town passed under russian administration their situation has considerably improved. from that epoch dates the complete civil and political liberty they now enjoy. i have only two hours to spare in visiting the town, and i do my work in true reporter style. you should have seen me dashing through the grand bazaar, a mere wooden building, which is crammed with oriental stuffs, silk goods, metal ware, specimens of chinese manufacture, including some very fine examples of porcelain. in the streets of old tachkend a certain number of women are to be met with. i need hardly say that there are no slaves in this country, much to the displeasure of the mussulmans. nowadays woman is free--even in her household. "an old turkoman," said major noltitz, "once told me that a husband's power is at an end now that he cannot thrash his wife without being threatened with an appeal to the czar; and that marriage is at an end!" i do not know if the fair sex is still beaten, but the husbands know what they may expect if they knock their wives about. will it be believed that these peculiar orientals can see no progress in this prohibition to beat their wives? perhaps they remember that the terrestrial paradise is not far off--a beautiful garden between the tigris and euphrates, unless it was between the amou and the syr-daria. perhaps they have not forgotten that mother eve lived in this preadamite garden, and that if she had been thrashed a little before her first fault, she would probably not have committed it. but we need not enlarge on that. i did not hear, as madam ujfalvy-bourdon did, the band playing the _pompiers de nanterre_ in the governor-general's garden. no! on this occasion they were playing _le pere la victoire_, and if these are not national airs they are none the less agreeable to french ears. we left tachkend at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning. the country through which the grand transasiatic is now running is not so monotonous. the plain begins to undulate, for we are approaching the outer ramifications of the eastern orographic system. we are nearing the tableland of the pamirs. at the same time we continue at normal speed along this section of a hundred and fifty kilometres which separates us from khodjend. as soon as we are on the move i begin to think of kinko. his little love romance has touched me to the heart. this sweetheart who sent himself off--this other sweetheart who is going to pay the expenses--i am sure major noltitz would be interested in these two turtle doves, one of which is in a cage; he would not be too hard on this defrauder of the company, he would be incapable of betraying him. consequently i have a great desire to tell him of my expedition into the baggage van. but the secret is not mine. i must do nothing that might get kinko into trouble. and so i am silent, and to-night i will, if possible, take a few provisions to my packing case--to my snail in his shell, let us say. and is not the young roumanian like a snail in his shell, for it is as much as he can do to get out of it? we reach khodjend about three in the afternoon. the country is fertile, green, carefully cultivated. it is a succession of kitchen gardens, which seem to be well-kept immense fields sown with clover, which yield four or five crops a year. the roads near the town are bordered with long rows of mulberry trees, which diversify the view with eccentric branches. again, this pair of cities, old and new. both of them had only thirty thousand inhabitants in and they have from forty-five to fifty thousand now. is it the influence of the surroundings which produces the increase of the birth rate? is the province affected by the prolific example of the celestial empire? no! it is the progress of trade, the concentration of merchants of all nations onto these new markets. our halt at khodjend has lasted three hours. i have made my professional visit and walked on the banks of the syr-dana. this river, which bathes the foot of the high mountains of mogol-taou, is crossed by a bridge, the middle section of which gives passage to ships of moderate tonnage. the weather is very warm. the town being protected by its shelter of mountains, the breezes of the steppe cannot reach it, and it is one of the hottest places in turkestan. i met the caternas, delighted with their excursion. the actor said to me in a tone of the best humor: "never shall i forget khodjend, monsieur claudius." "and why will you never forget khodjend, monsieur caterna?" "do you see these peaches?" he asked, showing me the fruit he was carrying. "they are magnificent--" "and not dear! a kilo for four kopeks--that is to say, twelve centimes!" "eh!" i answer. "that shows that peaches are rather common in this country. that is the asiatic apple and it was one of those apples that mrs. adam took a bite at--" "then i excuse her!" said madame caterna, munching away at one of these delicious peaches. after leaving tachkend the railway had curved toward the south, so as to reach khodjend; but after leaving town it curved to the east in the direction of kokhan. it is at tachkend that it is nearest to the transsiberian, and a branch line is being made to semipalatinsk to unite the railway systems of central and northern asia. beyond we shall run due east, and by marghelan and och pass through the gorges of the pamirs so as to reach the turkesto-chinese frontier. the train had only just started when the travelers took their seats at the table, where i failed to notice any fresh arrival. we shall not pick up any more until we reach kachgar. there the russian cookery will give place to the chinese, and although the name does not recall the nectar and ambrosia of olympus, it is probable that we shall not lose by the change. ephrinell is in his usual place. without going as far as familiarity, it is obvious that a close intimacy, founded on a similarity in tastes and aptitudes exists between miss horatia bluett and the yankee. there is no doubt, in our opinion, but what it will end in a wedding as soon as the train arrives. both will have their romance of the rail. frankly, i like that of kinko and zinca klork much better. it is true the pretty roumanian is not here! we are all very friendly, and by "we" i mean my most sympathetic numbers, the major, the caternas, young pan chao, who replies with very parisian pleasantries to the actor's fooleries. the dinner is a pleasant one and a good one. we learn what is the fourth rule formulated by cornaco, that venetian noble, and with the object of determining the right amount for drinking and eating. pan chao pressed the doctor on this subject, and tio-king replied, with a seriousness truly buddhic: "the rule is founded on the quantity of nourishment proportionate for each temperament as regards the difference of ages, and the strength and the food of various kinds." "and for your temperament, doctor?" asked caterna, "what is the right quantity?" "fourteen ounces of solid or liquid--" "an hour?" "no, sir, a day," replied tio-king. "and it was in this manner that the illustrious cornaro lived from the age of thirty-six, so as to leave himself enough strength of body and mind to write his fourth treatise when he was eighty-five, and to live to a hundred and two." "in that case, give me my fifth cutlet," said pan ghao, with a burst of laughter. there is nothing more agreeable than to talk before a well-served table; but i must not forget to complete my notes regarding kokham. we were not due there till nine o'clock, and that would be in the nighttime. and so i asked the major to give me some information regarding this town, which is the last of any importance in russian turkestan. "i know it all the better," said the major, "from having been in garrison there for fifteen months. it is a pity you have not time to visit it, for it remains very asiatic, and there has not been time yet for it to grow a modern town. there is a square there unrivalled in asia, a palace in great style, that of the old khan of khondajar, situated on a mound about a hundred yards high, and in which the governor has left his sarthe artillery. it is considered wonderful, and there is good reason for it. you will lose by not going there a rare opportunity of bringing in the high-flown words of your language in description: the reception hall transformed into a russian church, a labyrinth of rooms with the floors of the precious karagatch wood, the rose pavilion, in which visitors receive a truly oriental hospitality, the interior court of moorish decoration recalling the adorable architectural fancies of the alhambra, the terraces with their splendid views, the harem where the thousand wives of the sultan--a hundred more than solomon--live in peace together, the lacework of the fronts, the gardens with their shady walks under the ancient vines--that is what you would have seen--" "and which i have already seen with your eyes, dear major," said i. "my readers will not complain. pray tell me if there are any bazaars in ." "a turkestan town without bazaars would be like london without its docks." "and paris without its theaters!" said the actor. "yes; there are bazaars at kokhan, one of them on the sokh bridge, the two arms of which traverse the town and in it the finest fabrics of asia are sold for tillahs of gold, which are worth three roubles and sixty kopeks of our money." "i am sure, major, that you are going to mention mosques after bazaars." "certainly." "and medresses?" "certainly; but you must understand that some of them are as good as the mosques and medresses of samarkand of bokhara." i took advantage of the kindness of major noltitz and thanks to him, the readers of the _twentieth century_ need not spend a night in kokhan. i will leave my pen inundated with the solar rays of this city of which i could only see a vague outline. the dinner lasted till rather late, and terminated in an unexpected manner by an offer from caterna to recite a monologue. i need scarcely say that the offer was gladly accepted. our train more and more resembled a small rolling town it had even its casino, this dining-car in which we were gathered at the moment. and it was thus in the eastern part of turkestan, four hundred kilometres from the pamir plateau, at dessert after our excellent dinner served in a saloon of the grand transasiatic, that the _obsession_ was given with remarkable talent by monsieur caterna, grand premier comique, engaged at shanghai theater for the approaching season. "monsieur," said pan chao, "my sincere compliments. i have heard young coquelin--" "a master, monsieur; a master!" said caterna. "whom you approach--" "respectfully--very respectfully!" the bravos lavished on caterna had no effect on sir francis trevellyan, who had been occupying himself with onomatopic exclamations regarding the dinner, which he considered execrable. he was not amused--not even sadly, as his countrymen have been for four hundred years, according to froissart. and yet nobody took any notice of this grumbling gentleman's recriminations. baron weissschnitzerdörfer had not understood a single word of this little masterpiece, and had he understood it, he would not have been able to appreciate this sample of parisian monologomania. as to my lord faruskiar and his inseparable ghangir, it seemed that in spite of their traditional reserve, the surprising grimaces, the significant gestures, the comical intonations, had interested them to a certain extent. the actor had noticed it, and appreciated this silent admiration. as he rose from the table he said to me: "he is magnificent, this seigneur! what dignity! what a presence! what a type of the farthest east! i like his companion less--a third-rate fellow at the outside! but this superb mongol! caroline, cannot you imagine him as 'morales' in the _pirates of the savannah_?" "not in that costume, at any rate," said i. "why not, monsieur claudius? one day at perpignan i played 'colonel de montéclin' in the _closerie des genets_ in the costume of a japanese officer--" "and he was applauded!" added madame caterna. during dinner the train had passed kastakos station, situated in the center of a mountainous region. the road curved a good deal, and ran over viaducts and through tunnels--as we could tell by the noise. a little time afterward popof told us that we were in the territory of ferganah, the name of the ancient khanate of kokhan, which was annexed by russia in , with the seven districts that compose it. these districts, in which sarthes are in the majority, are administered by prefects, sub-prefects, and mayors. come, then, to ferganah, to find all the machinery of the constitution of the year viii. beyond there is an immense steppe, extending before our train. madame de ujfalvy-bourdon has justly compared it to a billiard table, so perfect in its horizontality. only it is not an ivory ball which is rolling over its surface, but an express of the grand transasiatic running at sixty kilometres an hour. leaving the station of tchontchai behind, we enter station at nine o'clock in the evening. the stoppage is to last two hours. we get out onto the platform. as we are leaving the car i am near major noltitz, who asks young pan chao: "have you ever heard of this mandarin yen lou, whose body is being taken to pekin?" "never, major." "but he ought to be a personage of consideration, to be treated with the honor he gets." "that is possible," said pan chao; "but we have so many personages of consideration in the celestial empire." "and so, this mandarin, yen lou?" "i never heard him mentioned." why did major noltitz ask the chinaman this question? what was he thinking about? chapter xv. kokhan, two hours to stop. it is night. the majority of the travelers have already taken up their sleeping quarters in the car, and do not care to alight. here am i on the platform, walking the deck as i smoke. this is rather an important station, and from the engine house comes a more powerful locomotive than those which have brought the train along since we left uzun ada. these early engines were all very well as long as the line lay over an almost horizontal plain. but now we are among the gorges of the pamir plateau, there are gradients of such steepness as to require more engine power. i watch the proceedings, and when the locomotive has been detached with its tender, the baggage van--with kinko in--is at the head of the train. the idea occurs to me that the young roumanian may perhaps venture out on the platform. it would be an imprudence for he runs the risk of being seen by the police, the "gardovois," who move about taking a good look at the passengers. what my no. had better do is to remain in his box, or at least in his van. i will go and get a few provisions, liquid and solid, and take them to him, even before the departure of the train, if it is possible to do so without fear of being noticed. the refreshment room at the station is open, and popof is not there. if he was to see me making purchases he would be astonished, as the dining car contains everything we might want. at the bar i get a little cold meat, some bread, and a bottle of vodka. the station is not well lighted. a few lamps give only a feeble light. popof is busy with one of the railway men. the new engine has not yet been attached to the train. the moment seems favorable. it is useless to wait until we have left. if i can reach kinko i shall be able to sleep through the night--and that will be welcome, i admit. i step onto the train, and after assuring myself that no one is watching me, i enter the baggage van, saying as i do so: "it is i." in fact it is as well to warn kinko in case he is out of his box. but he had not thought of getting out, and i advise him to be very careful. he is very pleased at the provisions, for they are a change to his usual diet. "i do not know how to thank you, monsieur bombarnac," he says to me. "if you do not know, friend kinko," i reply, "do not do it; that is very simple." "how long do we stop at ?" "two hours." "and when shall we be at the frontier?" "to-morrow, about one in the afternoon." "and at kachgar?" "fifteen hours afterward, in the night of the nineteenth." "there the danger is, monsieur bombarnac." "yes, kinko; for if it is difficult to enter the russian possessions, it is no less difficult to get out of them, when the chinese are at the gates. their officials will give us a good look over before they will let us pass. at the same time they examine the passengers much more closely than they do their baggage. and as this van is reserved for the luggage going through to pekin, i do not think you have much to fear. so good night. as a matter of precaution, i would rather not prolong my visit." "good night, monsieur bombarnac, good night." i have come out, i have regained my couch, and i really did not hear the starting signal when the train began to move. the only station of any importance which the railway passed before sunrise, was that of marghelan, where the stoppage was a short one. marghelan, a populous town--sixty thousand inhabitants--is the real capital of ferganah. that is owing to the fact that does not enjoy a good reputation for salubrity. it is of course, a double town, one town russian, the other turkoman. the latter has no ancient monuments, and no curiosities, and my readers must pardon my not having interrupted my sleep to give them a glance at it. following the valley of schakhimardan, the train has reached a sort of steppe and been able to resume its normal speed. at three o'clock in the morning we halt for forty-five minutes at och station. there i failed in my duty as a reporter, and i saw nothing. my excuse is that there was nothing to see. beyond this station the road reaches the frontier which divides russian turkestan from the pamir plateau and the vast territory of the kara-khirghizes. this part of central asia is continually being troubled by plutonian disturbances beneath its surface. northern turkestan has frequently suffered from earthquake--the terrible experience of will not have been forgotten--and at tachkend, as at samarkand, i saw the traces of these commotions. in fact, minor oscillations are continually being observed, and this volcanic action takes place all along the fault, where lay the stores of petroleum and naphtha, from the caspian sea to the pamir plateau. in short, this region is one of the most interesting parts of central asia that a tourist can visit. if major noltitz had never been beyond och station, at the foot of the plateau, he knew the district from having studied it on the modern maps and in the most recent books of travels. among these i would mention those of capus and bonvalot--again two french names i am happy to salute out of france. the major is, nevertheless, anxious to see the country for himself, and although it is not yet six o'clock in the morning, we are both out on the gangway, glasses in hand, maps under our eyes. the pamir, or bam-i-douniah, is commonly called the "roof of the world." from it radiate the mighty chains of the thian shan, of the kuen lun, of the kara korum, of the himalaya, of the hindoo koosh. this orographic system, four hundred kilometres across, which remained for so many years an impassable barrier, has been surmounted by russian tenacity. the sclav race and the yellow race have come into contact. we may as well have a little book learning on the subject; but it is not i that speak, but major noltitz. the travelers of the aryan people have all attempted to explore the plateau of the pamir. without going back to marco polo in the thirteenth century, what do we find? the english with forsyth, douglas, biddulph, younghusband, and the celebrated gordon who died on the upper nile; the russians with fendchenko, skobeleff, prjevalsky, grombtchevsky, general pevtzoff, prince galitzin, the brothers groum-grjimailo; the french with auvergne, bonvalot, capus, papin, breteuil, blanc, ridgway, o'connor, dutreuil de rhins, joseph martin, grenard, edouard blanc; the swedes with doctor swen-hedin. this roof of the world, one would say that some devil on two sticks had lifted it up in his magic hand to let us see its mysteries. we know now that it consists of an inextricable entanglement of valleys, the mean altitude of which exceeds three thousand metres; we know that it is dominated by the peaks of gouroumdi and kauffmann, twenty-two thousand feet high, and the peak of tagarma, which is twenty-seven thousand feet; we know that it sends off to the west the oxus and the amou daria, and to the east the tarim; we know that it chiefly consists of primary rocks, in which are patches of schist and quartz, red sands of secondary age, and the clayey, sandy loess of the quaternary period which is so abundant in central asia. the difficulties the grand transasiatic had in crossing this plateau were extraordinary. it was a challenge from the genius of man to nature, and the victory remained with genius. through the gently sloping passes which the kirghizes call "bels," viaducts, bridges, embankments, cuttings, tunnels had to be made to carry the line. here are sharp curves, gradients which require the most powerful locomotives, here and there stationary engines to haul up the train with cables, in a word, a herculean labor, superior to the works of the american engineers in the defiles of the sierra nevada and the rocky mountains. the desolate aspect of these territories makes a deep impression on the imagination. as the train gains the higher altitudes, this impression is all the more vivid. there are no towns, no villages--nothing but a few scattered huts, in which the pamirian lives a solitary existence with his family, his horses, his herds of yaks, or "koutars," which are cattle with horses' tails, his diminutive sheep, his thick-haired goats. the moulting of these animals, if we may so phrase it, is a natural consequence of the climate, and they change the dressing gown of winter for the white fur coat of summer. it is the same with the dog, whose coat becomes whiter in the hot season. as the passes are ascended, wide breaks in the ranges yield frequent glimpses of the more distant portions of the plateau. in many places are clumps of birches and junipers, which are the principal trees of the pamir, and on the undulating plains grow tamarisks and sedges and mugwort, and a sort of reed very abundant by the sides of the saline pools, and a dwarf labiate called "terskenne" by the kirghizes. the major mentioned certain animals which constitute a somewhat varied fauna on the heights of the pamir. it is even necessary to keep an eye on the platforms of the cars in case a stray panther or bear might seek a ride without any right to travel either first or second class. during the day our companions were on the lookout from both ends of the cars. what shouts arose when plantigrades or felines capered along the line with intentions that certainly seemed suspicious! a few revolver shots were discharged, without much necessity perhaps, but they amused as well as reassured the travelers. in the afternoon we were witnesses of a magnificent shot, which killed instantly an enormous panther just as he was landing on the side step of the third carriage. "it is thine, marguerite!" exclaimed caterna. and could he have better expressed his admiration than in appropriating the celebrated reply of buridan to the dauphine's wife--and not the queen of france, as is wrongly stated in the famous drama of the _tour de nesle_? it was our superb mongol to whom we were indebted for this marksman's masterpiece. "what a hand and what an eye!" said i to the major, who continued to look on faruskiar with suspicion. among the other animals of the pamirian fauna appeared wolves and foxes, and flocks of those large wild sheep with gnarled and gracefully curved horns, which are known to the natives as arkars. high in the sky flew the vultures, bearded and unbearded, and amid the clouds of white vapor we left behind us were many crows and pigeons and turtledoves and wagtails. the day passed without adventure. at six o'clock in the evening we crossed the frontier, after a run of nearly two thousand three hundred kilometres, accomplished in four days since leaving uzun ada. two hundred and fifty kilometres beyond we shall be at kachgar. although we are now in chinese turkestan, it will not be till we reach that town that we shall have our first experience of chinese administration. dinner over about nine o'clock, we stretched ourselves on our beds, in the hope, or rather the conviction, that the night will be as calm as the preceding one. it was not to be so. at first the train was running down the slopes of the pamir at great speed. then it resumed its normal rate along the level. it was about one in the morning when i was suddenly awakened. at the same time major noltitz and most of our companions jumped up. there were loud shouts in the rear of the train. what had happened? anxiety seized upon the travelers--that confused, unreasonable anxiety caused by the slightest incident on a railroad. "what is the matter? what is the matter?" these words were uttered in alarm from all sides and in different languages. my first thought was that we were attacked. i thought of the famous ki-tsang, the mongol pirate, whose help i had so imprudently called upon--for my chronicle. in a moment the train began to slow, evidently preparing to stop. popof came into the van, and i asked him what had happened. "an accident," he replied. "serious?" "no, a coupling has broken, and the two last vans are left behind." as soon as the train pulls up, a dozen travelers, of whom i am one, get out onto the track. by the light of the lantern it is easy to see that the breakage is not due to malevolence. but it is none the less true that the two last vans, the mortuary van and the rear van occupied by the goods guard, are missing. how far off are they? nobody knows. you should have heard the shouts of the persian guards engaged in escorting the remains of yen lou, for which they were responsible! the travelers in their van, like themselves, had not noticed when the coupling broke. it might be an hour, two hours, since the accident. what ought to be done was clear enough. the train must be run backward and pick up the lost vans. nothing could be more simple. but--and this surprised me--the behavior of my lord faruskiar seemed very strange. he insisted in the most pressing manner that not a moment should be lost. he spoke to popof, to the driver, to the stoker, and for the first time i discovered that he spoke russian remarkably well. there was no room for discussion. we were all agreed on the necessity of a retrograde movement. only the german baron protested. more delays! a waste of time for the sake of a mandarin--and a dead mandarin! he had to walk about and bear it. as to sir francis trevellyan, he merely shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say: "what management! what couplings! we should not get this sort of thing on an anglo-indian line!" major noltitz was as much struck as i was at the behavior of my lord faruskiar. this mongol, usually so calm, so impassible, with his cool look beneath his motionless eyelid, had become a prey to a sort of furious anxiety which he appeared incapable of controlling. his companion was as excited as he was. but what was there in these two missing vans which could be of interest to them? they had not even any luggage in the rear van! was it the mandarin, yen lou? was it for that reason that at donchak they had so carefully watched the van which contained the corpse? i could see clearly enough that the major thought it all very suspicious. the train began to run back as soon as we had taken our places. the german baron attempted to curse, but faruskiar gave him such a look that he did not care to get another, and stowed himself away in the corner. dawn appeared in the east when the two wagons were found a kilometre off, and the train gently slowed up to them after an hour's run. faruskiar and ghangir went to help in coupling on the vans, which was done as firmly as possible. major noltitz and i noticed that they exchanged a few words with the other mongols. after all, there was nothing astonishing in that, for they were countrymen of theirs. we resume our seats in the train, and the engineer tries to make up for lost time. nevertheless, the train does not arrive at kachgar without a long delay, and it is half-past four in the morning when we enter the capital of chinese turkestan. * * * * * chapter xvi. kachgaria is oriental turkestan which is gradually being metamorphosed into russian turkestan. the writers in the _new review_ have said: "central asia will only be a great country when the muscovite administration have laid hands on tibet, or when the russians lord it at kachgar." well, that is a thing half done! the piercing of the pamir has joined the russian railway with the chinese line which runs from one frontier of the celestial empire to the other. the capital of kachgaria is now as much russian as chinese. the sclav race and the yellow race have rubbed elbows and live in peace. how long will it last? to others leave the future; i am content with the present. we arrive at half-past four; we leave at eleven. the grand transasiatic shows itself generous. i shall have time to see kachgar, on condition of allowing myself an hour less than the time stated. for what was not done at the frontier has to be done at kachgar. russians and chinese are one as bad as the other when there are vexing formalities; papers to verify, passports to sign, etc., etc. it is the same sort of meddling, minute and over-fastidious, and we must put up with it. we must not forget the terrible threat of the formula the functionary of the celestial empire affixes to his acts--"tremble and obey!" i am disposed to obey, and i am prepared to appear before the authorities of the frontier. i remember the fears of kinko, and it is with regard to him that the trembling is to be done, if the examination of the travelers extends to their packages and luggage. before we reached kachgar, major noltitz said to me: "do not imagine that chinese turkestan differs very much from russian turkestan. we are not in the land of pagodas, junks, flower boats, yamens, hongs and porcelain towers. like bokhara, merv and samarkand, kachgar is a double town. it is with the central asian cities as it is with certain stars, only they do not revolve round one another." the major's remark was very true. it was not so long ago since emirs reigned over kachgaria, since the monarchy of mohammed yakoub extended over the whole of turkestan, since the chinese who wished to live here had to adjure the religion of buddha and confucius and become converts to mahometanism, that is, if they wished to be respectable. what would you have? in these days we are always too late, and those marvels of the oriental cosmorama, those curious manners, those masterpieces of asiatic art, are either memories or ruins. the railways will end by bringing the countries they traverse down to the same level, to a mutual resemblance which will certainly be equality and may be fraternity. in truth, kachgar is no longer the capital of kachgaria; it is a station on the grand transasiatic, the junction between the russian and chinese lines, and the strip of iron which stretches for three thousand kilometres from the caspian to this city runs on for nearly four thousand more to the capital of the celestial empire. i return to the double town. the new one is yangi-chahr: the old one, three and a half miles off, is kachgar. i have seen both, and i will tell you what they are like. in the first place, both the old and the new towns are surrounded with a villainous earthen wall that does not predispose you in their favor. secondly, it is in vain that you seek for any monument whatever, for the materials of construction are identical for houses as for palaces. nothing but earth, and not even baked earth. it is not with mud dried in the sun that you can obtain regular lines, clean profiles and finely worked sculptures. your architecture must be in stone or marble, and that is precisely what you do not get in chinese turkestan. a small carriage quickly took the major and myself to kachgar, which is three miles round. the kizil-sou, that is to say the red river, which is really yellow, as a chinese river ought to be, clasps it between its two arms, which are united by two bridges. if you wish to see a few ruins of some interest, you must go a short distance beyond the town, where there are the remains of fortifications dating from five hundred or two thousand years ago, according to the imagination of the archaeologist. what is certain is that kachgar submitted to the furious assault of tamerlane, and we will agree that without the exploits of this terrible cripple the history of central asia would be singularly monotonous. since his time there have been fierce sultans, it is true--among others that ouali-khan-toulla, who, in , strangled schlagintweit, one of the most learned and most daring explorers of the asiatic continent. two tablets of bronze, presented by the geographical societies of paris and petersburg, ornament his commemorative monument. kachgar is an important centre of trade, which is almost entirely in russian hands. khotan silks, cotton, felt, woolen carpets, cloth, are the principal articles in the markets, and these are exported beyond the frontier between tachkend and koulja, to the north of oriental turkestan. here, as the major told me, sir francis trevellyan should have special cause for manifesting his ill humor. in fact, an english embassy under chapman and gordon in and had been sent from kashmir to kachgar by way of kothan and yarkand. at this time the english had reason to hope that commercial relations could be established to their advantage. but instead of being in communication with the indian railways, the russian railways are in communication with the chinese, and the result of this junction has been that english influence has had to give place to russian. the population of kachgar is turkoman, with a considerable mixture of chinese, who willingly fulfil the duties of domestics, artisans or porters. less fortunate than chapman and gordon, major noltitz and i were not able to see the kachgarian capital when the armies of the tumultuous emir filled its streets. there were none of those djiguit foot soldiers who were mounted, nor of those sarbaz who were not. vanished had those magnificent bodies of taifourchis, armed and disciplined in the chinese manner, those superb lancers, those kalmuck archers, bending bows five feet high, those "tigers" with their daubed shields and their matchlocks. all have disappeared, the picturesque warriors of kachgaria and the emir with them. at nine o'clock we are on our return to yangi-chahr. there, at the end of the streets near the citadel, what do we see? the caternas in ecstatic admiration before a troop of musical dervishes. who says dervish says beggar, and who says beggar evokes the completest type of filth and laziness. but with what an extraordinary combination of gestures, with what attitudes in the management of the long-stringed guitar, with what acrobatic swingings of the body do they accompany their singing of their legends and poetry which could not be more profane. the instinct of the old actor was awakened in caterna. he could not keep still; it was too much for him. and so these gestures, these attitudes, these swingings he imitated there with the vigor of an old topman joined to that of a leading premier, and i saw him as he was figuring in this quadrille of dancing dervishes. "eh! monsieur claudius!" he said, "it is not difficult to copy the exercises of these gallant fellows! make me a turkestan operetta, let me act a dervish, and you will see if i don't do it to the very life." "i do not doubt it, my dear caterna," i replied; "but before you do that, come into the restaurant at the railway station and bid farewell to turkestan cookery, for we shall soon be reduced to chinese." the offer is accepted all the more willingly, for the reputation of the kachgarian cooks is well justified, as the major made us remark. in fact, the caternas, the major, young pan chao and i were astonished and enchanted at the quantity of dishes that were served us, as well as at their quality. sweets alternated capriciously with roasts and grills. and as the caternas could never forget--any more than they could forget the famous peaches of khodjend--there are a few of these dishes which the english embassy wished to retain in remembrance, for they have given the composition in the story of their journey: pigs' feet dusted with sugar and browned in fat with a dash of pickles; kidneys fried with sweet sauce and served with fritters. caterna asked for the first twice, and for the other three times. "i take my precautions," said he. "who knows what the dining-car kitchen will give us on the chinese railways? let us beware of shark fins, which may perhaps be rather horny, and of swallows' nests which may not be quite fresh!" it is ten o'clock when a stroke of the gong announces that the police formalities are about to begin. we leave the table after a parting glass of choa-hing wine, and a few minutes afterward are in the waiting room. all my numbers are present, with the exception, of course, of kinko, who would have done honor to our breakfast if it had been possible for him to take part in it. there was doctor tio-king, his _cornaro_ under his arm; fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett, mingling their teeth and hair, figuratively, be it understood; sir francis trevellyan, motionless and silent, intractable and stiff, smoking his cigar on the threshold; faruskiar, accompanied by ghangir; russian, turkoman, chinese travelers--in all from sixty to eighty persons. every one had in his turn to present himself at the table, which was occupied by two celestials in uniform; a functionary speaking russian fluently, an interpreter for german, french and english. the chinese was a man about fifty, with a bald head, a thick moustache, a long pigtail, and spectacles on his nose. wrapped in a flowery robe, fat as if he belonged to the most distinguished people in the country, he had not a prepossessing face. after all, it was only a verification of our papers, and as ours were in order it did not much matter how repulsive he looked. "what an air he has!" murmured madame caterna. "the air of a chinaman!" said her husband, "and frankly i do not want to have one like it." i am one of the first to present my passport, which bears the visas of the consul at tiflis and the russian authorities at uzun-ada. the functionary looks at it attentively. when you are dealing with a mandarin, you should always be on the lookout. nevertheless, the examination raises no difficulty, and the seal of the green dragon declares me all in order. the same result with regard to the actor and actress. nevertheless it was worth while looking at caterna while his papers were being examined. he assumed the attitude of a criminal endeavoring to mollify a magistrate, he made the sheepiest of eyes, and smiled the most deprecating of smiles, and seemed to implore a grace or rather a favor, and yet the most obdurate of the chinamen had not a word to say to him. "correct," said the interpreter. "thank you, my prince!" replied caterna, with the accent of a paris street boy. as to ephrinell and miss bluett, they went through like a posted letter. if an american commercial and an english ditto were not in order, who would be? uncle sam and john bull are one as far as that goes. the other travelers, russian and turkoman, underwent examination without any difficulty arising. whether they were first-class or second-class, they had fulfilled the conditions required by the chinese administration, which levies a rather heavy fee for each visa, payable in roubles, taels or sapeks. among the travelers i noticed an american clergyman bound to pekin. this was the reverend nathaniel morse, of boston, one of those honest bible distributors, a yankee missionary, in the garb of a merchant, and very keen in business matters. at a venture i make him no. in my notebook. the verification of the papers of young pan chao and doctor tio-king gave rise to no difficulty, and on leaving they exchanged "ten thousand good mornings" with the more amiable of the chinese representatives. when it came to the turn of major noltitz, a slight incident occurred. sir francis trevellyan, who came to the table at the same moment, did not seem inclined to give way. however, nothing resulted but haughty and provoking looks. the gentleman did not even take the trouble to open his mouth. it is evidently written above that i am not to hear the sound of his voice! the russian and the englishman each received the regulation visa, and the affair went no further. my lord faruskiar, followed by ghangir, then arrived before the man in spectacles, who looked at him with a certain amount of attention. major noltitz and i watched him. how would he submit to this examination? perhaps we were to be undeceived regarding him. but what was our surprise and even our stupefaction at the dramatic outburst which at once took place! after throwing a glance at the papers presented to him by ghangir, the chinese functionary rose and bowed respectfully to faruskiar, saying: "may the general manager of the grand transasiatic deign to receive my ten thousand respects!" general manager, that is what he is, this lord faruskiar! all is explained. during our crossing of russian turkestan he had maintained his _incognito_ like a great personage in a foreign country; but now on the chinese railways he resumed the rank which belonged to him. and i--in a joke, it is true--had permitted myself to identify him with the pirate ki-tsang. and major noltitz, who had spent his time suspecting him! at last i have some one of note in our train--i have him, this somebody, i will make his acquaintance, i will cultivate it like a rare plant, and if he will only speak russian i will interview him down to his boots! good! i am completely upset, and i could not help shrugging my shoulders, when the major whispers to me: "perhaps one of the bandit chiefs with whom the grand transasiatic had to make terms!" "come, major, be serious." the visit was nearing its end when baron weissschnitzerdörfer appeared. he is preoccupied, he is troubled, he is anxious, he is confused, he is fidgety. why is he shaking, and bending, and diving into his pockets like a man who has lost something valuable? "your papers!" demands the interpreter in german. "my papers!" replies the baron, "i am looking for them. i have not got them; they were in my letter case." and he dived again into his trousers pockets, his waistcoat pockets, his coat pockets, his great-coat pockets--there were twenty of them at the least--and he found nothing. "be quick--be quick!" said the interpreter. "the train cannot wait!" "i object to its going without me!" exclaimed the baron. "these papers--how have they gone astray? i must have let them drop out of my case. they should have given them back to me--" at this moment the gong awoke the echoes of the interior of the railway station. "wait! wait! donner vetter! can't you wait a few moments for a man who is going round the world in thirty-nine days--" "the grand transasiatic does not wait," says the interpreter. without waiting for any more, major noltitz and i reach the platform, while the baron continues to struggle in the presence of the impassible chinese functionaries. i examine the train and see that its composition has been modified on account of there being fewer travelers between kachgar and pekin. instead of twelve carriages, there are now only ten, placed in the following order: engine, tender, front van, two first-class cars, dining car, two second-class cars, the van with the defunct mandarin, rear van. the russian locomotives, which have brought us from uzun-ada, have been replaced by a chinese locomotive, burning not naphtha but coal, of which there are large deposits in turkestan, and stores at the chief stations along the line. my first care is to look in at the front van. the custom-house officers are about to visit it, and i tremble for poor kinko. it is evident that the fraud has not been discovered yet, for there would have been a great stir at the news. suppose the case is passed? will its position be shifted? will it be put hind side before or upside down? kinko will not then be able to get out, and that would be a complication. the chinese officers have come out of the van and shut the door, so that i cannot give a glance into it. the essential point is that kinko has not been caught in the act. as soon as possible i will enter the van, and as bankers say, "verify the state of the safe." before getting into our car, major noltitz asks me to follow him to the rear of the train. the scene we witness is not devoid of interest; it is the giving over of the corpse of the mandarin yen lou by the persian guards to a detachment of soldiers of the green standard, who form the chinese gendarmerie. the defunct passes into the care of twenty celestials, who are to occupy the second-class car in front of the mortuary van. they are armed with guns and revolvers, and commanded by an officer. "well," said i to the major, "this mandarin must be some very exalted personage if the son of heaven sends him a guard of honor--" "or of defence," replies the major. faruskiar and ghangir assist at these proceedings, in which there is nothing surprising. surely the general manager of the line ought to keep an eye on the illustrious defunct, entrusted to the care of the grand transasiatic? the gong was struck for the last time; we hasten into our cars. and the baron, what has become of him? here he comes out on to the platform like a whirlwind. he has found his papers at the bottom of his nineteenth pocket. he has obtained the necessary visa--and it was time. "passengers for pekin, take your seats!" shouts popof in a sonorous voice. the train trembles, it starts, it has gone. chapter xvii. we are off on a chinese railway, single line, the train drawn by a chinese engine, driven by a chinese driver. let us hope we shall not be telescoped on the road, for among the passengers is one of the chief functionaries of the company in the person of faruskiar. after all, if an accident should happen it will break the monotony of the journey, and furnish me with an episode. i am forced to admit that up to the present my personages have not behaved as i expected. the drama does not run well, the action languishes. we want something startling to bring all the actors on--what caterna would call "a good fourth act." but then ephrinell and miss bluett are all the time absorbed in their commercial tête-à-tête. pan chao and the doctor amused me for a time, but they are not equal to it now. the actor and the actress are of no use without opportunity. kinko, kinko himself, on whom i had built such hopes, has passed the frontier without difficulty, he will reach pekin, he will marry zinca klork. decidedly there is a want of excitement. i cannot get anything out of the corpse of yen lou! and the readers of the _twentieth century_ who looked to me for something sensational and thrilling. must i have recourse to the german baron? no! he is merely ridiculous, stupidly ridiculous, and he has no interest for me. i return to my idea: i want a hero, and up to the present no hero has appeared on the scene. evidently the moment has come to enter into more intimate relations with faruskiar. perhaps he will not now be so close in his incognito. we are under his orders, so to say. he is the mayor of our rolling town, and a mayor owes something to those he governs. besides, in the event of kinko's fraud being discovered i may as well secure the protection of this high functionary. our train runs at only moderate speed since we left kachgar. on the opposite horizon we can see the high lands of the pamir; to the southwest rises the bolor, the kachgarian belt from which towers the summit of tagharma lost among the clouds. i do not know how to spend my time. major noltitz has never visited the territories crossed by the grand transasiatic, and i am deprived of the pleasure of taking notes from his dictation. dr. tio-king does not lift his nose from his cornaro, and pan chao reminds me more of paris and france than of pekin and china; besides, when he came to europe he came by suez, and he knows no more of oriental turkestan than he does of kamtschatka. all the same, we talk. he is a pleasant companion, but a little less amiability and a little more originality would suit me better. i am reduced to strolling from one car to another, lounging on the platforms, interrogating the horizon, which obstinately refuses to reply, listening on all sides. hello! there are the actor and his wife apparently in animated conversation. i approach. they sing in an undertone. i listen. "i'm fond of my turkeys--eys--eys," says madame caterna. "i'm fond of my wethers--ers--ers," says monsieur caterna, in any number of baritones. it is the everlasting duet between pipo and bettina; and they are rehearsing for shanghai. happy shanghai! they do not yet know the _mascotte_! ephrinell and miss bluett are talking away with unusual animation, and i catch the end of the dialogue. "i am afraid," said she, "that hair will be rising in pekin--" "and i," said he, "that teeth will be down. ah! if a good war would only break out in which the russians would give the chinaman a smack on the jaw." there now! smack them on the jaw, in order that strong, bulbul & co., of new york, might have a chance of doing a trade! really i do not know what to do, and we have a week's journey before us. to jericho with the grand transasiatic and its monotonous security! the great trunk from new york to san francisco has more life in it! at least, the redskins do sometimes attack the trains, and the chance of a scalping on the road cannot but add to the charm of the voyage! but what is that i hear being recited, or rather intoned at the end of our compartment? "there is no man, whoever he may be, who cannot prevent himself from eating too much, and avoid the evils due to repletion. on those who are intrusted with the direction of public affairs this is more incumbent than on others--" it is dr. tio-king reading cornaro aloud, in order that he may remember his principles better. eh! after all, this principle is not to be despised. shall i send it by telegram to our cabinet ministers? they might, perhaps, dine with more discretion after it. during this afternoon i find by the guide-book that we shall cross the yamanyar over a wooden bridge. this stream descends from the mountains to the west, which are at least twenty-five thousand feet high, and its rapidity is increased by the melting of the snows. sometimes the train runs through thick jungles, amid which popof assures me tigers are numerous. numerous they may be, but i have not seen one. and yet in default of redskins we might get some excitement out of tiger-skins. what a heading for a newspaper, and what a stroke of luck for a journalist! terrible catastrophe. a grand transasiatic express attacked by tigers. fifty victims. an infant devoured before its mother's eyes--the whole thickly leaded and appropriately displayed. well, no! the turkoman felidae did not give me even that satisfaction! and i treat them--as i treat any other harmless cats. the two principal stations have been yanghi-hissar, where the train stops ten minutes, and kizil, where it stops a quarter of an hour. several blast furnaces are at work here, the soil being ferruginous, as is shown by the word "kizil," which means red. the country is fertile and well cultivated, growing wheat, maize, rice, barley and flax, in its eastern districts. everywhere are great masses of trees, willows, mulberries, poplars. as far as the eye can reach are fields under culture, irrigated by numerous canals, also green fields in which are flocks of sheep; a country half normandy, half provence, were it not for the mountains of the pamir on the horizon. but this portion of kachgaria was terribly ravaged by war when its people were struggling for independence. the land flowed with blood, and along by the railway the ground is dotted with tumuli beneath which are buried the victims of their patriotism. but i did not come to central asia to travel as if i were in france! novelty! novelty! the unforeseen! the appalling! it was without the shadow of an accident, and after a particularly fine run, that we entered yarkand station at four o'clock in the afternoon. if yarkand is not the administrative capital of eastern turkestan, it is certainly the most important commercial city of the province. "again two towns together," said i to major noltitz. "that i have from popof." "but this time," said the major, "it was not the russians who built the new one." "new or old," i added, "i am afraid is like the others we have seen, a wall of earth, a few dozen gateways cut in the wall, no monuments or buildings of note, and the eternal bazaars of the east." i was not mistaken, and it did not take four hours to visit both yarkands, the newer of which is called yanji-shahr. fortunately, the yarkand women are not forbidden to appear in the streets, which are bordered by simple mud huts, as they were at the time of the "dadkwahs," or governors of the province. they can give themselves the pleasure of seeing and being seen, and this pleasure is shared in by the farangis--as they call foreigners, no matter to what nation they may belong. they are very pretty, these asiatics, with their long tresses, their transversely striped bodices, their skirts of bright colors, relieved by chinese designs in kothan silk, their high-heeled embroidered boots, their turbans of coquettish pattern, beneath which appear their black hair and their eyebrows united by a bar. a few chinese passengers alighted at yarkand, and gave place to others exactly like them--among others a score of coolies--and we started again at eight o'clock in the evening. during the night we ran the three hundred and fifty kilometres which separate yarkand from kothan. a visit i paid to the front van showed me that the box was still in the same place. a certain snoring proved that kinko was inside as usual, and sleeping peacefully. i did not care to wake him, and i left him to dream of his adorable roumanian. in the morning popof told me that the train, which was now traveling about as fast as an omnibus, had passed kargalik, the junction for the kilian and tong branches. the night had been cold, for we are still at an altitude of twelve hundred metres. leaving guma station, the line runs due east and west, following the thirty-seventh parallel, the same which traverses in europe, seville, syracuse and athens. we sighted only one stream of importance, the kara-kash, on which appeared a few drifting rafts, and files of horses and asses at the fords between the pebbly banks. the railroad crosses it about a hundred kilometres from khotan, where we arrived at eight o'clock in the morning. two hours to stop, and as the town may give me a foretaste of the cities of china, i resolve to take a run through it. it seems to be a turkoman town built by the chinese, or perhaps a chinese town built by turkomans. monuments and inhabitants betray their double origin. the mosques look like pagodas, the pagodas look like mosques. and i was not astonished when the caternas, who would not miss this opportunity of setting foot in china, were rather disappointed. "monsieur claudius," said the actor to me, "there is not a single scene here that would suit the _prise de pékin!_" "but we are not at pekin, my dear caterna." "that is true, and it has to be remembered, if we are to be thankful for little." "'thankful for very little,' as the italians say." "well, if they say that, they are no fools." as we were about to board the car again, i saw popof running toward me, shouting: "monsieur bombarnac!" "what is the matter, popof?" "a telegraph messenger asked me if there was any one belonging to the _twentieth century_ in the train." "a telegraph messenger?" "yes, on my replying in the affirmative, he gave me this telegram for you." "give it me! give it me!" i seize the telegram, which has been waiting for me for some days. is it a reply to my wire sent from merv, relative to the mandarin yen lou? i open it. i read it. and it falls from my hand. this is what it said: "claudius bombarnac, "correspondent, "_twentieth century._ "khotan, chinese turkestan. "it is not the corpse of a mandarin that the train is taking to pekin, but the imperial treasure, value fifteen millions, sent from persia to china, as announced in the paris newspapers eight days ago; endeavor to be better informed for the future." * * * * * chapter xviii. "millions--there are millions in that pretended mortuary van!" in spite of myself, this imprudent phrase had escaped me in such a way that the secret of the imperial treasure was instantly known to all, to the railway men as well as to the passengers. and so, for greater security, the persian government, in agreement with the chinese government, has allowed it to be believed that we were carrying the corpse of a mandarin, when we were really taking to pekin a treasure worth fifteen million of francs. heaven pardon me, what a howler--pardonable assuredly--but what a howler i had been guilty of! but why should i have doubted what popof told me, and why should popof have suspected what the persians had told him regarding this yen lou? there was no reason for our doubting their veracity. i am none the less deeply humiliated in my self-esteem as a journalist, and i am much annoyed at the call to order which i have brought upon myself. i shall take very good care not to breathe a word of my misadventure, even to the major. is it credible? in paris the _twentieth century_ is better informed of what concerns the grand transasiatic than i am! they knew that an imperial treasure is in the van, and i did not! oh! the mistakes of special correspondents! now the secret is divulged, and we know that this treasure, composed of gold and precious stones, formerly deposited in the hands of the shah of persia, is being sent to its legitimate owner, the son of heaven. that is why my lord faruskiar, who was aware of it in consequence of his position as general manager of the company, had joined the train at douchak so as to accompany the treasure to its destination. that is why he and ghangir--and the three other mongols--had so carefully watched this precious van, and why they had shown themselves so anxious when it had been left behind by the breakage of the coupling, and why they were so eager for its recovery. yes, all is explained! that is also why a detachment of chinese soldiers has taken over the van at kachgar, in relief of the persians! that is why pan-chao never heard of yen lou, nor of any exalted personage of that name existing in the celestial empire! we started to time, and, as may be supposed, our traveling companions could talk of nothing else but the millions which were enough to enrich every one in the train. "this pretended mortuary van has always been suspicious to me," said major noltitz. "and that was why i questioned pan-chao regarding the dead mandarin." "i remember," i said; "and i could not quite understand the motive of your question. it is certain now that we have got a treasure in tow." "and i add," said the major, "that the chinese government has done wisely in sending an escort of twenty well-armed men. from kothan to lan teheou the trains will have two thousand kilometres to traverse through the desert, and the safety of the line is not as great as it might be across the gobi." "all the more so, major, as the redoubtable ki-tsang has been reported in the northern provinces." "quite so, and a haul of fifteen millions is worth having by a bandit chief." "but how could the chief be informed of the treasure being sent?" "that sort of people always know what it is their interest to know." "yes," thought i, "although they do not read the _twentieth century._" meanwhile different opinions were being exchanged on the gangways. some would rather travel with the millions than carry a corpse along with them, even though it was that of a first-class mandarin. others considered the carrying of the treasure a danger to the passengers. and that was the opinion of baron weissschnitzerdörfer in a furious attack on popof. "you ought to have told us about it, sir, you ought to have told us about it! those millions are known to be in the train, and they will tempt people to attack us. and an attack, even if repulsed, will mean delay, and delay i will not submit to! no, sir, i will not!" "no one will attack us," replied popof. "no one will dream of doing it!" "and how do you know that? how do you know that?" "be calm, pray." "i will not be calm; and if there is a delay, i will hold the company responsible!" that is understood; a hundred thousand florins damages to monsieur le baron tour de monde. let us pass to the other passengers. ephrinell looked at the matter, of course, from a very practical point of view. "there can be no doubt that our risks have been greatly increased by this treasure, and in case of accident on account of it, the _life travelers' society_, in which i am insured, will, i expect, refuse to pay, so that the grand transasiatic company will have all the responsibility." "of course," said miss bluett; "and if they had not found the missing van the company would have been in a serious difficulty with china. would it not, fulk?" "exactly, horatia!" horatia and fulk--nothing less. the anglo-american couple were right, the enormous loss would have had to be borne by the grand transasiatic, for the company must have known they were carrying a treasure and not a corpse--and thereby they were responsible. as to the caternas, the millions rolling behind did not seem to trouble them. the only reflection they inspired was, "ah! caroline, what a splendid theater we might build with all that money!" but the best thing was said by the reverend nathaniel morse, who had joined the train at kachgar. "it is never comfortable to be dragging a powder magazine after one!" nothing could be truer, and this van with its imperial treasure was a powder magazine that might blow up our train. the first railway was opened in china about and ran from shanghai to fou-tcheou. the grand transasiatic followed very closely the russian road proposed in by tachkend, kouldja, kami, lan tcheou, singan and shanghai. this railway did not run through the populous central provinces which can be compared to vast and humming hives of bees--and extaordinarily prolific bees. as before curving off to lan tcheou; it reaches the great cities by the branches it gives out to the south and southeast. among others, one of these branches, that from tai youan to nanking, should have put these two towns of the chan-si and chen-toong provinces into communication. but at present the branch is not ready for opening, owing to an important viaduct not having finished building. the completed portion gives me direct communication across central asia. that is the main line of the transasiatic. the engineers did not find it so difficult of construction as general annenkof did the transcaspian. the deserts of kara koum and gobi are very much alike; the same dead level, the same absence of elevations and depressions, the same suitability for the iron road. if the engineers had had to attack the enormous chain of the kuen lun, nan chan, amie, gangar oola, which forms the frontier of tibet, the obstacles would have been such that it would have taken a century to surmount them. but on a flat, sandy plain the railway could be rapidly pushed on up to lan tcheou, like a long decauville of three thousand kilometres. it is only in the vicinity of this city that the art of the engineer has had a serious struggle with nature in the costly and troublesome road through the provinces of kan-sou, chan-si and petchili. as we go along i must mention a few of the principal stations at which the train stops to take in coal and water. on the right-hand side the eye never tires of the distant horizon of mountains which bounds the tableland of tibet to the north. on the left the view is over the interminable steppes of the gobi. the combination of these territories constitutes the chinese empire if not china proper, and we shall only reach that when we are in the neighborhood of lan tcheou. it would seem, therefore, as though the second part of the journey would be rather uninteresting, unless we are favored with a few startling incidents. but it seems to me that we are certainly in the possession of the elements out of which something journalistic can be made. at eleven o'clock the train left kothan station, and it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon when it reached keria, having left behind the small stations of urang, langar, pola and tschiria. in - this road was followed by pevtsoff from kothan to lob-nor at the foot of the kuen lun, which divides chinese turkestan from tibet. the russian traveler went by keria, nia, tchertchen, as we are doing so easily, but then his caravan had to contend with much danger and difficulty--which did not prevent his reporting ten thousand kilometres of surveys, without reckoning altitude and longitude observations of the geographical points. it is an honor for the russian government to have thus continued the work of prjevalsky. from keria station you can see to the southwest the heights of kara korum and the peak of dapsang, to which different geographers assign a height of eight thousand metres. at its foot extends the province of kachmir. there the indus rises in a number of inconsiderable sources which feed one of the greatest rivers of the peninsula. thence from the pamir tableland extends the mighty range of the himalaya, where rise the highest summits on the face of the globe. since we left kothan we have covered a hundred and fifty kilometres in four hours. it is not a high rate of speed, but we cannot expect on this part of the transasiatic the same rate of traveling we experienced on the transcaspian. either the chinese engines are not so fast, or, thanks to their natural indolence, the engine drivers imagine that from thirty to forty miles an hour is the maximum that can be obtained on the railways of the celestial empire. at five o'clock in the afternoon we were at another station, nia, where general pevtsoff established a meterological observatory. here we stopped only twenty minutes. i had time to lay in a few provisions at the bar. for whom they were intended you can imagine. the passengers we picked up were only chinese, men and women. there were only a few for the first class, and these only went short journeys. we had not started a quarter of an hour when ephrinell, with the sferious manner of a merchant intent on some business, came up to me on the gangway. "monsieur bombarnac," he said, "i have to ask a favor of you." eh! i thought, this yankee knows where to find me when he wants me. "only too happy, i can assure you," said i. "what is it about?" "i want you to be a witness--" "an affair of honor? and with whom, if you please?" "miss horatia bluett." "you are going to fight miss bluett!" i exclaimed, with a laugh. "not yet. i am going to marry her." "marry her?" "yes! a treasure of a woman, well acquainted with business matters, holding a splendid commission--" "my compliments, mr. ephrinell! you can count on me--" "and probably on m. caterna?" "he would like nothing better, and if there is a wedding breakfast he will sing at your dessert--" "as much as he pleases," replied the american. "and now for miss bluett's witnesses." "quite so." "do you think major noltitz would consent?" "a russian is too gallant to refuse. i will ask him, if you like." "thank you in advance. as to the second witness, i am rather in a difficulty. this englishman, sir francis trevellyan--" "a shake of the head is all you will get from him." "baron weissschnitzerdörfer?" "ask that of a man who is doing a tour of the globe, and who would never get through a signature of a name of that length!" "then i can only think of pan-chao, unless we try popof--" "either would do it with pleasure. but there is no hurry, mr. ephrinell, and when you get to pekin you will have no difficulty in finding a fourth witness." "what! to pekin? it is not at pekin that i hope to marry miss bluett!" "where, then? at sou tcheou or lan tcheou, while we stop a few hours?" "wait a bit, monsieur bombarnac! can a yankee wait?" "then it is to be--" "here." "in the train?" "in the train." "then it is for me to say, wait a bit!" "not twenty-four hours." "but to be married you require--" "an american minister, and we have the reverend nathaniel morse." "he consents?" "as if he would not! he would marry the whole train if it asked him!" "bravo, mr. ephrinell! a wedding in a train will be delightful." "we should never put off until to-morrow what we can do to-day." "yes, i know, time is money." "no! time is time, simply, and i do not care to lose a minute of it." ephrinell clasped my hand, and as i had promised, i went to take the necessary steps regarding the witnesses necessary for the nuptial ceremonial. it needs not be said that the commercials were of full age and free to dispose of themselves, to enter into marriage before a clergyman, as is done in america, and without any of the fastidious preliminaries required in france and other formalistic countries. is this an advantage or otherwise? the americans think it is for the best, and, as cooper says, the best at home is the best everywhere. i first asked major noltitz, who willingly agreed to be miss bluett's witness. "these yankees are astonishing," he said to me. "precisely because they are astonished at nothing, major." i made a similar proposition to pan-chao. "delighted, monsieur bombarnac," he replied. "i will be the witness of this adorable and adored miss bluett! if a wedding between an englishwoman and an american, with french, russian and chinese witnesses, does not offer every guarantee of happiness, where are we likely to meet with it?" and now for caterna. the actor would have consented for any number of weddings. "what a notion for a vaudeville or an operetta!" he exclaimed. "we have the _mariage au tambour_, the _mariage aux olives_, the _mariage aux lanternes_--well, this will be the _mariage en railway_, or the marriage by steam! good titles, all those, monsieur claudius! your yankee can reckon on me! witness old or young, noble father or first lover, marquis or peasant, as you like, i am equal to it--" "be natural, please," said i. "it will have a good effect, considering the scenery." "is madame caterna to come to the wedding?" "why not--as bridesmaid!" in all that concerns the traditional functions we must have no difficulties on the grand transasiatic. it is too late for the ceremony to take place to-day. ephrinell understood that certain conventionalities must be complied with. the celebration could take place in the morning. the passengers could all be invited, and faruskiar might be prevailed on to honor the affair with his presence. during dinner we talked of nothing else. after congratulating the happy couple, who replied with true anglo-saxon grace, we all promised to sign the marriage contract. "and we will do honor to your signatures," said ephrinell, in the tone of a tradesman accepting a bill. the night came, and we retired, to dream of the marriage festivities of the morrow. i took my usual stroll into the car occupied by the chinese soldiers, and found the treasure of the son of heaven faithfully guarded. half the detachment were awake and half were asleep. about one o'clock in the morning i visited kinko, and handed him over my purchases at nia. the young roumanian was in high spirits. he anticipated no further obstacles, he would reach port safely, after all. "i am getting quite fat in this box," he told me. i told him about the ephrinell-bluett marriage, and how the union was to be celebrated next morning with great pomp. "ah!" said he, with a sigh. "they are not obliged to wait until they reach pekin!" "quite so, kinko; but it seems to me that a marriage under such conditions is not likely to be lasting! but after all, that is the couple's lookout." at three o'clock in the morning we stopped forty minutes at tchertchen, almost at the foot of the ramifications of the kuen lun. none of us had seen this miserable, desolate country, treeless and verdureless, which the railway was now crossing on its road to the northeast. day came; our train ran the four hundred kilometres between tchertchen and tcharkalyk, while the sun caressed with its rays the immense plain, glittering in its saline efflorescences. chapter xix. when i awoke i seemed to have had an unpleasant dream. a dream in no way like those we interpret by the _clef d'or_. no! nothing could be clearer. the bandit chief ki tsang had prepared a scheme for the seizure of the chinese treasure; he had attacked the train in the plains of gobi; the car is assaulted, pillaged, ransacked; the gold and precious stones, to the value of fifteen millions, are torn from the grasp of the celestials, who yield after a courageous defence. as to the passengers, another two minutes of sleep would have settled their fate--and mine. but all that disappeared with the vapors of the night. dreams are not fixed photographs; they fade in the sun, and end by effacing themselves. in taking my stroll through the train as a good townsman takes his stroll through the town, i am joined by major noltitz. after shaking hands, he showed me a mongol in the second-class car, and said to me, "that is not one of those we picked up at douchak when we picked up faruskiar and ghangir." "that is so," said i; "i never saw that face in the train before." popof, to whom i applied for information, told me that the mongol had got in at tchertchen. "when he arrived," he said, "the manager spoke to him for a minute, from which i concluded that he also was one of the staff of the grand transasiatic." i had not noticed faruskiar during my walk. had he alighted at one of the small stations between tchertchen and tcharkalyk, where we ought to have been about one o'clock in the afternoon? no, he and ghangir were on the gangway in front of our car. they seemed to be in animated conversation, and only stopped to take a good look toward the northeastern horizon. had the mongol brought some news which had made them throw off their usual reserve and gravity? and i abandoned myself to my imagination, foreseeing adventures, attacks of bandits, and so on, according to my dream. i was recalled to reality by the reverend nathaniel morse, who said to me, "it is fixed for to-day, at nine o'clock; do not forget." that meant the marriage of fulk ephrinell and horatia bluett. really, i was not thinking of it. it is time for me to go and dress for the occasion. all i can do will be to change my shirt. it is enough that one of the husband's witnesses should be presentable; the other, caterna, will be sure to be magnificent! in fact, the actor had gone into the luggage van--how i trembled for kinko!--and there, with popof's assistance, had got out of one of his boxes a somewhat free-and-easy costume, but one certain of success at a wedding: a primrose coat with metal buttons, and a buttonhole, a sham diamond pin in the cravat, poppy-colored breeches, copper buckles, flowered waistcoat, clouded stockings, thread gloves, black pumps, and white beaver hat. what a number of bridegrooms and uncles of bridegrooms our friend had been in this traditional attire! he looked superb, with his beaming face, his close-shaven chin, and blue cheeks, and his laughing eyes and rosy lips. madame caterna was quite as glorious in her array. she had easily discovered a bridesmaid's costume in her wardrobe, bodice with intercrossing stripes, short petticoat in green woolen, mauve stockings, straw hat with artificial flowers, a suspicion of black on the eyelids and of rouge on the cheeks. there you have the provincial stage beauty, and if she and her husband like to play a village piece after the breakfast, i can promise them bravos enough. it was at nine o'clock that this marriage was to take place, announced by the bell of the tender, which was to sound full clang as if it were a chapel bell. with a little imagination, we could believe we were in a village. but whither did this bell invite the witnesses and guests? into the dining car, which had been conveniently arranged for the ceremony, as i had taken good care. it was no longer a dining car; it was a hall car, if the expression is admissible. the big table had been taken away, and replaced by a small table which served as a desk. a few flowers bought at tchertchen had been arranged in the corners of the car, which was large enough to hold nearly all who wished to be present--and those who could not get inside could look on from the gangways. that all the passengers might know what was going on, we had put up a notice at the doors of the first and second-class cars, couched in the following terms: "mr. fulk ephrinell, of the firm of messrs. strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, has the honor to invite you to his wedding with miss horatia bluett, of the firm of messrs. holmes-holme, london, which will take place in the dining car on this the d of may, at nine o'clock precisely. the reverend nathaniel morse, of boston, u.s.a., will officiate. "miss horatia bluett, of the firm of messrs. holmes-holme, of london, has the honor to invite you to her wedding with mr. fulk ephrinell, of the firm of messrs. strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, etc., etc." if i do not make half a dozen pars out of all this i am no newspaper man! meanwhile i learn from popof the precise spot where the ceremony will take place. popof points it out on the map. it is a hundred and fifty kilometres from tcharkalyk station, in the middle of the desert, amid the plains which are traversed by a little stream which flows into the lob nor. for twenty leagues there is no station, and the ceremony is not likely to be interrupted by any stoppage. it need hardly be said that at half-past eight i and caterna were ready for the call. major noltitz and pan-chao had got themselves up in all due form for the solemnity. the major looked as serious as a surgeon who was going to cut off a leg. the chinaman looked as gay as a parisian at a village bridal. doctor tio-king and cornaro, one carrying the other, were to be at this little festivity. the noble venetian was a bachelor, if i am not mistaken, but i do not think he gives any opinion on marriage, at least i have no recollection of its being in the chapter headed "safe and easy means of promptly remedying the different accidents that threaten life." "and," added pan-chao, who has just quoted this cornarian phrase, "i suppose marriage ought to be included among those accidents!" a quarter to nine. no one has yet seen the happy couple. miss bluett is in one of the toilet cabinets in the first van, where she is probably preparing herself. fulk ephrinell is perhaps struggling with his cravat and giving a last polish to his portable jewelry. i am not anxious. we shall see them as soon as the bell rings. i have but one regret, and that is that faruskiar and ghangir should be too busy to join us. why do they continue to look out over the immense desert? before their eyes there stretches not the cultivated steppe of the lob nor region, but the gobi, which is barren, desolate and gloomy, according to the reports of grjimailo, blanc and martin. it may be asked why these people are keeping such an obstinate lookout. "if my presentiments do not deceive me," said major noltitz, "there is some reason for it." what does he mean? but the bell of the tender, the tender bell, begins its joyous appeal. nine o'clock; it is time to go into the dining car. caterna comes near me, and i hear him singing: "it is the turret bell, which sud-denly is sounding." while madame caterna replies to the trio of the _dame blanche_ by the refrain of the _dragons de villars_: "and it sounds, sounds, sounds, it sounds and resounds--" the passengers move in a procession, the four witnesses first, then the guests from the end of the village--i mean of the train; chinese, turkomans, tartars, men and women, all curious to assist at the ceremony. the four mongols remain on the last gangway near the treasure which the chinese soldiers do not leave for an instant. we reach the dining car. the clergyman is seated at the little table, on which is the certificate of marriage he has prepared according to the customary form. he looks as though he was accustomed to this sort of thing, which is as much commercial as matrimonial. the bride and bridegroom have not appeared. "ah!" said i to the actor, "perhaps they have changed their minds." "if they have," said caterna, laughing, "the reverend gentleman can marry me and my wife over again. we are in wedding garments, and it is a pity to have had all this fuss for nothing, isn't it, caroline?" "yes, adolphe--" but this pleasing second edition of the wedding of the caternas did not come off. here is mr. fulk ephrinell, dressed this morning just as he was dressed yesterday--and--detail to note--with a pencil behind the lobe of his left ear, for he has just been making out an account for his new york house. here is miss horatia bluett, as thin, as dry, as plain as ever, her dust cloak over her traveling gown, and in place of jewelry a noisy bunch of keys, which hangs from her belt. the company politely rise as the bride and bridegroom enter. they "mark time," as caterna says. then they advance toward the clergyman, who is standing with his hand resting on a bible, open probably at the place where isaac, the son of abraham, espouses rebecca, the daughter of rachel. we might fancy we were in a chapel if we only had a harmonium. and the music is here! if it is not a harmonium, it is the next thing to it. an accordion makes itself heard in caterna's hands. as an ancient mariner, he knows how to manipulate this instrument of torture, and here he is swinging out the andante from _norma_ with the most accordionesque expression. it seems to give great pleasure to the natives of central asia. never have their ears been charmed by the antiquated melody that the pneumatic apparatus was rendering so expressively. but everything must end in this world, even the andante from _norma_. and the reverend nathaniel morse began to favor the young couple with the speech which had clone duty many times before under similar circumstances. "the two souls that blend together--flesh of my flesh--increase and multiply--" in my opinion he had much better have got to work like a notary: "before us, there has been drawn up a deed of arrangement regarding messrs. ephrinell, bluett & co.--" my thought remained unfinished. there are shouts from the engine. the brakes are suddenly applied with a scream and a grind. successive shocks accompany the stoppage of the train. then, with a violent bump, the cars pull up in a cloud of sand. what an interruption to the nuptial ceremony! everything is upset in the dining car, men, furniture, bride, bridegroom and witnesses. not one kept his equilibrium. it is an indescribable pell-mell, with cries of terror and prolonged groans. but i hasten to point out that there was nothing serious, for the stoppage was not all at once. "quick!" said the major. "out of the train!" * * * * * chapter xx. in a moment the passengers, more or less bruised and alarmed, were out on the track. nothing but complaints and questions uttered in three or four different languages, amid general bewilderment. faruskiar, ghangir and the four mongols were the first to jump off the cars. they are out on the line, kandijar in one hand, revolver in the other. no doubt an attack has been organized to pillage the train. the rails have been taken up for about a hundred yards, and the engine, after bumping over the sleepers, has come to a standstill in a sandhill. "what! the railroad not finished--and they sold me a through ticket from tiflis to pekin? and i came by this transasiatic to save nine days in my trip round the world!" in these phrases, in german, hurled at popof, i recognized the voice of the irascible baron. but this time he should have addressed his reproaches not to the engineers of the company, but to others. we spoke to popof, while major noltitz continued to watch faruskiar and the mongols. "the baron is mistaken," said popof, "the railway is completed, and if a hundred yards of rails have been lifted here, it has been with some criminal intention." "to stop the train!" i exclaim. "and steal the treasure they are sending to pekin!" says caterna. "there is no doubt about that," says popof. "be ready to repulse an attack." "is it ki-tsang and his gang that we have to do with?" i asked. ki-tsang! the name spread among the passengers and caused inexpressible terror. the major said to me in a low voice: "why ki-tsang? why not my lord faruskiar?" "he--the manager of the transasiatic?" "if it is true that the company had to take several of these robber chiefs into its confidence to assure the safety of the trains--" "i will never believe that, major." "as you please, monsieur bombarnac. but assuredly faruskiar knew that this pretended mortuary van contained millions." "come, major, this is no time for joking." no, it was the time for defending, and defending one's self courageously. the chinese officer has placed his men around the treasure van. they are twenty in number, and the rest of the passengers, not counting the women, amount to thirty. popof distributes the weapons which are carried in case of attack. major noltitz, caterna, pan-chao, ephrinell, driver and stoker, passengers, asiatic and european, all resolve to fight for the common safety. on the right of the line, about a hundred yards away, stretches a deep, gloomy thicket, a sort of jungle, in which doubtless are hidden the robbers, awaiting the signal to pounce upon us. suddenly there is a burst of shouting, the thicket has given passage to the gang in ambush--some sixty mongols, nomads of the gobi. if these rascals beat us, the train will be pillaged, the treasure of the son of heaven will be stolen, and, what concerns us more intimately, the passengers will be massacred without mercy. and faruskiar, whom major noltitz so unjustly suspected? i look at him. his face is no longer the same; his fine features have become pale, his height has increased, there is lightning in his eyes. well! if i was mistaken about the mandarin yen lou, at least i had not mistaken the general manager of the transasiatic or the famous bandit of yunnan. however, as soon as the mongols appeared, popof hurried madame caterna, miss horatia bluett, and the other women into the cars. we took every means for putting them in safety. my only weapon was a six-shot revolver, and i knew how to use it. ah! i wanted incidents and accidents, and impressions of the journey! well, the chronicler will not fail to chronicle, on condition that he emerges safe and sound from the fray, for the honor of reporting in general and the glory of the _twentieth century_ in particular. but is it not possible to spread trouble among the assailants, by beginning with blowing out ki-tsang's brains, if ki-tsang is the author of this ambuscade? that would bring matters to a crisis. the bandits fire a volley, and begin brandishing their arms and shouting. faruskiar, pistol in one hand, kandijar in the other, has rushed onto them, his eyes gleaming, his lips covered with a slight foam. ghangir is at his side, followed by four mongols whom he is exciting by word and gesture. major noltitz and i throw ourselves into the midst of our assailants. caterna is in front of us, his mouth open, his white teeth ready to bite, his eyes blinking, his revolver flourishing about. the actor has given place to the old sailor who has reappeared for the occasion. "these beggars want to board us!" said he. "forward, forward, for the honor of the flag! to port, there, fire! to starboard, there, fire! all together, fire!" and it was with no property daggers he was armed, nor dummy pistols loaded with edouard philippe's inoffensive powder. no! a revolver in each hand, he was bounding along, firing, as he said, right and left and everywhere. pan-chao also exposed himself bravely, a smile on his lips, gallantly leading on the other chinese passengers. popof and the railwaymen did their duty bravely. sir francis trevellyan, of trevellyan hall, took matters very coolly, but ephrinell abandoned himself to true yankee fury, being no less irritated at the interruption to his marriage as to the danger run by his forty-two packages of artificial teeth. and in short, the band of robbers met with a much more serious resistance than they expected. and baron weissschnitzerdörfer? well, he is one of the most furious of us all. he sweats blood and water, his fury carries him away at the risk of his being massacred. many times we have to rescue him. these rails lifted, this train stopped, this attack in the open gobi desert, the delays that it will all occasion, the mailboat lost at tientsin, the voyage round the world spoiled, his plan come to grief before he had half accomplished it! what a shock to his german self-esteem! faruskiar, my hero--i cannot call him anything else--displays extraordinary intrepidity, bearing himself the boldest in the struggle, and when he had exhausted his revolver, using his kandijar like a man who had often faced death and never feared it. already there were a few wounded on both sides, perhaps a few dead among the passengers who lay on the line. i have had my shoulder grazed by a bullet, a simple scratch i have hardly noticed. the reverend nathaniel morse does not think that his sacred character compels him to cross his arms, and, from the way he works, one would not imagine that it was the first time he has handled firearms. caterna has his hat shot through, and it will be remembered that it is his village bridegroom's hat, the gray beaver, with the long fur. he utters a gigantic maritime oath, something about thunder and portholes, and then, taking a most deliberate aim, quietly shoots stone dead the ruffian who has taken such a liberty with his best headgear. for ten minutes or so the battle continues with most alarming alternations. the number of wounded on both sides increases, and the issue is still doubtful. faruskiar and ghangir and the mongols have been driven back toward the precious van, which the chinese guard have not left for an instant. but two or three of them have been mortally wounded, and their officer has just been killed by a bullet in the head. and my hero does all that the most ardent courage can do for the defence of the treasure of the son of heaven. i am getting uneasy at the prolongation of the combat. it will continue evidently as long as the chief of the band--a tall man with a black beard--urges on his accomplices to the attack on the train. up till now he has escaped unhurt, and, in spite of all we can do, he is gaining ground. shall we be obliged to take refuge in the vans, as behind the walls of a fortress, to entrench ourselves, to fight until the last has succumbed? and that will not be long, if we cannot stop the retrograde movement which is beginning on our side. to the reports of the guns there are now added the cries of the women, who in their terror are running about the gangways, although miss bluett and madame caterna are trying to keep them inside the cars. a few bullets have gone through the panels, and i am wondering if any of them have hit kinko. major noltitz comes near me and says: "this is not going well." "no, it is not going well," i reply, "and i am afraid the ammunition will give out. we must settle their commander-in-chief. come, major--" but what we are about to do was done by another at that very instant. this other was faruskiar. bursting through the ranks of the assailants, he cleared them off the line, in spite of the blows they aimed at him. he is in front of the bandit chief, he raises his arm, he stabs him full in the chest. instantly the thieves beat a retreat, without even carrying off their dead and wounded. some run across the plain, some disappear in the thickets. why pursue them, now that the battle has ended in our favor? and i must say that without the admirable valor of faruskiar, i do not expect any of us would have lived to tell the story. but the chief of the bandits is not dead, although the blood flows abundantly from his chest. he has fallen with one knee on the ground, one hand up, with the other he is supporting himself. faruskiar stands over him, towering above him. suddenly he rises in a last effort, his arm threatens his adversary, he looks at him. a last thrust of the kandijar is driven into his heart. faruskiar returns, and in russian, with perfect calmness, remarks: "ki-tsang is dead! so perish all who bear weapons against the son of heaven!" chapter xxi. and so it was ki-tsang who had just attacked the grand transasiatic on the plains of gobi. the pirate of vunnan had learned that a van containing gold and precious stones of enormous value had formed part of this train! and was there anything astonishing in that, considering that the newspapers, even those of paris, had published the fact many days before? so ki-tsang had had time to prepare his attempt, and had lifted a portion of the rails, and would probably have succeeded in carrying off the treasure if faruskiar had not brought him to his feet. that is why our hero had been so uneasy all the morning; if he had been looking out over the desert so persistently, it was because he had been warned of ki-tsang's plans by the last mongol who had joined the train at tchertchen! under any circumstances we had now nothing to fear from ki-tsang. the manager of the company had done justice on the bandit--speedy justice, i admit. but we are in the midst of the deserts of mongolia, where there are no juries as yet, which is a good thing for the mongols. "well," said i to the major, "i hope you have abandoned your suspicions with regard to my lord faruskiar?" "to a certain extent, monsieur bombarnac!" only to a certain extent? evidently major noltitz is difficult to please. but let us hasten on and count our victims. on our side there are three dead, including the chinese officer, and more than twelve wounded, four of them seriously, the rest slightly, so that they can continue their journey to pekin. popof escaped without a scratch, caterna with a slight graze which his wife insists on bathing. the major has the wounded brought into the cars and does the best for them under the circumstances. doctor tio-king offers his services, but they seem to prefer the russian army surgeon, and that i understand. as to those who have fallen it is best for us to take them on to the next station and there render them the last services. the thieves had abandoned their dead. we covered them over with a little sand, and that is all we need say. the place where we had been stopped was halfway between tcharkalyk and tchertchen, the only two stations from which we could procure help. unfortunately they were no longer in telegraphic communication, ki-tsang having knocked down the posts at the same time as he lifted the rails. hence a discussion as to what was the best thing to be done, which was not of long duration. as the engine had run off the rails, the very first thing to do was evidently to get it onto them again; then as there was a gap in the line, the simplest thing to do was to run back to tchertchen, and wait there until the company's workmen had repaired the damage, which they could easily do in a couple of days. we set to work without losing a moment. the passengers were only too glad to help popof and the officials who had at their disposal a few tools, including jacks, levers and hammers, and in three hours the engine and tender were again on the line. the most difficult business is over. with the engine behind we can proceed at slow speed to tchertchen. but what lost time! what delays! and what recriminations from our german baron, what donnervetters and teufels and other german expletives! i have omitted to say that immediately after the dispersal of the bandits we had in a body thanked faruskiar. the hero received our thanks with all the dignity of an oriental. "i only did my duty as general manager of the company," he replied, with a truly noble modesty. and then at his orders the mongols had set to work, and i noticed that they displayed indefatigable ardor, for which they earned our sincere felicitations. meanwhile faruskiar and ghangir were often talking together in a whisper, and from these interviews arose a proposition which none of us expected. "guard," said faruskiar, addressing popof, "it is my opinion that we had much better run on to tcharkalyk than go back; it would suit the passengers much better." "certainly, sir, it would be preferable," said popof; "but the line is broken between here and tcharkalyk, and we cannot get through." "not at present, but we could get the cars through if we could temporarily repair the line." that was a proposal worth consideration, and we assembled to consider it, major noltitz, pan-chao, fulk ephrinell, caterna, the clergyman, baron weissschnitzerdörfer, and a dozen others--all who understood russian. faruskiar spoke as follows: "i have been looking at the portion of the line damaged by the band of ki-tsang. most of the sleepers are still in place. as to the rails, the scoundrels have simply thrown them onto the sand, and by replacing them end to end it would be easy to get the train over to the uninjured track. it would not take a day to do this, and five hours afterward we should be at tcharkalyk." excellent notion, at once approved of by popof, the driver, the passengers, and particularly by the baron. the plan was possible, and if there were a few rails useless, we could bring to the front those we had already run over, and in this way get over the difficulty. evidently this faruskiar is a man, he is our true chief, he is the personage i was in want of, and i will sound his name over the entire universe in all the trumpets of my chronicle! and yet major noltitz is mistaken enough to see in him only a rival to this ki-tsang, whose crimes have just received their final punishment from his hand! we set to work to replace the sleepers that had been shifted aside from where they had left their mark, and we continued our task without intermission. having no fear of being noticed amid the confusion which followed the attack, i went into the luggage van to assure myself that kinko was safe and sound, to tell him what had passed, to caution him on no account to come put of his box. he promised me, and i was at ease regarding him. it was nearly three o'clock when we began work. the rails had been shifted for about a hundred yards. as faruskiar remarked, it was not necessary for us to fix them permanently. that would be the task of the workmen the company would send from tcharkalyk when we reached that station, which is one of the most important on the line. as the rails were heavy we divided ourselves into detachments. first-class and second-class, all worked together with good will. the baron displayed tremendous ardor. ephrinell, who thought no more of his marriage than if he had never thought about it, devoted strict attention to business. pan-chao was second to nobody, and even doctor tio-king strove to make himself useful--in the fashion of the celebrated auguste, the fly on the chariot wheel. "it is hot, this gobi sun!" said caterna. alone sat sir francis trevellyan of trevellyanshire, calm and impassive in his car, utterly regardless of our efforts. at seven o'clock thirty yards of the line had been repaired. the night was closing in. it was decided to wait until the morning. in half a day we could finish the work, and in the afternoon we could be off again. we were in great want of food and sleep. after so rude a task, how rude the appetite! we met in the dining car without distinction of classes. there was no scarcity of provisions, and a large breach was made in the reserves. never mind! we can fill up again at tcharkalyk. caterna is particularly cheery, talkative, facetious, communicative, overflowing. at dessert he and his wife sang the air--appropriate to the occasion--from the _voyage en chine_, which we caught up with more power than precision: "china is a charming land which surely ought to please you." oh! labiche, could you ever have imagined that this adorable composition would one day charm passengers in distress on the grand transasiatic? and then our actor--a little fresh, i admit--had an idea. and such an idea! why not resume the marriage ceremony interrupted by the attack on the train? "what marriage?" asked ephrinell. "yours, sir, yours," replied caterna. "have you forgotten it? that is rather too good!" the fact is that fulk ephrinell, on the one part, and horatia bluett, on the other part, seemed to have forgotten that had it not been for the attack of ki-tsang and his band they would now have been united in the gentle bonds of matrimony. but we were all too tired. the reverend nathaniel morse was unequal to the task; he would not have strength enough to bless the pair, and the pair would not have strength enough to support his blessing. the ceremony could be resumed on the day after to-morrow. between tcharkalyk and lan tcheou there was a run of nine hundred kilometres, and that was quite long enough for this anglo-american couple to be linked together in. and so we all went to our couches or benches for a little refreshing sleep. but at the same time the requirements of prudence were not neglected. although it appeared improbable, now that their chief had succumbed, the bandits might still make a nocturnal attack. there were always these cursed millions of the son of heaven to excite their covetousness, and if we are not on our guard-- but we feel safe. faruskiar in person arranges for the surveillance of the train. since the death of the officer he has taken command of the chinese detachment. he and ghangir are on guard over the imperial treasure, and according to caterna, who is never in want of a quotation from some comic opera: "this night the maids of honor will be guarded well." and, in fact, the imperial treasure was much better guarded than the beautiful athenais de solange between the first and second acts of the _mousquetaires de la reine_. at daybreak next morning we are at work. the weather is superb. the day will be warm. out in the asian desert on the th of may the temperature is such that you can cook eggs if you only cover them with a little sand. zeal was not wanting, and the passengers worked as hard as they had done the night before. the line was gradually completed. one by one the sleepers were replaced, the rails were laid end to end, and about four o'clock in the afternoon the gap was bridged. at once the engine began to advance slowly, the cars following until they were over the temporary track and safe again. now the road is clear to tcharkalyk; what do i say? to pekin. we resume our places. popof gives the signal for departure as caterna trolls out the chorus of victory of the admiral's sailors in _haydee_. a thousand cheers reply to him. at ten o'clock in the evening the train enters tcharkalyk station. we are exactly thirty hours behind time. but is not thirty hours enough to make baron weissschnitzerdörfer lose the mail from tient-tsin to yokohama? chapter xxii. i, who wanted an incident, have had one to perfection. i am thankful enough not to have been one of the victims. i have emerged from the fray safe and sound. all my numbers are intact, barring two or three insignificant scratches. only no. has been traversed by a bullet clean through--his hat. at present i have nothing in view beyond the bluett-ephrinell marriage and the termination of the kinko affair. i do not suppose that faruskiar can afford us any further surprises. i can reckon on the casual, of course, for the journey has another five days to run. taking into account the delay occasioned by the ki-tsang affair that will make thirteen days from the start from uzun ada. thirteen days! heavens! and there are the thirteen numbers in my notebook! supposing i were superstitious? we remained three hours at tcharkalyk. most of the passengers did not leave their beds. we were occupied with declarations relative to the attack on the train, to the dead which the chinese authorities were to bury, to the wounded who were to be left at tcharkalyk, where they would be properly looked after. pan-chao told me it was a populous town, and i regret i was unable to visit it. the company sent off immediately a gang of workmen to repair the line and set up the telegraph posts; and in a day everything would be clear again. i need scarcely say that faruskiar, with all the authority of the company's general manager, took part in the different formalities that were needed at tcharkalyk. i do not know how to praise him sufficiently. besides, he was repaid for his good offices by the deference shown him by the staff at the railway station. at three in the morning we arrived at kara bouran, where the train stopped but a few minutes. here the railway crosses the route of gabriel bonvalot and prince henri of orleans across tibet in - , a much more complete journey than ours, a circular trip from paris to paris, by berlin, petersburg, moscow, nijni, perm, tobolsk, omsk, semipalatinsk, kouldja, tcharkalyk, batong, yunnan, hanoi, saigon, singapore, ceylon, aden, suez, marseilles, the tour of asia, and the tour of europe. the train halts at lob nor at four o'clock and departs at six. this lake, the banks of which were visited by general povtzoff in , when he returned from his expedition to tibet, is an extensive marsh with a few sandy islands, surrounded by two or three feet of water. the country through which the tarim slowly flows had already been visited by fathers hue and gabet, the explorers prjevalski and carey up to the davana pass, situated a hundred and fifty kilometres to the south. but from that pass gabriel bonvalot and prince henri of orleans, camping sometimes at fifteen thousand feet of altitude, had ventured across virgin territories to the foot of the superb himalayan chain. our itinerary lay eastwards toward kara nor, skirting the base of the nan chan mountains, behind which lies the region of tsaidam. the railway dare not venture among the mountainous countries of the kou-kou-nor, and we were on our way to the great city of lan tcheou along, the base of the hills. gloomy though the country might be, there was no reason for the passengers to be so. this glorious sun, with its rays gilding the sands of the gobi as far as we could see, announced a perfect holiday. from lob nor to kara nor there are three hundred and fifty kilometres to run, and between the lakes we will resume the interrupted marriage of fulk ephrinell and horatia bluett, if nothing occurs to again delay their happiness. the dining car has been again arranged for the ceremony, the witnesses are ready to resume their parts, and the happy pair cannot well be otherwise than of the same mind. the reverend nathaniel morse, in announcing that the marriage will take place at nine o'clock, presents the compliments of mr. ephrinell and miss bluett. major noltitz and i, caterna and pan-chao are under arms at the time stated. caterna did not think it his duty to resume his costume, nor did his wife. they were dressed merely for the grand dinner party which took place at eight o'clock in the evening--the dinner given by ephrinell to his witnesses and to the chief first-class passengers. our actor, puffing out his left cheek, informed me that he had a surprise for us at dessert. what? i thought it wise not to ask. a little before nine o'clock the bell of the tender begins to ring. be assured it does not announce an accident. its joyous tinkling calls us to the dining car, and we march in procession toward the place of sacrifice. ephrinell and miss bluett are already seated at the little table in front of the worthy clergyman, and we take our places around them. on the platforms are grouped the spectators, anxious to lose nothing of the nuptial ceremony. my lord faruskiar and ghangir, who had been the object of a personal invitation, had just arrived. the assembly respectfully rises to receive them. they will sign the deed of marriage. it is a great honor, and if it were my marriage i should be proud to see the illustrious name of faruskiar figure among the signatures to the deed. the ceremony begins, and this time the reverend nathaniel morse was able to finish his speech, so regrettably interrupted on the former occasion. the young people rise, mud the clergyman asks them if they are mutually agreed as to marriage. before replying, miss bluett turns to ephrinell, and says: "it is understood that holmes-holme will have twenty-five per cent. of the profits of our partnership." "fifteen," said ephrinell, "only fifteen." "that is not fair, for i agree to thirty per cent, from strong, bulbul & co." "well, let us say twenty per cent., miss bluett." "be it so, mr. ephrinell." "but that is a good deal for you!" whispered caterna in my ear. the marriage for a moment was in check for five per cent.! but all is arranged. the interests of the two houses have been safeguarded. the reverend nathaniel morse repeats the question. a dry "yes" from horatia bluett, a short "yes" from fulk ephrinell, and the two are declared to be united in the bonds of matrimony. the deed is then signed, first by them, then by the witnesses, then by faruskiar, and the other signatures follow. at length the clergyman adds his name and flourish, and that closes the series of formalities according to rule. "there they are, riveted for life," said the actor to me, with a little lift of his shoulder. "for life--like two bullfinches," said the actress, who had not forgotten that these birds are noted for the fidelity of their armours. "in china," said pan-chao, "it is not the bullfinch but the mandarin duck that symbolizes fidelity in marriage." "ducks or bullfinches, it is all one," said caterna philosophically. the ceremony is over. we compliment the newly married pair. we return to our occupation, ephrinell to his accounts, mrs. ephrinell to her work. nothing is changed in the train. there are only two more married people. major noltitz, pan-chao and i go out and smoke on one of the platforms, leaving to their preparations the caternas, who seem to be having a sort of rehearsal in their corner. probably it is the surprise for the evening. there is not much variety in the landscape. all along is this monotonous desert of gobi with the heights of the humboldt mountains on the right reaching on to the ranges of nan chan. the stations are few and far between, and consist merely of an agglomeration of huts, with the signal cabin standing up among them like a monument. here the tender fills up with water and coal. beyond the kara nor, where a few towns appear, the approach to china proper, populous and laborious, becomes more evident. this part of the desert of gobi has little resemblance to the regions of eastern turkestan we crossed on leaving kachgar. these regions are as new to pan-chao and doctor tio-king as to us europeans. i should say that faruskiar no longer disdains to mingle in our conversation. he is a charming man, well informed and witty, with whom i shall become better acquainted when we reach pekin. he has already invited me to visit him at his yamen, and i will then have an opportunity of putting him to the question--that is, to the interview. he has traveled a good deal, and seems to have an especially good opinion of french journalists. he will not refuse to subscribe to the _twentieth century._ i am sure--paris, francs, departments, , foreign, . while the train is running at full speed we talk of one thing and another. with regard to kachgaria, which had been mentioned, faruskiar gave us a few very interesting details regarding the province, which had been so greatly troubled by insurrectionary movements. it was at this epoch that the capital, holding out against chinese covetousness, had not yet submitted to russian domination. many times numbers of celestials had been massacred in the revolts of the turkestan chiefs, and the garrison had taken refuge in the fortress of yanghi-hissar. among these insurgent chiefs there was one, a certain ouali-khan-toulla, whom i have mentioned with regard to the murder of schlagintweit, and who for a time had become master of kachgaria. he was a man of great intelligence, but of uncommon ferocity. and faruskiar told us an anecdote giving us an idea of these pitiless orientals. "there was at kachgar," he said, "an armorer of repute, who, wishing to secure the favors of ouali-khan-toulla, made a costly sword. when he had finished his work he sent his son, a boy of ten, to present the sword, hoping to receive some recompense from the royal hand. he received it. the khan admired the sword, and asked if the blade was of the first quality. 'yes,' said the boy. 'then approach!' said the khan, and at one blow he smote off the head, which he sent back to the father with the price of the blade he had thus proved to be of excellent quality." this story he told really well. had caterna heard it, he would have asked for a turkestan opera on the subject. the day passed without incident. the train kept on at its moderate speed of forty kilometres an hour, an average that would have been raised to eighty had they listened to baron weissschnitzerdörfer. the truth is that the chinese driver had no notion of making up the time lost between tchertchen and tcharkalyk. at seven in the evening we reach kara nor, to stay there fifty minutes. this lake, which is not as extensive as lob nor, absorbs the waters of the soule ho, coming down from the nan chan mountains. our eyes are charmed with the masses of verdure that clothe its southern bank, alive with the flight of numerous birds. at eight o'clock, when we left the station, the sun had set behind the sandhills, and a sort of mirage produced by the warming of the lower zones of the atmosphere prolonged the twilight above the horizon. the dining car has resumed its restaurant appearance, and here is the wedding banquet, instead of the usual fare. twenty guests have been invited to this railway love feast, and, first of them, my lord faruskiar. but for some reason or other he has declined ephrinell's invitation. i am sorry for it, for i hoped that good luck would place me near him. it occurred to me then that this illustrious name was worth sending to the office of the _twentieth century_, this name and also a few lines relative to the attack on the train and the details of the defense. never was information better worth sending by telegram, however much it might cost. this time there is no risk of my bringing a lecture down on myself. there is no mistake possible, as in the case of that pretended mandarin, yen-lou, which i shall never forget--but then, it was in the country of the false smerdis and that must be my excuse. it is agreed that as soon as we arrive at sou-tcheou, the telegraph being repaired at the same time as the line, i will send off a despatch, which will reveal to the admiration of europe the brilliant name of faruskiar. we are seated at the table. ephrinell has done the thing as well as circumstances permit. in view of the feast, provisions were taken in at tcharkalyk. it is not russian cookery, but chinese, and by a chinese chef to which we do honor. luckily we are not condemned to eat it with chopsticks, for forks are not prohibited at the grand transasiatic table. i am placed to the left of mrs. ephrinell, major noltitz to the right of her husband. the other guests are seated as they please. the german baron, who is not the man to refuse a good dinner, is one of the guests. sir francis trevellyan did not even make a sign in answer to the invitation that was tendered him. to begin with, we had chicken soup and plovers' eggs, then swallows' nests cut in threads, stewed spawn of crab, sparrow gizzards, roast pig's feet and sauce, mutton marrow, fried sea slug, shark's fin--very gelatinous; finally bamboo shoots in syrup, and water lily roots in sugar, all the most out-of-the-way dishes, watered by chao hing wine, served warm in metal tea urns. the feast is very jolly and--what shall i say?--very confidential, except that the husband takes no notice of the wife, and reciprocally. what an indefatigable humorist is our actor? what a continuous stream of wheezes, unintelligible for the most part, of antediluvian puns, of pure nonsense at which he laughs so heartily that it is difficult not to laugh with him. he wanted to learn a few words of chinese, and pan-chao having told him that "tching-tching" means thanks, he has been tching-tchinging at every opportunity, with burlesque intonation. then we have french songs, russian songs, chinese songs--among others the "shiang-touo-tching," the _chanson de la reverie_, in which our young celestial repeats that the flowers of the peach tree are of finest fragrance at the third moon, and those of the red pomegranate at the fifth. the dinner lasts till ten o'clock. at this moment the actor and actress, who had retired during dessert, made their entry, one in a coachman's overcoat, the other in a nurse's jacket, and they gave us the _sonnettes_ with an energy, a go, a dash--well, it would only be fair to them if claretie, on the recommendation of meilhac and halevy, offers to put them on the pension list of the comédie française. at midnight the festival is over. we all retire to our sleeping places. we do not even hear them shouting the names of the stations before we come to kan-tcheou, and it is between four and five o'clock in the morning that a halt of forty minutes retains us at the station of that town. the country is changing as the railway runs south of the fortieth degree, so as to skirt the eastern base of the nan shan mountains. the desert gradually disappears, villages are not so few, the density of the population increases. instead of sandy flats, we get verdant plains, and even rice fields, for the neighboring mountains spread their abundant streams over these high regions of the celestial empire. we do not complain of this change after the dreariness of the kara-koum and the solitude of gobi. since we left the caspian, deserts have succeeded deserts, except when crossing the pamir. from here to pekin picturesque sites, mountain horizons, and deep valleys will not be wanting along the grand transasiatic. we shall enter china, the real china, that of folding screens and porcelain, in the territory of the vast province of kin-sou. in three days we shall be at the end of our journey, and it is not i, a mere special correspondent, vowed to perpetual movement, who will complain of its length. good for kinko, shut up in his box, and for pretty zinca klork, devoured by anxiety in her house in the avenue cha-coua! we halt two hours at sou-tcheou. the first thing i do is to run to the telegraph office. the complaisant pan-chao offers to be my interpreter. the clerk tells us that the posts are all up again, and that messages can be sent through to europe. at once i favor the _twentieth century_ with the following telegram: "sou-tcheou, th may, : p.m. "train attacked between tchertchen and tcharkalyk by the gang of the celebrated ki-tsang; travelers repulsed the attack and saved the chinese treasure; dead and wounded on both sides; chief killed by the heroic mongol grandee faruskiar, general manager of the company, whose name should be the object of universal admiration." if this telegram does not gratify the editor of my newspaper, well-- two hours to visit sou-tcheou, that is not much. in turkestan we have seen two towns side by side, an ancient one and a modern one. here, in china, as pan-chao points out, we have two and even three or four, as at pekin, enclosed one within the other. here tai-tchen is the outer town, and le-tchen the inner one. it strikes us at first glance that both look desolate. everywhere are traces of fire, here and there pagodas or houses half destroyed, a mass of ruins, not the work of time, but the work of war. this shows that sou-tcheou, taken by the mussulmans and retaken by the chinese, has undergone the horrors of those barbarous contests which end in the destruction of buildings and the massacre of their inhabitants of every age and sex. it is true that population rapidly increases in the celestial empire; more rapidly than monuments are raised from their ruins. and so sou-tcheou has become populous again within its double wall as in the suburbs around. trade is flourishing, and as we walked through the principal streets we noticed the well-stocked shops, to say nothing of the perambulating pedlars. here, for the first time, the caternas saw pass along between the inhabitants, who stood at attention more from fear than respect, a mandarin on horseback, preceded by a servant carrying a fringed parasol, the mark of his master's dignity. but there is one curiosity for which sou-tcheou is worth a visit. it is there that the great wall of china ends. after descending to the southeast toward lan-tcheou, the wall runs to the northeast, covering the provinces of kian-sou, chan-si, and petchili to the north of pekin. here it is little more than an embankment with a tower here and there, mostly in ruins. i should have failed in my duty as a chronicler if i had not noticed this gigantic work at its beginning, for it far surpasses the works of our modern fortifications. "is it of any real use, this wall of china?" asked major noltitz. "to the chinese, i do not know," said i; "but certainly it is to our political orators for purposes of comparison, when discussing treaties of commerce. without it, what would become of the eloquence of our legislators?" chapter xxiii. i have not seen kinko for two days, and the last was only to exchange a few words with him to relieve his anxiety. to-night i will try and visit him. i have taken care to lay in a few provisions at sou-tcheou. we started at three o'clock. we have got a more powerful engine on. across this undulating country the gradients are occasionally rather steep. seven hundred kilometres separate us from the important city of lan-tcheou, where we ought to arrive to-morrow morning, running thirty miles an hour. i remarked to pan-chao that this average was not a high one. "what would you have?" he replied, crunching the watermelon seeds. "you will not change, and nothing will change the temperament of the celestials. as they are conservatives in all things, so will they be conservative in this matter of speed, no matter how the engine may be improved. and, besides, monsieur bombarnac, that there are railways at all in the middle kingdom is a wonder to me." "i agree with you, but where you have a railway you might as well get all the advantage out of it that you can." "bah!" said pan-chao carelessly. "speed," said i, "is a gain of time--and to gain time--" "time does not exist in china, monsieur bombarnac, and it cannot exist for a population of four hundred millions. there would not be enough for everybody. and so we do not count by days and hours, but always by moons and watches." "which is more poetical than practical," i remark. "practical, mr. reporter? you westerners are never without that word in your mouth. to be practical is to be the slave of time, work, money, business, the world, everybody else, and one's self included. i confess that during my stay in europe--you can ask doctor tio-king--i have not been very practical, and now i return to asia i shall be less so. i shall let myself live, that is all, as the cloud floats in the breeze, the straw on the stream, as the thought is borne away by the imagination." "i see," said i, "we must take china as it is." "and as it will probably always be, monsieur bombarnac. ah! if you knew how easy the life is--an adorable _dolce far niente_ between folding screens in the quietude of the yamens. the cares of business trouble us little; the cares of politics trouble us less. think! since fou hi, the first emperor in , a contemporary of noah, we are in the twenty-third dynasty. now it is manchoo; what it is to be next what matters? either we have a government or we have not; and which of its sons heaven has chosen for the happiness of four hundred million subjects we hardly know, and we hardly care to know." it is evident that the young celestial is a thousand and ten times wrong, to use the numerative formula; but it is not for me to tell him so. at dinner mr. and mrs. ephrinell, sitting side by side, hardly exchanged a word. their intimacy seems to have decreased since they were married. perhaps they are absorbed in the calculation of their reciprocal interests, which are not yet perfectly amalgamated. ah! they do not count by moons and watches, these anglo-saxons! they are practical, too practical! we have had a bad night. the sky of purple sulphury tint became stormy toward evening, the atmosphere became stifling, the electrical tension excessive. it meant a "highly successful" storm, to quote caterna, who assured me he had never seen a better one except perhaps in the second act of _freyschütz_. in truth the train ran through a zone, so to speak, of vivid lightning and rolling thunder, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged indefinitely. i think there must have been several lightning strokes, but the rails acted as conductors, and preserved the cars from injury. it was a fine spectacle, a little alarming, these fires in the sky that the heavy rain could not put out--these continuous discharges from the clouds, in which were mingled the strident whistlings of our locomotive as we passed through the stations of yanlu, youn tcheng, houlan-sien and da-tsching. by favor of this troubled night i was able to communicate with kinko, to take him some provisions and to have a few minutes' conversation with him. "is it the day after to-morrow," he asked, "that we arrive at pekin?" "yes, the day after to-morrow, if the train is not delayed." "oh, i am not afraid of delays! but when my box is in the railway station at pekin, i have still to get to the avenue cha-coua--" "what does it matter, will not the fair zinca klork come and call for it?" "no. i advised her not to do so." "and why?" "women are so impressionable! she would want to see the van in-which i had come, she would claim the box with such excitement that suspicions would be aroused. in short, she would run the risk of betraying me." "you are right, kinko." "besides, we shall reach the station in the afternoon, very late in the afternoon perhaps, and the unloading of the packages will not take place until next morning--" "probably." "well, monsieur bombarnac, if i am not taking too great a liberty, may i ask a favor of you?" "what is it?" "that you will be present at the departure of the case, so as to avoid any mistake." "i will be there, kinko, i will be there. glass fragile, i will see that they don't handle it too roughly. and if you like i will accompany the case to avenue cha-coua--" "i hardly like to ask you to do that--" "you are wrong, kinko. you should not stand on ceremony with a friend, and i am yours, kinko. besides, it will be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of mademoiselle zinca klork. i will be there when they deliver the box, the precious box. i will help her to get the nails out of it--" "the nails out of it, monsieur bombarnac? my panel? ah, i will jump through my panel!" a terrible clap of thunder interrupted our conversation. i thought the train had been thrown off the line by the commotion of the air. i left the young roumanian and regained my place within the car. in the morning-- th of may, a.m.--we arrived at lan-tcheou. three hours to stop, three hours only. "come, major noltitz, come, pan-chao, come, caterna, we have not a minute to spare." but as we are leaving the station we are stopped by the appearance of a tall, fat, gray, solemn personage. it is the governor of the town in a double robe of white and yellow silk, fan in hand, buckled belt, and a mantilla--a black mantilla which would have looked much better on the shoulders of a manola. he is accompanied by a certain number of globular mandarins, and the celestials salute him by holding out their two fists, which they move up and down as they nod their heads. "ah! what is this gentleman going to do? is it some chinese formality? a visit to the passengers and their baggage? and kinko, what about him?" nothing alarming, after all. it is only about the treasure of the son of heaven. the governor and his suite have stopped before the precious van, bolted and sealed, and are looking at it with that respectful admiration which is experienced even in china before a box containing many millions. i ask popof what is meant by the governor's presence, has it anything to do with us? "not at all," says popof; "the order has come from pekin to telegraph the arrival of the treasure. the governor has done so, and he is awaiting a reply as to whether he is to send it on to pekin or keep it provisionally at lan-tcheou." "that will not delay us?" "i don't think so." "then come on," said i to my companions. but if the imperial treasure was a matter of indifference to us, it did not seem to be so to faruskiar. but whether this van started or did not start, whether it was attached to our train or left behind, what could it matter to him? nevertheless, he and ghangir seemed to be much put about regarding it, although they tried to hide their anxiety, while the mongols, talking together in a low tone, gave the governor anything but friendly glances. meanwhile the governor had just heard of the attack on the train and of the part that our hero had taken in defence of the treasure, with what courage he had fought, and how he had delivered the country from the terrible ki-tsang. and then in laudatory terms, which pan-chao translated to us, he thanked faruskiar, complimented him, and gave him to understand that the son of heaven would reward him for his services. the manager of the grand transasiatic listened with that tranquil air that distinguished him, not without impatience, as, i could clearly see. perhaps he felt himself superior to praises as well as recompenses, no matter from how great a height they might come. in that i recognized all the mongol pride. but we need not wait. the treasure van may remain here or go on to pekin, but it makes no difference to us! our business is to visit lan-tcheou. what we did briefly i will more briefly tell. there is an outer town and an inner one. no ruins this time. a very lively city, population swarming like ants and very active, familiarized by the railway with the presence of strangers whom they do not follow about with indiscreet curiosity as they used to do. huge quarters occupy the right of the hoang ho, two kilometres wide. this hoang ho is the yellow river, the famous yellow river, which, after a course of four thousand four hundred kilometres, pours its muddy waters into the gulf of petchili. "is not its mouth near tien tsin, where the baron thinks of catching the mail for yokohama?" asks the major. "that is so," i reply. "he will miss it," says the actor. "unless he trots, our globe-trotter." "a donkey's trot does not last long," says caterna, "and he will not catch the boat." "he will catch it if the train is no later," said the major. "we shall be at tien tsin on the d at six o'clock in the morning, and the steamer leaves at eleven." "whether he misses the boat or not, my friends, do not let us miss our walk." a bridge of boats crosses the river, and the stream is so swift that the footway rises and falls like the waves of the sea. madame caterna, who had ventured on it, began to turn pale. "caroline, caroline," said her husband, "you will be seasick! pull yourself together; pull yourself together!" she "pulled herself together," and we went up towards a pagoda which rises over the town. like all the monuments of this kind, the pagoda resembles a pile of dessert dishes placed one on the other, but the dishes are of graceful form, and if they are in chinese porcelain it is not astonishing. we get an outside view of a cannon foundry, a rifle factory, the workmen being natives. through a fine garden we reach the governor's house, with a capricious assemblage of bridges, kiosks, fountains and doors like vases. there are more pavilions and upturned roofs than there are trees and shady walks. then there are paths paved with bricks, among them the remains of the base of the great wall. it is ten minutes to ten when we return to the station, absolutely tired out; for the walk has been a rough one, and almost suffocating, for the heat is very great. my first care is to look after the van with the millions. it is there as usual behind the train under the chinese guard. the message expected by the governor has arrived; the order to forward on the van to pekin, where the treasure is to be handed over to the finance minister. where is faruskiar? i do not see him. has he given us the slip? no! there he is on one of the platforms, and the mongols are back in the car. ephrinell has been off to do a round of calls--with his samples, no doubt--and mrs. ephrinell has also been out on business, for a deal in hair probably. here they come, and without seeming to notice one another they take their seats. the other passengers are only celestials. some are going to pekin; some have taken their tickets for intermediate stations like si-ngan, ho nan. lou-ngan, tai-youan. there are a hundred passengers in the train. all my numbers are on board. there is not one missing. thirteen, always thirteen! we were still on the platform, just after the signal of departure had been given, when caterna asked his wife what was the most curious thing she had seen at lan-tcheou. "the most curious thing, adolphe? those big cages, hung on to the walls and trees, which held such curious birds--" "very curious, madame caterna," said pan-chao. "birds that talk--" "what--parrots?" "no; criminals' heads." "horrible!" said the actress, with a most expressive grimace. "what would you have, caroline?" said caterna. "it is the custom of the country." chapter xxiv. on leaving lan-tcheou, the railway crosses a well-cultivated country, watered by numerous streams, and hilly enough to necessitate frequent curves. there is a good deal of engineering work; mostly bridges, viaducts on wooden trestles of somewhat doubtful solidity, and the traveler is not particularly comfortable when he finds them bending under the weight of the train. it is true we are in the celestial empire, and a few thousand victims of a railway accident is hardly anything among a population of four hundred millions. "besides," said pan-chao, "the son of heaven never travels by railway." so much the better. at six o'clock in the evening we are at king-tcheou, after skirting for some time the capricious meanderings of the great wall. of this immense artificial frontier built between mongolia and china, there remain only the blocks of granite and red quartzite which served as its base, its terrace of bricks with the parapets of unequal heights, a few old cannons eaten into with rust and hidden under a thick veil of lichens, and then the square towers with their ruined battlements. the interminable wall rises, falls, bends, bends back again, and is lost to sight on the undulations of the ground. at six o'clock we halt for half an hour at king-tcheou, of which i only saw a few pagodas, and about ten o'clock there is a halt of three-quarters of an hour at si-ngan, of which i did not even see the outline. all night was spent in running the three hundred kilometres which separate this town from ho nan, where we had an hour to stop. i fancy the londoners might easily imagine that this town of ho nan was london, and perhaps mrs. ephrinell did so. not because there was a strand with its extraordinary traffic, nor a thames with its prodigious movement of barges and steamboats. no! but because we were in a fog so thick that it was impossible to see either houses or pagodas. the fog lasted all day, and this hindered the progress of the train. these chinese engine-drivers are really very skilful and attentive and intelligent. we were not fortunate in our last day's journey before reaching tien tsin! what a loss of copy! what paragraphs were melted away in these unfathomable vapors! i saw nothing of the gorges and ravines, through which runs the grand transasiatic; nothing of the valley of lou-ngan, where we stopped at eleven o'clock; nothing of the two hundred and thirty kilometres which we accomplished amid the wreaths of a sort of yellow steam, worthy of a yellow country, until we stopped about ten o'clock at night at tai-youan. ah! the disagreeable day. luckily the fog rose early in the evening. now it is night--and a very dark night, too. i go to the refreshment bar and buy a few cakes and a bottle of wine. my intention is to pay a last visit to kinko. we will drink to his health, to his approaching marriage with the fair roumanian. he has traveled by fraud, i know, and if the grand transasiatic only knew! but the grand transasiatic will not know. during the stoppage faruskiar and ghangir are walking on the platform and looking at the train. but it is not the van at the rear that is attracting their attention, but the van in front, and they seem to be much interested in it. are they suspicious of kinko? no! the hypothesis is unlikely. the driver and stoker seem to be the object of their very particular attention. they are two brave chinamen who have just come on duty, and perhaps faruskiar is not sorry to see men in whom he can trust, with this imperial treasure and a hundred passengers behind them! the hour for departure strikes, and at midnight the engine begins to move, emitting two or three loud whistles. as i have said, the night is very dark, without moon, without stars. long clouds are creeping across the lower zones of the atmosphere. it will be easy for me to enter the van without being noticed. and i have not been too liberal in my visits to kinko during these twelve days on the road. at this moment popof says to me: "are you not going to sleep to-night, monsieur bombarnac?" "i am in no hurry," i reply; "after this foggy day, spent inside the car, i am glad of a breath of fresh air. where does the train stop next?" "at fuen-choo, when it has passed the junction with the nanking line." "good night, popof." "good night, monsieur bombarnac." i am alone. the idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and i stop for an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van. the passengers, with the exception of the chinese guard, are all sleeping their last sleep--their last, be it understood, on the grand transasiatic. returning to the front of the train, i approach popof's box, and find him sound asleep. i then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my presence to kinko. the panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted. in exchange for the cakes and wine i receive the brave fellow's thanks, and we drink to the health of zinca klork, whose acquaintance i am to make on the morrow. it is ten minutes to one. in twelve minutes, so popof says, we shall pass the junction with the nanking branch. this branch is only completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the tjon valley. this viaduct is a great work--i have the details from pan-chao--and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which rise for a hundred feet above the ground. as i know we are to halt at fuen-choo, i shake hands with kinko, and rise to take my leave. at this moment i seem to hear some one on the platform in the rear of the van. "look out, kinko!" i say in a whisper. the lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still. i am not mistaken. some one is opening the door of the van. "your panel," i whisper. the panel is raised, the car is shut, and i am alone in the dark. evidently it must be popof who has come in. what will he think to find me here? the first time i came to visit the young roumanian i hid among the packages. well, i will hide a second time. if i get behind ephrinell's boxes it is not likely that popof will see me, even by the light of his lantern. i do so; and i watch. it is not popof, for he would have brought his lantern. i try to recognize the people who have just entered. it is difficult. they have glided between the packages, and after opening the further door, they have gone out and shut it behind them. they are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here--at this hour? i must know. i have a presentiment that something is in the wind perhaps by listening? i approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of the train i hear them distinctly enough-- thousand and ten thousand devils! i am not mistaken! it is the voice of my lord faruskiar. he is talking with ghangir in russian. it is indeed faruskiar. the four mongols have accompanied him. but what are they doing there? for what motive are they on the platform which is just behind the tender? and what are they saying? what they are saying is this. of these questions and answers exchanged between my lord faruskiar and his companions, i do not lose a word. "when shall we be at the junction?" "in a few minutes." "are you sure that kardek is at the points?" "yes; that has been arranged." what had been arranged? and who is this kardek they are talking about? the conversation continues. "we must wait until we get the signal," says faruskiar. "is that a green light?" asks ghangir. "yes--it will show that the switch is over." i do not know if i am in my right senses. the switch over? what switch? a half minute elapses. ought i not to tell popof? yes--i ought. i was turning to go out of the van, when an exclamation kept me back. "the signal--there is the signal!" says ghangir. "and now the train is on the nanking branch!" replies faruskiar. the nanking branch? but then we are lost. at five kilometres from here is the tjon viaduct in course of construction, and the train is being precipitated towards an abyss. evidently major noltitz was not mistaken regarding my lord faruskiar. i understand the scheme of the scoundrels. the manager of the grand transasiatic is a scoundrel of the deepest dye. he has entered the service of the company to await his opportunity for some extensive haul. the opportunity has come with the millions of the son of heaven i yes! the whole abominable scheme is clear enough to me. faruskiar has defended the imperial treasure against ki-tsang to keep it from the chief of the bandits who stopped the train, whose attack would have interfered with his criminal projects! that is why he had fought so bravely. that is why he had risked his life and behaved like a hero. and thou, poor beast of a claudius, how thou hast been sold! another howler! think of that, my friend! but somehow we ought to prevent this rascal from accomplishing his work. we ought to save the train which is running full speed towards the unfinished viaduct, we ought to save the passengers from a frightful catastrophe. as to the treasure faruskiar and his accomplices are after, i care no more than for yesterday's news! but the passengers--and myself--that is another affair altogether. i will go back to popof. impossible. i seem to be nailed to the floor of the van. my head swims-- is it true we are running towards the abyss? no! i am mad. faruskiar and his accomplices would be hurled over as well. they would share our fate. they would perish with us! but there are shouts in front of the train. the screams of people being killed. there is no doubt now. the driver and the stoker are being strangled. i feel the speed of the train begin to slacken. i understand. one of the ruffians knows how to work the train, and he is slowing it to enable them to jump off and avoid the catastrophe. i begin to master my torpor. staggering like a drunken man, i crawl to kinko's case. there, in a few words, i tell him what has passed, and i exclaim: "we are lost!" "no--perhaps" he replies. before i can move, kinko is out of his box. he rushes towards the front door; he climbs on to the tender. "come along! come along!" he shouts. i do not know how i have done it, but here i am at his side, on the foot-plate, my feet in the blood of the driver and stoker, who have been thrown off on to the line. faruskiar and his accomplices are no longer here. but before they went one of them has taken off the brakes, jammed down the regulator to full speed, thrown fresh coals into the fire-box, and the train is running with frightful velocity. in a few minutes we shall reach the tjon viaduct. kinko, energetic and resolute, is as cool as a cucumber. but in vain he tries to move the regulator, to shut off the steam, to put on the brake. these valves and levers, what shall we do with them? "i must tell popof!" i shout. "and what can he do? no; there is only one way--" "and what is that?" "rouse up the fire," says kinko, calmly; "shut down the safety valves, and blow up the engine." and was that the only way--a desperate way--of stopping the train before it reached the viaduct? kinko scattered the coal on to the fire bars. he turned on the greatest possible draught, the air roared across the furnace, the pressure goes up, up, amid the heaving of the motion, the bellowings of the boiler, the beating of the pistons. we are going a hundred kilometres an hour. "get back!" shouts kinko above the roar. "get back into the van." "and you, kinko?" "get back, i tell you." i see him hang on to the valves, and put his whole weight on the levers. "go!" he shouts. i am off over the tender. i am through the van. i awake popof, shouting with all my strength: "get back! get back!" a few passengers suddenly waking from sleep begin to run from the front car. suddenly there is an explosion and a shock. the train at first jumps back. then it continues to move for about half a kilometre. it stops. popof, the major, caterna, most of the passengers are out on the line in an instant. a network of scaffolding appears confusedly in the darkness, above the piers which were to carry the viaduct across the tjon valley. two hundred yards further the train would have been lost in the abyss. chapter xxv. and i, who wanted "incident," who feared the weariness of a monotonous voyage of six thousand kilometres, in the course of which i should not meet with an impression or emotion worth clothing in type! i have made another muddle of it, i admit! my lord faruskiar, of whom i had made a hero--by telegraph--for the readers of the _twentieth. century_. decidedly my good intentions ought certainly to qualify me as one of the best paviers of a road to a certain place you have doubtless heard of. we are, as i have said, two hundred yards from the valley of the tjon, so deep and wide as to require a viaduct from three hundred and fifty to four hundred feet long. the floor of the valley is scattered over with rocks, and a hundred feet down. if the train had been hurled to the bottom of that chasm, not one of us would have escaped alive. this memorable catastrophe--most interesting from a reporter's point of view--would have claimed a hundred victims. but thanks to the coolness, energy and devotion of the young roumanian, we have escaped this terrible disaster. all? no! kinko has paid with his life for the safety of his fellow passengers. amid the confusion my first care was to visit the luggage van, which had remained uninjured. evidently if kinko had survived the explosion he would have got back into his box and waited till i put myself in communication with him. alas! the coffer is empty--empty as that of a company which has suspended payment. kinko has been the victim of his sacrifice. and so there has been a hero among our traveling companions, and he was not this faruskiar, this abominable bandit hidden beneath the skin of a manager, whose name i have so stupidly published over the four corners of the globe! it was this roumanian, this humble, this little, this poor fellow, whose sweetheart will wait for him in vain, and whom she will never again see! well, i will do him justice! i will tell what he has done. as to his secret, i shall be sorry if i keep it. if he defrauded the grand transasiatic, it is thanks to that fraud that a whole train has been saved. we were lost, we should have perished in the most horrible of deaths if kinko had not been there! i went back on to the line, my heart heavy, my eyes full of tears. assuredly faruskiar's scheme--in the execution of which he had executed his rival ki-tsang--had been cleverly contrived in utilizing this branch line leading to the unfinished viaduct. nothing was easier than to switch off the train if an accomplice was at the points. and as soon as the signal was given that we were on the branch, all he had to do was to gain the foot-plate, kill the driver and stoker, slow the train and get off, leaving the steam on full to work up to full speed. and now there could be no doubt that the scoundrels worthy of the most refined tortures that chinese practice could devise were hastening down into the tjon valley. there, amid the wreck of the train, they expected to find the fifteen millions of gold and precious stones, and this treasure they could carry off without fear of surprise when the night enabled them to consummate this fearful crime. well! they have been robbed, these robbers, and i hope that they will pay for their crime with their lives, at the least. i alone know what has passed, but i will tell the story, for poor kinko is no more. yes! my mind is made up. i will speak as soon as i have seen zinca klork. the poor girl must be told with consideration. the death of her betrothed must not come upon her like a thunderclap. yes! to-morrow, as soon as we are at pekin. after all, if i do not say anything about kinko, i may at least denounce faruskiar and ghangir and the four mongols. i can say that i saw them go through the van, that i followed them, that i found they were talking on the gangway, that i heard the screams of the driver and stoker as they were strangled on the foot-plate, and that i then returned to the cars shouting: "back! back!" or whatever it was. besides, as will be seen immediately, there was somebody else whose just suspicions had been changed into certainty, who only awaited his opportunity to denounce faruskiar. we are now standing at the head of the train, major noltitz, the german baron, caterna, ephrinell, pan-chao, popof, about twenty travelers in all. the chinese guard, faithful to their trust, are still near the treasure which not one of them has abandoned. the rear guard has brought along the tail lamps, and by their powerful light we can see in what a state the engine is. if the train, which was then running at enormous velocity, had not stopped suddenly--and thus brought about its destruction--it was because the boiler had exploded at the top and on the side. the wheels being undamaged, the engine had run far enough to come gradually to a standstill of itself, and thus the passengers had been saved a violent shock. of the boiler and its accessories only a few shapeless fragments remained. the funnel had gone, the dome, the steam chest; there was nothing but torn plates, broken, twisted tubes, split cylinders, and loose connecting rods--gaping wounds in the corpse of steel. and not only had the engine been destroyed, but the tender had been rendered useless. its tank had been cracked, and its load of coals scattered over the line. the luggage-van, curious to relate, had miraculously escaped without injury. and looking at the terrible effects of the explosion, i could see that the roumanian had had no chance of escape, and had probably been blown to fragments. going a hundred yards down the line i could find no trace of him--which was not to be wondered at. at first we looked on at the disaster in silence; but eventually conversation began. "it is only too evident," said one of the passengers, "that our driver and stoker have perished in the explosion." "poor fellows!" said popof. "but i wonder how the train could have got on the nanking branch without being noticed?" "the night was very dark," said ephrinell, "and the driver could not see the points." "that is the only explanation possible," said popof, "for he would have tried to stop the train, and, on the contrary, we were traveling at tremendous speed." "but," said pan-chao, "how does it happen the nanking branch was open when the tjon viaduct is not finished? had the switch been interfered with?" "undoubtedly," said popof, "and probably out of carelessness." "no," said ephrinell, deliberately. "there has been a crime--a crime intended to bring about the destruction of the train and passengers--" "and with what object?" asked popof. "the object of stealing the imperial treasure," said ephrinell. "do you forget that those millions would be a temptation to scoundrels? was it not for the purpose of robbing the train that we were attacked between tchertchen and tcharkalyk?" the american could not have been nearer the truth. "and so," said popof, "after ki-tsang's attempt, you think that other bandits--" up to now major noltitz had taken no part in the discussion. now he interrupted popof, and in a voice heard by all he asked: "where is faruskiar?" they all looked about and tried to discover what had become of the manager of the transasiatic. "and where is his friend ghangir?" asked the major. there was no reply. "and where are the four mongols who were in the rear van?" asked major noltitz. and none of them presented themselves. they called my lord faruskiar a second time. faruskiar made no response. popof entered the car where this personage was generally to be found. it was empty. empty? no. sir francis trevellyan was calmly seated in his place, utterly indifferent to all that happened. was it any business of his? not at all. was he not entitled to consider that the russo-chinese railways were the very apex of absurdity and disorder? a switch opened, nobody knew by whom! a train on the wrong line! could anything be more ridiculous than this russian mismanagement? "well, then!" said major noltitz, "the rascal who sent us on to the nanking line, who would have hurled us into the tjon valley, to walk off with the imperial treasure, is faruskiar." "faruskiar!" the passengers exclaimed. and most of them refused to believe it. "what!" said popof. "the manager of the company who so courageously drove off the bandits and killed their chief ki-tsang with his own hand?" then i entered on the scene. "the major is not mistaken. it was faruskiar who laid this fine trap for us." and amid the general stupefaction i told them what i knew, and what good fortune had enabled me to ascertain. i told them how i had overheard the plan of faruskiar and his mongols, when it was too late to stop it, but i was silent regarding the intervention of kinko. the moment had not come, and i would do him justice in due time. to my words there succeeded a chorus of maledictions and menaces. what! this seigneur faruskiar, this superb mongol, this functionary we had seen at work! no! it was impossible. but they had to give in to the evidence. i had seen; i had heard; i affirmed that faruskiar was the author of this catastrophe in which all our train might have perished, was the most consummate bandit who had ever disgraced central asia! "you see, monsieur bombarnac," said major noltitz, "that i was not mistaken in my first suspicion." "it is only too true," i replied, without any false modesty, "that i was taken in by the grand manners of the abominable rascal." "monsieur claudius," said caterna, "put that into a romance, and see if anybody believes it likely." caterna was right; but unlikely as it may seem, it was. and, besides, i alone knew kinko's secret. it certainly did seem as though it was miraculous for the locomotive to explode just on the verge of the abyss. now that all danger had disappeared we must take immediate measures for running back the cars on to the pekin line. "the best thing to do is for one of us to volunteer--" "i will do that," said caterna. "what is he to do?" i asked. "go to the nearest station, that of fuen choo, and telegraph to tai-youan for them to send on a relief engine." "how far is it to fuen choo?" asked ephrinell. "about six kilometres to nanking junction, and about five kilometres beyond that." "eleven kilometres," said the major; "that is a matter of an hour and a half for good walkers. before three o'clock the engine from tai-youan ought to be here. i am ready to start." "so am i," said popof! "i think several of us ought to go. who knows if we may not meet faruskiar and his mongols on the road?" "you are right, popof," said major noltitz, "and we should be armed." this was only prudent, for the bandits who ought to be on their way to the tjon viaduct could not be very far off. of course, as soon as they found that their attempt had failed, they would hasten to get away. how would they dare--six strong--to attack a hundred passengers, including the chinese guard? twelve of us, including pan-chao, caterna, and myself, volunteered to accompany major noltitz. but by common accord we advised popof not to abandon the train, assuring him that we would do all that was necessary at fuen choo. then, armed with daggers and revolvers--it was one o'clock in the morning--we went along the line to the junction, walking as fast as the very dark night permitted. in less than two hours we arrived at fuen choo station without adventure. evidently faruskiar had cleared off. the chinese police would have to deal with the bandit and his accomplices. would they catch him? i hoped so, but i doubted. at the station pan-chao explained matters to the stationmaster, who telegraphed for an engine to be sent from tai-youan to the nanking line. at three o'clock, just at daybreak, we returned to wait for the engine at the junction. three-quarters of an hour afterwards its whistle announced its approach, and it stopped at the bifurcation of the lines. we climbed up on to the tender, and half an hour later had rejoined the train. the dawn had come on sufficiently for us to be able to see over a considerable distance. without saying anything to anybody, i went in search of the body of my poor kinko. and i could not find it among the wreck. as the engine could not reach the front of the train, owing to their being only a single line, and no turning-table, it was decided to couple it on in the rear and run backwards to the junction. in this way the box, alas! without the roumanian in it, was in the last carriage. we started, and in half an hour we were on the main line again. fortunately it was not necessary for us to return to tai-youan, and we thus saved a delay of an hour and a half. at the junction the engine was detached and run for a few yards towards pekin, then the vans and cars, one by one, were pushed on to the main line, and then the engine backed and the train proceeded, made up as before the accident. by five o'clock we were on our way across petchili as if nothing had happened. i have nothing to say regarding this latter half of the journey, during which the chinese driver--to do him justice--in no way endeavored to make up for lost time. but if a few hours more or less were of no importance to us, it was otherwise with baron weissschnitzerdörfer, who wanted to catch the yokohama boat at tien tsin. when we arrived there at noon the steamer had been gone for three-quarters of an hour; and when the german globe-trotter, the rival of bly and bisland, rushed on to the platform, it was to learn that the said steamer was then going out of the mouths of the pei-ho into the open sea. unfortunate traveler! we were not astonished when, as gaterna said, the baron "let go both broadsides" of teutonic maledictions. and really he had cause to curse in his native tongue. we remained but a quarter of an hour at tien tsin. my readers must pardon me for not having visited this city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, the chinese town with its temples, the european quarter in which the trade is concentrated, the pei-ho quays where hundreds of junks load and unload. it was all faruskiar's fault, and were it only for having wrecked my reportorial endeavors he ought to be hanged by the most fantastic executioner in china. nothing happened for the rest of our run. i was very sorry at the thought that i was not bringing kinko along with me, and that his box was empty. and he had asked me to accompany him to mademoiselle zinca klork! how could i tell this unfortunate girl that her sweetheart would never reach pekin station? everything ends in this world below, even a voyage of six thousand kilometres on the grand transasiatic; and after a run of thirteen days, hour after hour, our train stopped at the gates of the capital of the celestial empire. chapter xxvi. "pekin!" shouted popof. "all change here." and caterna replied with truly parisian unction: "i believe you, my boy!" and we all changed. it was four o'clock in the afternoon. for people fatigued with three hundred and twelve hours of traveling, it was no time for running about the town--what do i say?--the four towns inclosed one within the other. besides, i had plenty of time. i was going to stop some weeks in this capital. the important thing was to find a hotel in which one could live passably. from information received i was led to believe that the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_, near the railway station, might be sufficiently in accord with western notions. as to mademoiselle klork, i will postpone my visit till to-morrow. i will call on her before the box arrives, and even then i shall be too soon, for i shall take her the news of kinko's death. major noltitz will remain in the same hotel as i do. i have not to bid him farewell, nor have i to part with the caternas, who are going to stay a fortnight before starting for shanghai. as to pan-chao and dr. tio-king, a carriage is waiting to take them to the yamen in which the young chinaman's family live. but we shall see each other again. friends do not separate at a simple good-by, and the grip of the hand i gave him as he left the car will not be the last. mr. and mrs. ephrinell lose no time in leaving the station on business, which obliges them to find a hotel in the commercial quarter of the chinese town. but they do not leave without receiving my compliments. major noltitz and i go up to this amiable couple, and the conventional politenesses are reciprocally exchanged. "at last," said i to ephrinell, "the forty-two packages of strong, bulbul & co. have come into port. but it is a wonder the explosion of our engine did not smash your artificial teeth." "just so," said the american, "my teeth had a narrow escape. what adventures they have had since we left tiflis? decidedly this journey has been less monotonous than i expected." "and," added the major, "you were married on the way--unless i am mistaken!" "wait a bit!" replied the yankee in a peculiar tone. "excuse me; we are in a hurry." "we will not keep you, mr. ephrinell," i replied, "and to mrs. ephrinell and yourself allow us to say au revoir!" "au revoir!" replied the americanized lady, rather more dryly at her arrival than at her departure. then, turning, she said: "i have no time to wait, mr. ephrinell." "nor have i, mrs. ephrinell," replied the yankee. mr.! mrs.! and not so long ago they were calling each other fulk and horatia. and then, without taking each other's arm, they walked out of the station. i believe he turned to the right and she to the left; but that is their affair. there remains my no. , sir francis trevellyan, the silent personage, who has not said a word all through the piece--i mean all through the journey. i wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second. eh! if i am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last. there is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down the cars. he has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty. my cigar--a particularly good one--is alight, and i am smoking it with the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that there is not a man in all china who has its equal. sir francis trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my cigar, and he comes towards me. i think he is going to ask me for a light. he stretches out his hand, and i present him with my cigar. he takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash, lights up, and then, if i had not heard him ask for a light, i at least expected him to say, "thank you, sir!" not at all! sir francis trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar, and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. and then without even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station. did you say nothing? no, i remained astounded. he gave me neither a word nor a gesture. i was completely dumfounded at this ultra-britannic rudeness, while major noltitz could not restrain a loud outburst of laughter. ah! if i should see this gentleman again. but never did i see again sir francis trevellyan of trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire. half an hour afterwards we are installed at the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_. there we are served with a dinner in chinese style. the repast being over--towards the second watch--we lay ourselves on beds that are too narrow in rooms with little comfort, and sleep not the sleep of the just, but the sleep of the exhausted--and that is just as good. i did not wake before ten o'clock, and i might have slept all the morning if the thought had not occurred to me that i had a duty to fulfil. and what a duty! to call in the avenue cha coua before the delivery of the unhappy case to mademoiselle zinca klork. i arise. ah! if kinko had not succumbed, i should have returned to the railway station--i should have assisted, as i had promised, in the unloading of the precious package. i would have watched it on to the cart, and i would have accompanied it to the avenue cha coua, i would even have helped in carrying him up to mademoiselle zinca klork! and what a double explosion of joy there would have been when kinko jumped through the panel to fall into the arms of the fair roumanian! but no! when the box arrives it will be empty--empty as a heart from which all the blood has escaped. i leave the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_ about eleven o'clock, i call one of those chinese carriages, which look like palanquins on wheels, i give the address of mademoiselle klork, and i am on the way. you know, that among the eighteen provinces of china petchili occupies the most northerly position. formed of nine departments, it has for its capital pekin, otherwise known as chim-kin-fo, an appellation which means a "town of the first order, obedient to heaven." i do not know if this town is really obedient to heaven, but it is obedient to the laws of rectilineal geometry. there are four towns, square or rectangular, one within the other. the chinese town, which contains the tartar town, which contains the yellow town, or houng tching, which contains the red town, or tsen-kai-tching, that is to say, "the forbidden town." and within this symmetrical circuit of six leagues there are more than two millions of those inhabitants, tartars or chinese, who are called the germans of the east, without mentioning several thousands of mongols and tibetans. that there is much bustle in the streets, i can see by the obstacles my vehicle encounters at every step, itinerating peddlers, carts heavily laden, mandarins and their noisy following. i say nothing of those abominable wandering dogs, half jackals, half wolves, hairless and mangy, with deceitful eyes, threatening jaws, and having no other food than the filthy rubbish which foreigners detest. fortunately i am not on foot, and i have no business in the red town, admittance to which is denied, nor in the yellow town nor even in the tartar town. the chinese town forms, a rectangular parallelogram, divided north and south by the grand avenue leading from the houn ting gate to the tien gate, and crossed east and west by the avenue cha-coua, which runs from the gate of that name to the cpuan-tsa gate. with this indication nothing could be easier than to find the dwelling of mademoiselle zinca klork, but nothing more difficult to reach, considering the block in the roads in this outer ring. a little before twelve i arrived at my destination. my vehicle had stopped before a house of modest appearance, occupied by artisans as lodgings, and as the signboard said more particularly by strangers. it was on the first floor, the window of which opened on to the avenue, that the young roumanian lived, and where, having learned her trade as a milliner in paris, she was engaged in it at pekin. i go up to the first floor. i read the name of madame zinca klork on a door. i knock. the door is opened. i am in the presence of a young lady who is perfectly charming, as kinko said. she is a blonde of from twenty-two to twenty-three years old, with the black eyes of the roumanian type, an agreeable figure, a pleasant, smiling face. in fact, has she not been informed that the grand transasiatic train has been in the station ever since last evening, in spite of the circumstances of the journey, and is she not awaiting her betrothed from one moment to another? and i, with a word, am about to extinguish this joy. i am to wither that smile. mademoiselle klork is evidently much surprised at seeing a stranger in her doorway. as she has lived several years in france, she does not hesitate to recognize me as a frenchman, and asks to what she is indebted for my visit. i must take care of my words, for i may kill her, poor child. "mademoiselle zinca--" i say. "you know my name?" she exclaims. "yes, mademoiselle. i arrived yesterday by the grand transasiatic." the girl turned pale; her eyes became troubled. it was evident that she feared something. had kinko been found in his box? had the fraud been discovered? was he arrested? was he in prison? i hastened to add: "mademoiselle zinca--certain circumstances have brought to my knowledge--the journey of a young roumanian--" "kinko--my poor kinko--they have found him?" she asks in a trembling voice. "no--no--" say i, hesitating. "no one knows--except myself. i often visited him in the luggage-van at night; we were companions, friends. i took him a few provisions--" "oh! thank you, sir!" says the lady, taking me by the hands. "with a frenchman kinko was sure of not being betrayed, and even of receiving help! thank you, thank you!" i am more than ever afraid of the mission on which i have come. "and no one suspected the presence of my dear kinko?" she asks. "no one." "what would you have had us do, sir? we are not rich. kinko was without money over there at tiflis, and i had not enough to send him his fare. but he is here at last. he will get work, for he is a good workman, and as soon as we can we will pay the company--" "yes; i know, i know." "and then we are going to get married, monsieur. he loves me so much, and i love him. we met one another in paris. he was so kind to me. then when he went back to tiflis i asked him to come to me in that box. is the poor fellow ill?" "no, mademoiselle zinca, no." "ah! i shall be happy to pay the carriage of my dear kinko." "yes--pay the carriage--" "it will not be long now?" "no; this afternoon probably." i do not know what to say. "monsieur," says mademoiselle, "we are going to get married as soon as the formalities are complied with; and if it is not abusing your confidence, will you do us the honor and pleasure of being present?" "at your marriage--certainly. i promised my friend kinko i would." poor girl! i cannot leave her like this. i must tell her everything. "mademoiselle zinca--kinko--" "he asked you to come and tell me he had arrived?" "yes--but--you understand--he is very tired after so long a journey--" "tired?" "oh! do not be alarmed--" "is he ill?" "yes--rather--rather ill--" "then i will go--i must see him--i pray you, sir, come with me to the station--" "no; that would be an imprudence--remain here--remain--" zinca klork looked at me fixedly. "the truth, monsieur, the truth! hide nothing from me--kinko--" "yes--i have sad news--to give you." she is fainting. her lips tremble. she can hardly speak. "he has been discovered!" she says. "his fraud is known--they have arrested him--" "would to heaven it was no worse. we have had accidents on the road. the train was nearly annihilated--a frightful catastrophe--" "he is dead! kinko is dead!" the unhappy zinca falls on to a chair--and to employ the imaginative phraseology of the chinese--her tears roll down like rain on an autumn night. never have i seen anything so lamentable. but it will not do to leave her in this state, poor girl! she is becoming unconscious. i do not know where i am. i take her hands. i repeat: "mademoiselle zinca! mademoiselle zinca!" suddenly there is a great noise in front of the house. shouts are heard. there is a tremendous to do, and amid the tumult i hear a voice. good heavens! i cannot be mistaken. that is kinko's voice! i recognize it. am i in my right senses? zinca jumps up, springs to the window, opens it, and we look out. there is a cart at the door. there is the case, with all its inscriptions: _this side up, this side down, fragile, glass, beware of damp_, etc., etc. it is there--half smashed. there has been a collision. the cart has been run into by a carriage, as the case was being got down. the case has slipped on to the ground. it has been knocked in. and kinko has jumped out like a jack-in-the-box--but alive, very much alive! i can hardly believe my eyes! what, my young roumanian did not perish in the explosion? no! as i shall soon hear from his own mouth, he was thrown on to the line when the boiler went up, remained there inert for a time, found himself uninjured--miraculously--kept away till he could slip into the van unperceived. i had just left the van after looking for him in vain, and supposing that he had been the first victim of the catastrophe. then--oh! the irony of fate!--after accomplishing a journey of six thousand kilometres on the grand transasiatic, shut up in a box among the baggage, after escaping so many dangers, attack by bandits, explosion of engine, he was here, by the mere colliding of a cart and a carriage in a pekin street, deprived of all the good of his journey--fraudulent it may be--but really if--i know of no epithet worthy of this climax. the carter gave a yell at the sight of a human being who had just appeared. in an instant the crowd had gathered, the fraud was discovered, the police had run up. and what could this young roumanian do who did not know a word of chinese, but explain matters in the sign language? and if he could not be understood, what explanation could he give? zinca and i ran down to him. "my zinca--my dear zinca!" he exclaims, pressing the girl to his heart. "my kinko--my dear kinko!" she replies, while her tears mingle with his. "monsieur bombarnac!" says the poor fellow, appealing for my intervention. "kinko," i reply, "take it coolly, and depend on me. you are alive, and we thought you were dead." "but i am not much better off!" he murmurs. mistake! anything is better than being dead--even when one is menaced by prison, be it a chinese prison. and that is what happens, in spite of the girl's supplications and my entreaties. and kinko is dragged off by the police, amid the laughter and howls of the crowd. but i will not abandon him! no, if i move heaven and earth, i will not abandon him. chapter xxvii. if ever the expression, "sinking in sight of port," could be used in its precise meaning, it evidently can in this case. and i must beg you to excuse me. but although a ship may sink by the side of the jetty, we must not conclude that she is lost. that kinko's liberty is in danger, providing the intervention of myself and fellow passengers is of no avail, agreed. but he is alive, and that is the essential point. but we must not waste an hour, for if the police is not perfect in china, it is at least prompt and expeditious. soon caught, soon hanged--and it will not do for them to hang kinko, even metaphorically. i offer my arm to mademoiselle zinca, and i lead her to my carriage, and we return rapidly towards the _hotel of the ten thousand dreams_. there i find major noltitz and the caternas, and by a lucky chance young pan-chao, without dr. tio-king. pan-chao would like nothing better than to be our interpreter before the chinese authorities. and then, before the weeping zinca, i told my companions all about kinko, how he had traveled, how i had made his acquaintance on the journey. i told them that if he had defrauded the transasiatic company it was thanks to this fraud that he was able to get on to the train at uzun ada. and if he had not been in the train we should all have been engulfed in the abyss of the tjon valley. and i enlarged on the facts which i alone knew. i had surprised faruskiar at the very moment he was about to accomplish his crime, but it was kinko who, at the peril of his life, with coolness and courage superhuman, had thrown on the coals, hung on to the lever of the safety valves, and stopped the train by blowing up the engine. what an explosion there was of exclamatory ohs and ahs when i had finished my recital, and in a burst of gratitude, somewhat of the theatrical sort, our actor shouted: "hurrah for kinko! he ought to have a medal!" until the son of heaven accorded this hero a green dragon of some sort, madame caterna took zinca's hand, drew her to her heart and embraced her--embraced her without being able to restrain her tears. just think of a love story interrupted at the last chapter! but we must hasten, and as caterna says, "all on the scene for the fifth"--the fifth act, in which dramas generally clear themselves up. "we must not let this brave fellow suffer!" said major noltitz; "we must see the grand transasiatic people, and when they learn the facts they will be the first to stop the prosecution." "doubtless," i said, "for it cannot be denied that kinko saved the train and its passengers." "to say nothing of the imperial treasure," added caterna, "the millions of his majesty!" "nothing could be truer," said pan-chao. "unfortunately kinko has fallen into the hands of the police, and they have taken him to prison, and it is not easy to get out of a chinese prison." "let us be off," i replied, "and see the company." "see here," said madame caterna, "is there any need of a subscription to defray the cost of the affair?" "the proposal does you honor, caroline," said the actor, putting his hand in his pocket. "gentlemen," said pretty zinca klork, her eyes bathed in tears, "do save him before he is sentenced--" "yes, my darling," said madame caterna, "yes, my heart, we will save your sweetheart for you, and if a benefit performance--" "bravo, caroline, bravo!" exclaimed caterna, applauding with the vigor of the sub-chief of the claque. we left the young roumanian to the caresses, as exaggerated as they were sincere, of the worthy actress. madame caterna would not leave her, declaring that she looked upon her as her daughter, that she would protect her like a mother. then pan-chao, major noltitz, caterna, and i went off to the company's offices at the station. the manager was in his office, and we were admitted. he was a chinese in every acceptation of the word, and capable of every administrative chinesery--a functionary who functioned in a way that would have moved his colleagues in old europe to envy. pan-chao told the story, and, as he understood russian, the major and i took part in the discussion. yes! there was a discussion. this unmistakable chinaman did not hesitate to contend that kinko's case was a most serious one. a fraud undertaken on such conditions, a fraud extending over six thousand kilometres, a fraud of a thousand francs on the grand transasiatic company and its agents. we replied to this chinesing chinee that it was all very true, but that the damage had been inconsiderable, that if the defrauder had not been in the train he could not have saved it at the risk of his life, and at the same time he could not have saved the lives of the passengers. well, would you believe it? this living china figure gave us to understand that from a certain point of view it would have been better to regret the deaths of a hundred victims-- yes! we knew that! perish the colonies and all the passengers rather than a principle! in short, we got nothing. justice must take its course against the fraudulent kinko. we retired while caterna poured out all the locutions in his marine and theatrical vocabulary. what was to be done? "gentlemen," said pan-chao, "i know how things are managed in pekin and the celestial empire. two hours will not elapse from the time kinko is arrested to the time he is brought before the judge charged with this sort of crime. he will not only be sent to prison, but the bastinado--" "the bastinado--like that idiot zizel in _si j'etais roi?"_ asked the actor. "precisely," replied pan-chao. "we must stop that abomination," said major noltitz. "we can try at the least," said pan-chao. "i propose we go before the court when i will try and defend the sweetheart of this charming roumanian, and may i lose my face if i do not get him off." that was the best, the only thing to do. we left the station, invaded a vehicle, and arrived in twenty minutes before a shabby-looking shanty, where the court was held. there was a crowd. the affair had got abroad. it was known that a swindler had come in a box in a grand transasiatic van free, gratis, and for nothing from tiflis to pekin. every one wished to see him; every one wanted to recognize the features of this genius--it was not yet known that he was a hero. there he is, our brave companion, between two rascally looking policemen, yellow as quinces. these fellows are ready to walk him off to prison at the judge's order, and to give him a few dozen strokes on the soles of his feet if he is condemned to that punishment. kinko is thoroughly disheartened, which astonishes me on the part of one i know to be so energetic. but as soon as he sees us his face betrays a ray of hope. at this moment the carter, brought forward by the police, relates the affair to a good sort of fellow in spectacles, who shakes his head in anything but a hopeful way for the prisoner, who, even if he were as innocent as a new-born child, could not defend himself, inasmuch as he did not know chinese. then it is that pan-chao presents himself. the judge recognized him and smiled. in fact, our companion was the son of a rich merchant in pekin, a tea merchant in the toung-tien and soung-fong-cao trade. and these nods of the judge's head became more sympathetically significant. our young advocate was really pathetic and amusing. he interested the judge, he excited the audience with the story of the journey, he told them all about it, and finally he offered to pay the company what was due to them. unfortunately the judge could not consent. there had been material damages, moral damages, etc., etc. thereupon pan-chao became animated, and although we understood nothing he said, we guessed that he was speaking of the courage of kinko, of the sacrifice he had made for the safety of the travelers, and finally, as a supreme argument, he pleaded that his client had saved the imperial treasure. useless eloquence? arguments were of no avail with this pitiless magistrate, who had not acquitted ten prisoners in is life. he spared the delinquent the bastinado; but he gave him six months in prison, and condemned him in damages against the grand transasiatic company. and then at a sign from this condemning machine poor kinko was taken away. let not my readers pity kinko's fate. i may as well say at once that everything was arranged satisfactorily. next morning kinko made a triumphal entry into the house in the avenue cha-coua, where we were assembled, while madame caterna was showering her maternal consolations on the unhappy zinca klork. the newspapers had got wind of the affair. the _chi bao_ of pekin and the _chinese times_ of tien-tsin had demanded mercy for the young roumanian. these cries for mercy had reached the feet of the son of heaven--the very spot where the imperial ears are placed. besides, pan-chao had sent to his majesty a petition relating the incidents of the journey, and insisting on the point that had it not been for kinko's devotion, the gold and precious stones would be in the hands of faruskiar and his bandits. and, by buddha! that was worth something else than six months in prison. yes! it was worth , taels, that is to say, more than , francs, and in a fit of generosity the son of heaven remitted these to kinko with the remittal of his sentence. i decline to depict the joy, the happiness, the intoxication which this news brought by kinko in person, gave to all his friends, and particularly to the fair zinca klork. these things are expressible in no language--not even in chinese, which lends itself so generously to the metaphorical. and now my readers must permit me to finish with my traveling companions whose numbers have figured in my notebook. nos. and , fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett: not being able to agree regarding the various items stipulated in their matrimonial contract, they were divorced three days after their arrival in pekin. things were as though the marriage had never been celebrated on the grand transasiatic, and miss horatia bluett remained miss horatia bluett. may she gather cargoes of heads of hair from chinese polls; and may he furnish with artificial teeth every jaw in the celestial empire! no. , major noltitz: he is busy at the hospital he has come to establish at pekin on behalf of the russian government, and when the hour for separation strikes, i feel that i shall leave a true friend behind me in these distant lands. nos. and , the caternas: after a stay of three weeks in the capital of the celestial empire, the charming actor and actress set out for shanghai, where they are now the great attraction at the french residency. no. , baron weissschnitzerdörfer, whose incommensurable name i write for the last time: well, not only did the globe-trotter miss the steamer at tien-tsin, but a month later he missed it at yokohama; six weeks after that he was shipwrecked on the coast of british columbia, and then, after being thrown off the line between san francisco and new york, he managed to complete his round of the world in a hundred and eighty-seven days instead of thirty-nine. nos. and , pan-chao and dr. tio-king: what can i say except that pan-chao is always the parisian you know, and that if he comes to france we shall meet at dinner at durand's or marguery's. as to the doctor, he has got down to eating only the yolk of an egg a day, like his master, cornaro, and he hopes to live to a hundred and two as did the noble venetian. no. , sir francis trevellyan, and no. , seigneur faruskiar: i have never heard of the one who owes me an apology and a cigar, nor have i heard that the other has been hanged. doubtless, the illustrious bandit, having sent in his resignation of the general managership of the grand transasiatic, continues his lucrative career in the depths of the mongol provinces. now for kinko, my no. : i need hardly say that my no. was married to zinca klork with great ceremony. we were all at the wedding, and if the son of heaven had richly endowed the young roumanian, his wife received a magnificent present in the name of the passengers of the train he had saved. that is the faithful story of this journey. i have done my best to do my duty as special correspondent all down the line, and perhaps my editors may be satisfied, notwithstanding the slip or two you have heard about. as to me, after spending three weeks in pekin, i returned to france by sea. and now i have to make a confession, which is very painful to my self-esteem. the morning after i arrived in the chinese capital i received a telegram thus worded, in reply to the one i had sent from lan-tcheou: _claudius bombarnac, pekin, china._ _twentieth century requests its correspondent, claudius bombarnac, to present its compliments and respects to the heroic seigneur faruskiar_. but i always say that this telegram never reached him, so that he has been spared the unpleasantness of having to reply to it. the end. rides on railways by samuel sidney. preface. the following pages are an attempt to supply something amusing, instructive, and suggestive to travellers who, not caring particularly where they go, or how long they stay at any particular place, may wish to know something of the towns and districts through which they pass, on their way to wales, the lakes of cumberland, or the highlands of scotland; or to those who, having a brief vacation, may wish to employ it among pleasant rural scenes, and in investigating the manufactures, the mines, and other sources of the commerce and influence of this small island and great country. in performing this task, i have relied partly on personal observation, partly on notes and the memory of former journeys; and where needful have used the historical information to be found in cyclopaedias, and local guide-books. this must account for, if it does not excuse, the unequal space devoted to districts with equal claims to attention. but it would take years, if not a lifetime, to render the manuscript of so discursive a work complete and correct. i feel that i have been guilty of many faults of commission and omission; but if the friends of those localities to which i have not done justice will take the trouble to forward to me any facts or figures of public general interest, they shall be carefully embodied in any future edition, should the book, as i hope it will, arrive at such an honour and profit. s. s. london, august, . contents. london and north western railway euston station the mixed train camden station aylesbury woburn and bedford the bucks railway banbury oxford wolverton station blisworth, northampton weedon rugby and its railways arnold and his school coventry to birmingham birmingham warwick, leamington, kenilworth, stratford-on-avon soho the black country (walsall, dudley, wednesbury, darlaston) stafford liverpool manchester the road to yorkshire yorkshire leeds through lincolnshire to sheffield sheffield derbyshire from chester to north staffordshire the lakes home list of engravings. euston square, london harrow-on-the-hill viaduct over the river colne, near watford looking from the hill above boxmoor station towards berkhamsted berkhamsted station leighton buzzard denbigh hall bridge the wolverton viaduct bridge in the blisworth embankment view from top of kilsby tunnel, looking towards rugby coventry the sherborne viaduct, near coventry the avon viaduct the aston viaduct aston hall newton road station, near birmingham the railway near penkridge stafford view near whitmore vale-royal viaduct excavation at hartford viaduct over the mersey and mersey and irwell canal, kingston the dutton viaduct the warrington viaduct london and north western railway. according to mr. punch, one of the greatest authorities of the day on all such subjects, the nearest way to euston station is to take a cab; but those who are not in a hurry may take advantage of the omnibuses that start from gracechurch street and charing cross, traversing the principal thoroughfares and calling at the george and blue boar, holborn, the green man and still, oxford street, and the booking offices in regent circus. euston, including its dependency, camden station, is the greatest railway port in england, or indeed in the world. it is the principal gate through which flows and reflows the traffic of a line which has cost more than twenty-two millions sterling; which annually earns more than two millions and a-half for the conveyance of passengers, and merchandise, and live stock; and which directly employs more than ten thousand servants, beside the tens of thousands to whom, in mills or mines, in ironworks, in steam-boats and coasters, it gives indirect employment. what london is to the world, euston is to great britain: there is no part of the country to which railway communication has extended, with the exception of the dover and southampton lines, which may not be reached by railway conveyance from euston station. the buckinghamshire lines from bletchley open the way through oxford to all the western counties, only interrupted by the break of gauge. the northampton and peterborough, from blisworth, proceeds to the eastern coast of norfolk and lincoln. at rugby commences one of several roads to the north, either by leicester, nottingham, and lincoln, or by derby and sheffield; and at rugby, too, we may either proceed to stafford by the direct route of the trent valley, a line which is rendered classical by the memory of sir robert peel, who turned its first sod with a silver spade and honoured its opening by a celebrated speech; or we may select the old original line through coventry, birmingham, and wolverhampton, passing through a network of little railways leading to warwick and leamington, the result of unprofitable competition. a continuation of the trent valley line intersects the pottery district, where the cheapest delft and the most exquisite specimens of china ware are produced with equal success; and thus we reach liverpool and manchester by the straightest possible line. at stafford we can turn off to shrewsbury and chester, or again following the original route arrive at crewe, the great workshop and railway town of the london and north western. crewe affords an ample choice of routes-- st, to leeds by stockport (with a branch to macclesfield) and huddersfield, or from leeds to york, or to harrogate, and so on by the east coast line through durham, newcastle, and berwick, to edinburgh; dly, direct to manchester; rdly, to warrington, newton, wigan, and the north, through the salt mining country; and, thly, to chester. at chester we may either push on to ireland by way of the holyhead railway, crossing the famous britannia tubular bridge, or to birkenhead, the future rival of liverpool. at liverpool steamers for america warranted to reach new york in ten days are at our command; or, leaving commerce, cotton, and wool, we may ride through proud preston and lancaster to kendal and windermere and the lake district; or, pressing forward through "merry carlisle," reach gretna at a pace that defies the competition of fathers and guardians, and enter scotland on the direct road to glasgow, and, if necessary, ride on to aberdeen and perth. a short line from camden station opens a communication with the east and west india docks and the coast of essex, and another, three miles and a half in length, from willesden station, will shortly form a connexion with the south western, and thereby with all the south and western lines from dover to southampton. the railway system, of which the lines above enumerated form so large a part, is barely twenty-five years old: in that space of time we have not only supplied the home market but taught europe and america to follow our example; even egypt and india will soon have their railways, and we now look with no more surprise on the passage of a locomotive with a few hundred passengers or tons of goods than on a wheelbarrow or patent hansom cab. grouse from aberdeen, fat cattle from norfolk, piece goods from manchester, hardwares from sheffield, race horses from newmarket, coals from leicestershire, and schoolboys from yorkshire, are despatched and received, for the distance of a few hundred miles, with the most perfect regularity, as a matter of course. we take a ticket to dine with a friend in chester or liverpool, or to meet the hounds near bletchley or rugby, as calmly as we engage a cab to go a mile; we consider twenty miles an hour disgustingly slow, and grumble awfully at a delay of five minutes in a journey of a hundred miles. millions have been spent in order to save an hour and a half between london and liverpool; yet there are plenty of men not much past thirty who remember when all respectable plain practical common sense men looked upon the project for a railway between london and birmingham as something very wild if not very wicked; and who remember too, that in winter the journey from london to liverpool often occupied them twenty-two hours, costing pounds inside and pounds out, besides having to walk up the steepest hills in derbyshire,--the same journey which is now completed in six hours at a cost of pounds s., and in twelve hours for s. d., by the parliamentary train in an enclosed carriage. it may be perhaps a useful wholesome lesson to those who are in the habit of accepting as their just due--without thought, without thankfulness--the last best results of the industry and ingenuity of centuries, if, before entering the massive portals of euston station, we dig up a few passages of the early history of railways from dusty blue books and forgotten pamphlets. in , the project of a railway from liverpool to manchester came before a committee of the house of commons, and, after a long investigation, the principle was approved, but the bill thrown out in consequence of defects in the survey. the promoters rested their case entirely on a goods' traffic, to be conveyed at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. the engineer was george stephenson, the father of the railway system, a man of genius, who, although he clearly foresaw the ultimate results of his project, had neither temper nor tact enough to conciliate the ignorant obstinacy of his opponents; in fact, he was a very bad witness and a very great man. it is curious, in reading the evidence, to observe the little confidence the counsel for the bill had in their engineer, and the contempt with which the counsel for the opposition treated him. the promoters of the railway expected few passengers, hoped to lower the rates of the canals, and had not made up their minds whether to employ locomotives or horses; george stephenson looked forward confidently at that same period to conveying the greater portion of the goods and passenger traffic by a complete railway system; but he either would not or could not explain the grounds of his confidence, and therefore we find mr. harrison, the most eminent parliamentary counsel of that day, speaking in the following insolent strain of a man whose genius he and his friends were unable to appreciate:-- "every part of this scheme shows that this man (george stephenson) has applied himself to a subject of which he has no knowledge, and to which he has no science to apply. . . . . when we set out with the original prospectus, we were to gallop at the rate of twelve miles an hour, with the aid of the devil in the form of a locomotive, sitting as postillion on the fore horse. but the speed of these locomotives has slackened. the learned sergeant would like to go seven, but he will be content with six miles an hour. i will show that he cannot go six. practically, or for any useful purposes, they may go at something more than four miles an hour. the wind will affect them: any gale of wind which would affect the traffic on the mersey, would render it impossible to set off a locomotive engine, either by poking the fire, or keeping up the pressure of the steam until the boiler burst. a shower of rain retards a railway, and snow entirely stops it." in reply, mr. adams modestly observed, "i should like my learned friend to have pointed out any part of the publication in favour of the liverpool and manchester railway, which justified his statement that we professed that goods were to be carried at the rate of twelve miles an hour; we have proved that they can be carried at seven miles an hour, and it was never intended they should be conveyed at a higher rate." in the following year the liverpool and manchester bill was carried, and in the career of the civilizing locomotive commenced, but it took many more years to convince "practical men" that the railway would successfully compete with the coach and canal. when, in , the scheme of a railway between london and birmingham was made public, a very clever pamphlet appeared under the title of "beware the bubbles," in which we find the following comical prognostications of the results of railways:-- "after all, what advantage does the london and birmingham railway hold out? only one,--celerity of motion; and, after all, the ten miles an hour is absolutely slower than the coaches, some of which go as fast as eleven or twelve miles an hour; and, with the length of time that the engine and its cumbrous train requires ere it can stop, and the other contingencies, there would be little difference in the time of a twelve miles an hour coach and a fifteen miles an hour engine, supposing twenty or thirty stoppages, to pick up little parcels, between london and birmingham. the conveyance is not so safe as by coach." after enumerating a series of theoretical dangers, he proceeds. "another consideration, which would deter invalids, ladies, and children from making use of the railway, would be want of accommodation along the line, unless the directors of the railway chose to build inns at their own expense. but those inns the directors would have, in great part, to support, because they would be out of the way of any business except that arising from the railway, and that would be trifling. commercial travellers would never, by any chance, go by the railroad. the occasional traveller, who went the same route for pleasure, would go by the coach-road also, because of the cheerful company and comfortable dinner. "not one of the nobility, the gentry, or those who travel in their own carriages, would really like to be drawn at the tail of a train of waggons, in which some hundreds of bars of iron were jingling with a noise that would drown all the bells of the district, and in momentary apprehension of having his vehicle broken to pieces, and himself killed or crippled by the collision of those thirty-two ton masses. even if a man had no carriage of his own, what inducement could he have to take so ungainly a conveyance. three hours is more than the maximum difference by which the ordinary speed of coaches could be exceeded; and it is not one traveller in a thousand to whom an arrival in london and birmingham three hours sooner would be of the slightest consequence. "then as to goods. the only goods that require velocity in coming to london, are ribands from coventry. half the luggage room of a coach, on a saturday night, is quite adequate to the conveyance of them. the manufacturers of coventry will never be such fools as to send their property on an errand by which it must travel further and fare worse. for heavy goods, the saving by canal would be as twelve to one, beside the perfect safety. in the canal boat there is no danger of fracture, even to the most delicate goods; whereas, if fine china goods were to be brought by the rapid waggons, the breakage would probably be twenty-five per cent. "as to the profits of the undertaking let us be extravagantly liberal. suppose that the railway was to get one-third of the goods, as well as one- third of the passengers, see what they would make of it:-- one-third of the goods . . . , pounds one-third of the passengers . , -------- , pounds -------- annual expenses . . . . . , pounds returns. . . . . . . . , -------- annual deficiency . . . . , pounds -------- to meet an outlay of , , pounds. "but the probability is that canals would reduce their rates one-half; and thus, competing wholesomely, extinguish the railway. the coach-masters would do the same thing--run for twelve months at half the present fares, and then not one man in his senses would risk his bones on the railway. the innkeepers would follow a course precisely similar, and give nice smoking dinners, foaming tankards and bottles of beeswing at so cheap a rate, and meet their customers with so good humoured faces, and do so many of those kind offices that legions would flock to the hospitable road. and while all this was going on, and the thousands of men which the authors of this ridiculous scheme had expected to send upon the parish were thriving, the solitary stranger who had nobody to tell him better would go swinging at the tail of the engine, bumping first on the iron plates on this side and then on the iron plates on that side; and if he escaped being scalded to death by the bursting of his engine, or having all his bones broken by collision with another, he would be fain to rest for the night within some four bare walls and gnaw a mouldy crust which he brought in his pocket, or, as an alternative of luxury, wade some ten miles through the mire, and feast upon a rasher of rusty bacon and a tankard of the smallest ale at the nearest hedge alehouse." all this now sounds inexpressibly droll, and yet this prophet of evil was not entirely wrong; nay, in some important particulars he was more right than the railway promoters, whom he so heartily detested. the railway did cost nearly seven millions instead of four millions as calculated by the projectors, and the cost of working before the amalgamation with the grand junction did amount to , pounds per annum: two figure facts which would have effectually crushed speculation could they have been proved in ; but then the per contra of traffic was equally astounding in its overflow, instead of one-third of the existing traffic, or , pounds a-year allowed by the pamphleteer, the london and birmingham earned a gross revenue of nearly , pounds, while still leaving a traffic in heavy goods on the canals sufficient to pay from to pounds per cent. to the proprietors, in spite of a reduction of rates of upwards of pounds per cent. indeed this traffic actually increased on the grand junction canal, since the opening of the birmingham railway, from , pounds in , to , , pounds in . perhaps on no point would the expectation of the most sanguine among the early projectors of railways been more satisfactorily exceeded than in regard to safety. swiftness, and cheapness, and power, acute intelligent engineers foresaw; but that millions of passengers should be whirled along at a speed varying from twenty to fifty miles an hour with more safety than they could have secured by walking a-foot, would have seemed an anticipation of the very wildest character. yet such is the case. in , upwards of seventy millions of souls were conveyed by railway; when eleven passengers were killed and fifty-four injured, or less than one to each million of passengers conveyed. even at the risk of seeming trite, prosy, and common-place, it is right to remind the young generation who consider the purchase of a railway ticket gives them a right to grumble at a thousand imaginary defects and deficiencies in railway management, how great are the advantages in swiftness, economy, and safety, which they enjoy through the genius, enterprise, and stubborn perseverance of george stephenson and his friends and pupils in . euston station. this station was an after-thought, the result of early experience in railway traffic. originally the line was to have ended at camden town, but a favourable opportunity led to the purchase of fifteen acres, which has turned out most convenient for the public and the proprietors. it is only to be regretted that it was not possible to bring the station within a few yards of the new road, so as to render the stream of omnibuses between paddington and the city available, without compelling the passenger to perspire under his carpet-bag, railway-wrapper, umbrella, and hat-box, all the way from the platform to the edge of euston square. the great gateway or propylaeum is very imposing, and rather out of place; but that is not the architect's fault. it cost thirty thousand pounds, and had he been permitted to carry out his original design, no doubt it would have introduced us to some classic fane in character with the lofty titanic columns: for instance, a temple to mercury the winged messenger and god of mammon. but, as is very common in this country,--for familiar examples see the london university, the national gallery, and the nelson column,--the spirit of the proprietors evaporated with the outworks; and the gateway leads to a square court-yard and a building the exterior of which may be described, in the language of guide books when referring to something which cannot be praised, as "a plain, unpretending, stucco structure," with a convenient wooden shed in front, barely to save passengers from getting wet in rainy weather. [euston square, london: ill .jpg] as melrose should be seen by the fair moonlight, so euston, to be viewed to advantage, should be visited by the gray light of a summer or spring morning, about a quarter to six o'clock, three-quarters of an hour before the starting of the parliamentary train, which every railway, under a wise legislative enactment, is compelled to run "once a-day from each extremity, with covered carriages, stopping at every station, travelling at a rate of not less than fifteen miles an hour, at a charge of one-penny per mile." we say wise, because the competition of the railway for goods, as well as passengers, drove off the road not only all the coaches, on which, when light-loaded, foot-sore travellers got an occasional lift, but all the variety of vans and broad-wheeled waggons which afforded a slow but cheap conveyance between our principal towns. at the hour mentioned, the railway passenger-yard is vacant, silent, and as spotlessly clean as a dutchman's kitchen; nothing is to be seen but a tall soldier-like policeman in green, on watch under the wooden shed, and a few sparrows industriously yet vainly trying to get breakfast from between the closely packed paving-stones. how different from the fat debauched-looking sparrows who throve upon the dirt and waste of the old coach yards! it is so still, so open; the tall columns of the portico entrance look down on you so grimly; the front of the booking-offices, in their garment of clean stucco, look so primly respectable that you cannot help feeling ashamed of yourself,--feeling as uncomfortable as when you have called too early on an economically genteel couple, and been shown into a handsome drawing-room, on a frosty day, without a fire. you cannot think of entering into a gossip with the railway guardian, for you remember that "sentinels on duty are not allowed to talk," except to nursery maids. presently, hurrying on foot, a few passengers arrive; a servant-maid carrying a big box, with the assistance of a little girl; a neat punctual-looking man, probably a banker's clerk on furlough; and a couple of young fellows in shaggy coats, smoking, who seem, by their red eyes and dirty hands, to have made sure of being up early by not going to bed. a rattle announces the first omnibus, with a pile of luggage outside and five inside passengers, two commercial travellers, two who may be curates or schoolmasters, and a brown man with a large sea-chest. at the quarter, the scene thickens; there are few hansoms, but some night cabs, a vast number of carts of all kinds, from the costermonger's donkey to the dashing butcher's whitechapel. there is very little medium in parliamentary passengers about luggage, either they have a cart-load or none at all. children are very plentiful, and the mothers are accompanied with large escorts of female relations, who keep kissing and stuffing the children with real gibraltar rock and gingerbread to the last moment. every now and then a well-dressed man hurries past into the booking-office and takes his ticket with a sheepish air as if he was pawning his watch. sailors arrive with their chests and hammocks. the other day we had the pleasure of meeting a travelling tinker with the instruments of his craft neatly packed; two gentlemen, whose closely cropped hair and pale plump complexion betokened a recent residence in some gaol or philanthropic institution; an economical baronet, of large fortune; a prize fighter, going down to arrange a little affair which was to come off the next day; a half- pay officer, with a genteel wife and twelve children, on his way to a cheap county in the north; a party of seven irish, father, mother, and five grown- up sons and daughters, on their way to america, after a successful residence in london; a tall young woman and a little man, from stamford, who had been up to london to buy stone bottles, and carried them back rattling in a box; a handsome dragoon, with a very pretty girl,--her eyes full of tears,--on his arm, to see him off; another female was waiting at the door for the same purpose, when the dragoon bolted, and took refuge in the interior of the station. in a word, a parliamentary train collects,--besides mechanics in search of work, sailors going to join a ship, and soldiers on furlough,--all whose necessities or tastes lead them to travel economically, among which last class are to be found a good many quakers. it is pleasing to observe the attention the poor women, with large families and piles of packages, receive from the officers of the company, a great contrast to the neglect which meets the poorly clad in stage-coach travelling, as may still be seen in those districts where the rail has not yet made way. we cannot say that we exactly admire the taste of the three baronets whom a railway superintendent found in one third-class carriage, but we must own that to those to whom economy is really an object, there is much worse travelling than by the parliamentary. having on one occasion gone down by first-class, with an oxford man who had just taken his m.a., an ensign of infantry in his first uniform, a clerk in somerset house, and a manchester man who had been visiting a whig lord,--and returned third-class, with a tinker, a sailor just returned from africa, a bird-catcher with his load, and a gentleman in velveteens, rather greasy, who seemed, probably on a private mission, to have visited the misdemeanour wards of all the prisons in england and scotland; we preferred the return trip, that is to say, vulgar and amusing to dull and genteel. among other pieces of information gleaned on this occasion, we learned that "for a cove as didn't mine a jolly lot of readin and writin, readin was prime in winter; plenty of good vittles, and the cells warmed." it must be remarked that the character of the parliamentary varies very much according to the station from which it starts. the london trains being the worst, having a large proportion of what are vulgarly called "swells out of luck." in a rural district the gathering of smock-frocks and rosy-faced lasses, the rumbling of carts, and the size, number, and shape of the trunks and parcels, afford a very agreeable and comical scene on a frosty, moonlight, winter's morning, about christmas time, when visiting commences, or at whitsuntide. no man who has a taste for studying the phases of life and character should fail to travel at least once by the parliamentary. the large cheap load having rumbled off from the south side of the station, about nine o'clock preparations are commenced for the aristocratic express, which, on this line, is composed of first-class carriages alone, in which, at half the price of the old mail coach fares, the principal stations on the line are reached at railway speed. to attend the departure of this train, there arrive not only the republican omnibi and cabs, from the damp night crawler to the rattling hansom, but carriages, with coronets and mitres emblazoned, guarded by the tallest and most obsequious of footmen, and driven by the fattest and most lordly of coachmen; also the neatest of broughams, adorned internally with pale pink and blue butterfly bonnets; dashing dogcarts, with neat grooms behind, mustached guardsmen driving; and stately cabriolets prance in, under the guidance of fresh primrose-coloured gloves. but, although the passengers by the express train are, in every respect, a contrast to those by the parliamentary, the universal and levelling tendency of the railway system is not less plainly exhibited. the earl or duke, whose dignity formerly compelled him to post in a coupe and four, at a cost of some five or six shillings a mile, and an immense consumption of horse-flesh, wax-lights, and landladies' curtsies on the road, now takes his place unnoticed in a first-class carriage next to a gentleman who travels for a great claret and champagne house, and opposite another going down express to report a railway meeting at birmingham for a morning paper. if you see a lady carefully and courteously escorted to a carriage marked "engaged," on a blackboard, it is probably not a countess but the wife of one of the principal officers of the company. a bishop in a greatcoat creates no sensation; but a tremendous rush of porters and superintendents towards one carriage, announces that a director or well-known engineer is about to take his seat. in fact, civility to all, gentle and simple, is the rule introduced by the english railway system; every porter with a number on his coat is, for the time, the passenger's servant. special attention is bestowed on those who are personally known, and no one can grumble at that. some people, who have never visited the continent, or only visited it for pleasure, travelling at their leisure, make comparisons with the railways of france and germany, unfavourable to the english system. our railways are dearer than the foreign, so is our government,--we make both ourselves; but compare the military system of the continental railways; the quarter of an hour for admission before the starting of the train, during which, if too early or too late, you are locked out; the weighing of every piece of baggage; the lordly commanding airs of all the officials if any relaxation of rules be required; the insouciance with which the few porters move about, leaving ladies and gentlemen to drag their own luggage;--compare all this with the rapid manner in which the loads of half-a-dozen cabs, driving up from some other railway at the last moment, are transferred to the departing express; compare the speed, the universal civility, attention, and honesty, that distinguish our railway travelling, and you cannot fail to come to the conclusion that for a commercial people to whom time is of value, ours is the best article, and if we had not been a lawyer-ridden people we might also have had the cheapest article. before starting the express train, we must not fail to note one new class of passengers, recruited by the speed of railways, viz., the number of gentlemen in breeches, boots, and spurs, with their pinks just peeping from under their rough jackets, who, during the season, get down to aylesbury, bletchley, and even wolverton, to hunt, and back home again to dinner. but the signal sounds. the express train moves off; two gentlemen at the last moment are, in vain, crying out for punch and the times, while an unheeded hammering at the closed door of the booking-office announces that somebody is too late. there is always some one too late. on this occasion it was a young gentleman in a pair of light top-boots, and a mamma and papa with half-a-dozen children and two nursery-maids in a slow capacious fly. we cannot bestow unqualified praise upon the station arrangements at euston. comfort has been sacrificed to magnificence. the platform arrangements for departing and arriving trains are good, simple, and comprehensive; but the waiting-rooms, refreshment stand, and other conveniences are as ill-contrived as possible; while a vast hall with magnificent roof and scagliola pillars, appears to have swallowed up all the money and all the light of the establishment. the first-class waiting-room is dull to a fearful degree, and furnished in the dowdiest style of economy. the second-class room is a dark cavern, with nothing better than a borrowed light. the refreshment counters are enclosed in a sort of circular glazed pew, open to all the drafts of a grand, cold, uncomfortable hall, into which few ladies will venture. a refreshment-room should be the ante-room to the waiting-room, and the two should be so arranged with reference to the booking-office and cloak-rooms, that strangers find their way without asking a dozen questions from busy porters and musing policemen. euston station reminds us of an architect's house, where a magnificent portico and hall leads to dungeon-like dining-room, and mean drawing-room. why are our architects so inferior to our engineers? on the platform is the door of the telegraph office, which also has offices for receiving and transmitting messages at all the principal stations. the mixed train. the mixed train on this line holds an intermediate rank between the parliamentary and the express, consisting as it does of first and second- class carriages, at lower fares than the one and higher than the other, stopping at fewer stations than the parliamentary, and at more than the express; but worth notice on the present occasion, because it is by these trains only that horses and carriages are allowed to be conveyed. carriages require very careful packing on a truck. at the principal stations this may be very well left to the practised porters, but at road-side stations it is a point which should be looked to; for it has not unfrequently happened that the jogging, lateral motion of the railway has heated the axles of a carriage or truck, so that at the end of the journey the wheels have been found as fast as if they had been welded, and quite unfit to travel. travelling in a carriage on a truck is by no means safe: some years since lady zetland and her maids were nearly burned to death, sparks from the engine having set fire to their luggage. the maid threw herself off the truck, and had an extraordinary escape. the arrangements of the boxes for carrying horses are now very complete, and when once a horse, not of a naturally nervous disposition, has been accustomed to travel by rail, it will often be found better to take him on to hunt at a distance than to send him overnight to a strange place with all the disadvantages of change of food, and temptations to neglect in the way of the groom. it is, however, a class of traffic to which few of the railway companies have paid much attention; yet, in our opinion, capable of great development under a system of moderate fares, and day tickets. the rates are not always stated in the time tables, but on the london and north western a day ticket for a horse costs fourteen shillings for thirty miles. besides horses, packs of hounds, and even red deer are occasionally sent by rail. but deer travel in their own private carriages. hounds are generally accompanied by the huntsman, or whip, to keep them in order. and on the great western line a few years ago a huntsman was nearly stifled in this way. the van had been made too snug and close for travelling comfortably with twenty couple of warm fox-hounds. if there is the slightest doubt about a horse entering the van quietly, the best way is to blindfold him before he becomes suspicious. among other pursuits, horse racing has been completely revolutionised by the rail. the posting race-horse van was a luxury in which only the wealthiest could indulge to a limited extent, but now the owner of a string of thoroughbreds, or a single plater, can train in the south or the north, and in four and twenty hours reach any leading course in the kingdom; carrying with him, if deemed needful, hay, straw, and water. as we move slowly off toward camden station, by the fourth of the eighteen passenger trains which daily depart from euston, and emerging with light whirl along within sight of rows of capital houses, whose gardens descend to the edge of the cuttings, we are reminded that under the original act for taking up euston, it was specially provided, at the instance of lord southampton, that no locomotive should be allowed to proceed further to the south than camden town, lest his building land should remain neglected garden land for ever. this promise was accepted with little reluctance by the company, because in it was popularly considered that the ascent to reach camden town could not be easily overcome by a heavily loaded locomotive. consequently a pair of stationary engines were erected at camden town, and a pair of tall chimneys to carry off their smoke and steam. but the objections in taste, and difficulties in science, have vanished. on this line, as on all others, tenants are readily found for houses fringing a cutting; locomotives run up even such ascents as the bromsgrove lickey, between worcester and birmingham, with a load of tons. so ten minutes have been saved in time, and much expense, by doing away with the rope traction system. the stationary engines have been sold, and are now doing duty in a flax mill in russia, and the two tall columns, after slumbering for several years as monuments of prejudices and obstacles overcome, were swept away to make room for other improvements. it is, however, very odd, and not very creditable to human nature, that whenever a railway is planned, the proprietors are assailed by unreasonable demands for compensation, in cases where past experience has proved that the works will be an advantageous, and often an ornamental addition. in a sheffield line was vehemently opposed by a liverpool gentleman, on the ground that it would materially injure the prospect from a mansion, which had been the seat of his ancestors for centuries. the tale was well told, and seemed most pitiful; an impression was produced on the committee that the privacy of something like hatfield, or knebworth, was about to be infringed on by the "abominable railway." a stiff cross-examination brought out the reluctant fact, however, that this "house of my ancestors," this beautiful elizabethan mansion had been for many years let as a lunatic asylum at pound per annum. in another instance a railway director sold a pretty country seat, because the grounds were about to be intersected by a railway embankment; two years after the completion of the railway he wished to buy it back again, for he found that his successor, by turfing and planting the slope, had very much increased the original beauty of the gardens. camden station. but thus gossiping, we have reached camden station, and must take advantage of an unusual halt to look into the arrangements for building waggons and trucks, and conveying coals, merchandise, goods, and all live stock included between pigs and bullocks. not without difficulty did mr. robert stephenson succeed in inducing the directors to purchase thirty acres of land here; it was only by urging, that, if unused, the surplus could be sold at a profit, that he carried out his views. genius can foresee results which, to ordinary capacities, are dark and incomprehensible. since it has been found necessary to take in an additional plot of three more acres, all now fully occupied. in no respect were the calculations of parties engaged in the construction of railways more at fault than with regard to the station accommodation needed for goods traffic, which, on the principal lines, has added full twenty-five per cent. to the original estimates. george stephenson calculated the cost of getting over chat moss at , pounds; his opponent proved that it would cost four hundred thousand: but it was executed at exactly the sum stephenson set down, while the capital involved in providing station room for merchandise at liverpool and at manchester, has probably exceeded the original estimate for the whole line. on this railway the increase of the goods traffic has been of very recent date. at a very early period after the opening of the line, the merchandise department became the monopoly of the great carriers, who found it answer their purpose to divide the profits afforded by the discount allowed to carriers by the railway company, without seeking to develop an increase of occupation. under this system, while carriers grew rich, the goods traffic remained stationary. but when the amalgamation with the grand junction, which had always been its own carrier, took place, a great reduction in rates was made, as well as arrangements for encouraging the conveyance of every kind of saleable article. the company became a common carrier, but employing messrs. pickford, and chaplin and horne to collect goods. the result was a marvellous increase, which has been progressing ever since. a regular trade is now carried on between london and the most remote parts of the kingdom in every conceivable thing that will bear moving. sheep have been sent from perth to london, and covent garden has supplied tons of the finer description of vegetables to the citizens of glasgow; every saturday five tons of the best fish in season are despatched from billingsgate to birmingham, and milk is conveyed in padlocked tins, from and beyond harrow, at the rate of about one penny per gallon. in articles which are imported into both liverpool and london, there is a constant interchange, according to the state of the market; thus a penny per pound difference may bring a hundred chests of congou up, or send as many of hyson down the line. all graziers within a day of the rail are able to compete in the london market, the probability of any extraordinary demand increases the number of beasts arriving weekly at camden station from the average of to , and the sheep from to ; and these animals can be brought from the furthest grazing grounds in the kingdom without any loss of weight, and in much better condition than the fat oxen were formerly driven to smithfield from the rich pastures round aylesbury, or the valley of the thames. camden station, under the alterations effected in - , has a double line, for goods waggons only, , feet in length, entirely clear of the main line. the length of single lines, exclusive of the main line, exceeds twelve miles. to describe it in detail would be a very unsatisfactory task; because, in the first place, it can ill be understood without a map, and in the next, changes are constantly taking place, and still greater changes will be forced on the company by the increase of goods traffic, which, great as it is, is only in its infancy. even now freights are paid to the london and north western for all the way to china. but, as an agricultural implement of commerce, the locomotive has been comparatively as little used as the stationary engine, although hundreds of trades of a semi-rural character are drawing toward the railway lines, and away from the country towns, which were formerly the centre of rural commerce, because standing on the highways or near canals. but such a revolution can only be effected slowly. at camden will be found a large yard for the reception of the midland counties' coal, the introduction of which has had a considerable effect in bringing down the price of sea-borne coal. the cattle pens have lately been altered and enlarged. just before christmas this place is almost as amusing and exciting as a spanish bull-fight; although, as a general rule, the silence of a place where, during every quarter of an hour, of day and night, so enormous a business is being carried on, is very surprising. twenty-four steam waggon horses, or engines, for heavy loads are kept in a circular engine-house, or stable, feet in diameter, with an iron roof. this form renders every engine accessible at a moment's notice. the steam race-horses for the passenger work are kept in an oblong building opposite the carters. the demand being more regular, there is no need for the expensive circular arrangement of stables for this class of engines. in a large boiler-house, boiling water and red-hot coke are kept ready night and day, so that on the occasion of any sudden demand no time need be lost in getting up steam. there is besides a waggon-building department, a shop for executing such trifling repairs in the locomotives as need no reference to the great workshop at wolverton. the passenger carriages are most of them built at euston station, by mr. wright. the carrying department is very conveniently situated close to the regent's canal, so as to have easy communication with inland as well as sea navigation. a series of sheds occupy an area of , superficial feet, and the platforms to receive goods from railway trucks on one side and from waggons on the other, occupy , feet. these platforms and sheds are provided with cranes, for loading and unloading, with a power varying from one ton and a half to twenty tons. by these appliances, work of the most miscellaneous character goes on all day, and part of the night. the railway trucks and waggons are moved about by horses: it is amusing to see the activity with which the heavy brutes often bring a waggon up at a trot, jump out of the way just at the right moment, and allow the waggon to roll up to the right spot by its own momentum. the horses are lodged in stables in the underground vaults, which we cannot commend, as they are dark, damp, full of draughts, and yet ill ventilated; but it was necessary to use these vaults, and difficult to find stabling for such a number of horses close at hand. the carrying department at camden is very miscellaneous, and moves everything, from the contents of a nursery ground to a full grown locomotive, but they do not impress a stranger so much as the arrangements at manchester and liverpool. the annual consumption of gas at camden exceeds six million cubic feet. under the railway system the certainty and rapidity with which merchandise can be transmitted, changes and simplifies more and more every year the operations of trade. for instance, southampton is the great port for that part of our indian, south american, and mediterranean trade which is conducted by steamers. when a junction has been effected between the london and north western and the south western, costly packages of silk, muslin, gold tissue, jewellery, may be sent under lock from the glasgow manufacturers to the quay alongside at southampton in a few hours, without sign of damage or pilferage, and at the last moment before the departure of the steamer. the communication between the docks on the thames and camden town, will enable a grocer in manchester to have a hogshead of sugar or tobacco sent in answer to a letter by return of post, at a saving in expense which may be imagined from the fact, that it costs more to cart a butt of sherry from the london docks to camden town, than to send it by rail all the way to manchester. to provide for the enormous and annually increasing traffic in passengers and merchandise, there are:-- state carriage. horse boxes. locomotives and tenders. sheep vans. first-class mails. goods waggons. second-class carriages. trolleys. third-class. cribb rails. post-offices. sheets. carriages,--trucks for cart horses. letters and newspapers. parcel carts. guards' brakes. making a grand total rolling stock of , . the passenger carriages afford eleven miles of seat room, and would accommodate , individuals, or the whole population of two such towns as northampton. the loading surface of the goods equals eleven acres, and would convey , tons. if the tires of all the company's wheels were welded into one ring, they would form a circle of seventy-two miles. to keep this rolling stock up in number and efficiency, there are two establishments, one at camden town, and one at wolverton. camden town is the great coach house of the line, where goods waggons are built and repaired in one division, where sound locomotives, carriages and trucks are kept ready for use in another. the waggon building department of camden is worth visiting, especially by railway shareholders. every one is interested in railways being worked economically, for economy gives low rates and increased profits, which both increase trade and multiply railways. hitherto the details of carrying, especially as to the construction of waggons and trucks, have been much neglected. on one line running north, it is said that the loss in cheese stolen by the railway servants, amounts to as much as the whole sum paid for carrying agricultural produce, and on the line on which we are travelling, breakages have sometimes amounted to , pounds a-month. the fact is, that railway carriers have been content to use rude square boxes on wheels, covered when loaded, if covered at all, with a tarpaulin, without any precautions for draining off the wet, to which it was constantly exposed when out of use,--without "buffers" or other protecting springs, so that the wear and tear of the waggon and its load, from inevitable shocks, was very great. the imperfect protection of a tarpaulin was, and is, a great temptation to pilferage. these sources of expense, in wear and tear of conveyances, loss of tarpaulin coverings, each worth pounds s., breakage, pilferage of goods, combine to sum up a formidable discount from the profits of railway carrying, and, in the case of certain goods, lead the owners to prefer the slower transit of a canal boat. even iron suffers in market value from exposure to the weather; porcelain and glass are liable to perpetual smashes, on waggons without buffers, in spite of the most careful packing; while tea, sugar, cheese, and all untraceable eatables are pilfered to an enormous extent, besides more valuable goods. it was hoped that railway transit would put an end to the dishonesty which was carried on wholesale on the canals; but, where open trucks are used, this expectation has been only partly realised, for the temptation of opportunity has been too strong, for even the superior class of men employed on railways. in order to meet these evils, mr. henson, who has the charge of the waggon- building department at camden, has built and patented a covered waggon with buffers, which unites with great strength, safety, capacity, and smoothness of motion. the scientific manner in which these waggons are framed, gives them strength in proportion to their weight. the buffers with which they are fitted, and the roof, protecting from the weather, render them altogether durable, and therefore economical; while the construction, as will be seen from our vignette, renders pilferage, unless by collusion with the respectable party who overlooks the unloading, almost impossible. a diminution of the cost for repairs of rolling stock (on an average equal to pounds per ann.), and of the cost for compensation to customers for breakage and pilferage, should be a leading object with every sensible railway director. indeed these losses, with deadweight, and lawyer's bills, are the deadly enemies of railway directors. further improvements in these waggons have been effected by the use of corrugated iron, which is light and strong at the same time; and the iron waggons have been again improved by employing iron covered with a thin coating of glass, under a new patent, which renders rust impossible and paint unnecessary. the simple contrivance by which the door and moveable roof is locked and unlocked by one motion, is worthy of the notice of practical men. of these lock-up waggons, with springs and buffers, are in use on the london and north western railway. mr. henson has also succeeded in establishing a traffic in gunpowder, by inventing a carriage of sheet iron, lined with wood, in which four-and-a-half tons of gunpowder can be conveyed without fear of explosion either from concussion or external combustion. the shops at camden have room for building or repairing waggons. they are to be seen in every stage of progress. the great object is to combine strength with lightness. if the strength being the same, the saving of a ton can be effected in a waggon, it will amount to from thirty to ninety tons in an ordinary goods train. an important consideration, for deadweight is the great enemy of the railway, and ninety tons of useless weight is equivalent to a loss of pounds in sending a goods train a journey to birmingham. british oak is the favourite wood for the frames of railway waggons; teak, if of equal quality, is dearer, and the inferior is heavier, without being so strong. if in any of the many countries with which we trade a wood can be discovered as good and as cheap as english oak, the railways which are constantly extending their carrying stock, can afford a steady demand. about the passenger carriages, which every one can see and examine for himself, there is not much to be said. on the continent, where they cannot afford to use mahogany, they use sheet-iron and papier-machee for the panels; in england, mahogany chiefly in the first class. when we began, stage coaches were imitated; there are some of the old cramped style still to be seen on the richmond line; then came enormous cages--pleasant in summer, fearfully cold in winter, without fires, which have not been introduced in england, although they are found in the north of europe and america. a medium size has now come into favour, of which some fine specimens are to be seen in the hyde park exhibition. on the great northern line some second-class carriages have been introduced, varnished, without paint, and very well they look. economy again, and the increase of branches, have led to the use of composite carriages for first and second-class passengers all on one body. these, which were in use years ago on the northern coal lines, are now revived and improved. the camden station has received an entirely new feature by the completion of the line to the docks and to fenchurch street, with stations at islington, hackney, and bow. already an immense omnibus traffic has been obtained--a sort of traffic which produces the same effect on engines as on horses. they are worn out rapidly by the continual stoppages. but horses show wear and tear directly, whereas iron and brass cannot speak except through increased expenses and diminished dividends. leaving camden, at which trains stop only on arriving, we swiftly pass kilburn, where an omnibus station is to be established for the benefit of the rising population of citizens, to willesden, where the junction line through acton to the south western is to commence. willesden has been rendered classic ground, for the hero-worshippers who take highwaymen within the circle of their miscellaneous sympathies, by mr. harrison ainsworth's "jack sheppard,"--the "cage" where this ruffian was more than once confined still remains in its original insecurity. sudbury affords nothing to detain us. the next station is within a mile of harrow-on-the-hill, with its beacon-like church spire. rich pasture lies around, famous for finishing off bullocks fed in the north. harrow school is almost as much one of the institutions of england as oxford and cambridge universities. it is one of the great public schools, which, if they do not make the ripest scholars, make "men" of our aristocracy. this school was founded by one john lyon, a farmer of the parish, who died in . [harrow-on-the-hill: ill .jpg] attached to it there are four exhibitions of pounds each, and two scholarships of pounds each. the grand celebrity of the school rests upon the education of those who are not on the foundation. the sons of noblemen and wealthy gentlemen, who in this as in many other instances, have treated those for whose benefit the school was founded, as the young cuckoo treats the hedge sparrow. among its illustrious scholars harrow numbers lord byron and sir robert peel. an old saw runs: "eton fops, harrow gentlemen, winchester scholars, and westminster blackguards." since the palmy days when dr. drury was master and byron and peel were pupils, harrow has declined to insignificance, and been by the abilities of dr. wordsworth raised again. the term of harrow gentlemen still deservedly survives, harrow being still the gate through which the rich son of a parvenu family may most safely pass on his way to oxford, if his father desires, as all fathers do in this country, that his son should amalgamate with the landed aristocracy. at pinner, the next station, we pass out of middlesex into hertfordshire. watford, a principal station, is within a mile of the town of that name, on the river colne. here henry vi. encamped with his army before the battle of st. albans. cassiobury park, a favourite spot for picnics, is close to the station. it was the opposition of the late proprietor, the earl of essex, that forced upon the engineer of the line the formidable tunnel, which was once considered an astonishing railway work,--now nothing is astonishing in engineering. [viaduct over the river colne: ill .jpg] near king's langley we pass the booksellers' provident retreat, erected on ground given by mr. dickenson, the great paper maker, who has seven mills on the neighbouring streams, and reach boxmoor, only noticeable as the first station opened on the line. [looking from the hill above box moor station towards berkhamsted: ill .jpg] the next station is berkhamsted. cowper the poet was born here, his father was rector of the parish. berkhamsted castle is part of the hereditary property of the prince of wales and duke of cornwall. at this castle william the conqueror, after the battle of hastings, met the abbot of st. albans with a party of chiefs and prelates, who had prepared to oppose the norman, and disarmed their hostility by swearing to rule according to the ancient laws and customs of the country. having, of course, broken his oath, he bestowed the castle on his half-brother, robert moreton, earl of cornwall. king john strengthened the castle, which was afterwards besieged by the dauphin of france. when edward iii. created the black prince duke of cornwall, the castle and manor of berkhamsted were bestowed upon him "to hold to him, and the heirs of him, and the eldest sons of the kings of england, and the dukes of the said place;" and under these words through civil wars and revolutions, and changes from plantagenet to tudor, from tudor to stuart, with the interregnum of a republic, an abdication, and the installation of the brunswick dynasty. the castle is now vested in albert prince of wales. [berkhamsted station: ill .jpg] the chiltern hills, including the chiltern hundreds, the only office under the crown always open to the acceptance of all without distinction of parties, lies within a short distance of berkhamsted. ashdridge park, formerly the seat of the duke of bridgewater, the originator and author, with the aid of brindley and telford, of our great canal system, lies about a mile to the eastward. the scenery of the park and gardens are fine. the house is modern. tring station, a mile and a half from the town, may be reached from london, . miles, in less than an hour by the express train, and the traveller arrives in as wild a district as any in england. three miles north of tring lies the town of ivinghoe, possessing a large cruciform church, worthy of a visit from the students of "christian architecture," with an old sculptured timber roof, and containing a tomb with a norman french inscription,--according to some the tomb of henry de blois, bishop of winchester, brother of king stephen. at the rose and crown we are informed venison is to be had in perfection at moderate charges during the season. the station is the highest point on the line, being feet above the sea, above camden town, and above birmingham. in the course of the tring excavation in the gravel deposits above the chalk, the tusk and teeth of an elephant were found, and in crossing the icknield or roman way, about thirty-three miles, were sixteen human skeletons, and several specimens of roman pottery: two unique urns are now in the possession of the antiquarian society. two miles from tring we pass from hertfordshire into buckinghamshire. it remains a disputed point whether the name of the county is derived from bucken or boccen, a deer, according to spelman, or with lysons, boc, a charter, or with camden from bucken, beech trees, which, as in his time, still abound and flourish. unfortunately the state of agriculture does not allow the pastors of the country to take the ease and rest that was enjoyed by the celebrated mr. tityrus before the repeal of the roman corn laws, an ease which has cost many an unfortunate schoolboy a flogging. our next halt, cheddington, is noticeable only because it stands on the fork, of which a short branch, nine miles in length, leads to aylesbury. aylesbury. aylesbury, standing on a hill, in the midst of one of the richest, if not the richest, tracts of pasture lands in england, is very ancient without being venerable. the right of returning two members to parliament is found periodically profitable to the inhabitants, and these two mp's with a little lace, constitute its only manufactures. the loss of the coaching trade by the substitution of the railroad, was a great blow to its local prosperity. among other changes, the aylesbury butchers often go to london to buy meat, which has passed in the shape of oxen through the town to ride to london. the berry field, said to be the best field in england, lies in the vale of aylesbury. the saying of "good land bad farmers," is not belied among the mass of those who meet in the markets of aylesbury. with a few exceptions the farming is as bad as it can be, the farmers miserably poor, and the labourers ignorant to a degree which is a disgrace to the resident clergy and gentry. we had some experience of the peasantry during the railway surveys of , , and found them quite innocent of thinking and reading, with a timid hatred of their employers, and perfect readiness to do anything not likely to be found out, for a pot of beer. they get low wages, live low, and work accordingly. it was round aylesbury, that for many years, the influence of the insolvent duke of buckingham was paramount. to city sportsmen, aylesbury has interest as the centre of baron rothschild's (stag) hunt; to politicians, because of great meetings of the country party held there. we must not omit to notice the duck trade carried on by the poorer order of people round the town. they hatch the ducks under hens generally in their living rooms, often under their beds, and fatten them up early in spring on garbage, of which horse flesh not unfrequently forms a large part. the ducks taste none the worse if for the last fortnight they are permitted to have plenty of clean water and oats, or barleymeal. most of the aylesbury ducks never see water except in a drinking pan. the cheap rate at which the inferior grain can be bought has been a great advantage to these duck feeders. the many means now open of reaching the best markets of the country will probably change the style and make the fortunes of a new race of bucks farmers. those of the present generation who have neither capital nor education can only be made useful by transplantation. returning from aylesbury, and gliding out of the deep cuttings over a fine open country, we approach the leighton buzzard station, and see in the distance the lofty octagonal spire of the leighton buzzard church. the town is half a mile from the station, and commands the attention of the church antiquary from its fine church and cross. the church, says a very competent authority on such matters, "is one of the most spacious, lightsome, and well-proportioned perpendicular churches, cruciform, with a handsome stone spire. the roof, stalls, and other wood- work very perfect. the windows, some ironwork, and other details, full of interest." the cross stands in an open area in the centre of the market place, and is twenty-seven feet high above the basement, which is raised by rows of steps about five feet. at leighton buzzard a branch line of seven miles communicates with dunstable. [leighton buzzard: ill .jpg] dunstable is situated in the centre of the dunstable chalk downs, where the celebrated dunstable larks are caught which are made mention of in one of miss edgeworth's pretty stories. the manufactures are whiting and straw hats. of an ancient priory, founded in , by henry i., and endowed with the town, and the privileges of jurisdiction extending to life and death, nothing remains but the parish church, of which the interior is richly ornamented. over the altar-piece is a large painting representing the lord's supper, by sir james thornhill, the father-in-law of hogarth. in a charity school founded in , forty boys are clothed, educated, and apprenticed. in twelve almshouses twelve poor widows are lodged, and in six houses near the church, called the maidens' lodge, six unmarried gentlewomen live and enjoy an income of pounds per ann. with this brief notice we may retrace our steps. on leaving leighton, within half a mile we enter a covered tunnel, and we strongly recommend some artist fond of "strong effects" in landscape to obtain a seat in a coupe forming the last carriage in an express train, if such are ever put on now, sitting with your back to the engine, with windows before and on each side, you are whirled out of sight into twilight and darkness, and again into twilight and light, in a manner most impressive, yet which cannot be described. perhaps the effect is even greater in a slow than in an express train. but as this tunnel is curved the transition would be more complete. at bletchley the church (embowered in a grove of yews, planted perhaps when henry viii. issued his decrees for planting the archer's tree) contains an altar tomb of lord grey of wilton, a.d. . the station has now become important as from it diverge the bedford line to the east, and the lines to banbury and oxford to the west. a branch connects bletchley with bedford . miles in length, with the following stations:- fenny stratford. lidlington. woburn sands. ampthill. ridgmount. bedford. woburn and bedford. woburn is one of those dull places, neat, clean, and pretentious in public buildings, which are forced under the hot-house influence of a great political family. we pass it to visit woburn abbey, the residence of the russell family, with its extensive and magnificent gardens, its model farms, its picture gallery, and other accessories of a great nobleman's country seat. it was at woburn that francis, duke of bedford, held his sheep-shearing feasts, and by patronising, in conjunction with coke of norfolk and mr. western, improvements and improvers in agriculture and stock-breeding, did so much to promote agricultural improvement in this county, and to create that large class of wealthy educated agriculturists, which confers such great benefits on this country. now that every country gentleman has at least one neighbour who is, or professes to be, an agricultural improver, it is difficult to give an adequate idea of the benefit we have derived from the agricultural enthusiasm of the noblemen and gentlemen who first made the science of cultivating breeding fashionable, we must be excused the word, among a class which had previously been exclusively devoted to field sports or to town life. they founded that finest of all modern characters--the english country gentleman, educated, yet hearty, a scholar and a sportsman, a good farmer, and an intelligent, considerate landlord; happy to teach, and ready to learn, anything connected with a pursuit which he follows with the enthusiasm of a student and the skill of a practical man. the other stations have nothing about them to induce a curious traveller to pause. not so can we say of bedford. bedford has been pauperised by the number and wealth of its charities. a mechanic, or small tradesman, can send his child if it be sick to a free hospital; when older to a free school, where even books are provided; when the boy is apprenticed a fee may be obtained from a charity; at half the time of apprenticeship, a second fee; on the expiration of the term, a third; on going to service, a fourth; if he marries he expects to obtain from a charity fund "a portion" with his wife, also educated at a charity; and if he has not sufficient industry or prudence to lay by for old age, and those are virtues which he is not likely to practise, he looks forward with confidence to being boarded and lodged at one of bedford's fifty-nine almshouses. the chief source of the charities of bedford is derived from an estate of thirteen acres of land in the parish of st. andrew, holborn, london, bequeathed by sir william harpur, an alderman of that city, in the reign of edward vi., for founding a free school for instructing the children of the town in grammar, and good manners. this land, now covered with valuable houses, produces some , pounds per annum. on this fund there are supported, st. a grammar school, with eighty boys on the foundation, and as many private boarders; a commercial school, containing to boys; a national school, of boys, where on the half holidays girls are received, a regular girls' school and an infant school. beside which, the girls in the hospital for poor children, another branch of the charity, are taught household duties, needlework, reading and writing. in these schools the children of all resident parishioners of bedford's five parishes are entitled to receive gratuitous instruction. in the national school twenty-five boys are clothed from a fund left by alderman newton, of leicester. the warden and fellows of new college, oxford, are visitors, and appoint the master and second master of the grammar school. there are four masters, viz., the head, with two assistant masters; a mathematical master, and a writing master. the scholars enjoy the advantage of eight exhibitions, of pounds per annum each, six of which must be bestowed on town boys, the remaining two may go to boarders. the cheap and good education attainable as a matter of right in this borough, have rendered it a favourite resort of half-pay officers and unbeneficed clergymen, blessed with large families. the church of st. paul is large, with a nave and a south aisle, divided by early english piers and arches. a stone pulpit, ornamented with gilt tracery, on a blue ground, has been removed in favour of an oak one, with the chancel. the church of st. peter has an old norman door, a fine antique front, and some curious stained glass in the windows. john bunyan, author of the "pilgrim's progress," was co-pastor in a baptist meeting house, in mill-lane, from until his death in . the chair in which he used to sit is still preserved in the vestry as a relic. a few miles from bletchley, is a forgotten, but once celebrated spot, denbigh hall, over which the traveller whirls without notice, yet worthy of remembrance, because it affords a name and date for tracing the march of railway enterprise. in , a gap in the intended railway from london to birmingham extended from an obscure public-house, called denbigh hall, to rugby. at either point travellers had to exchange the rail for the coach or chaise. on june , , when queen victoria was crowned, for days before the coronation, the coaches for the intermediate space were crammed; the chaises and post horses were monopolised, and at length, to cover thirty odd miles, every gig, standing waggon, cart, and donkey cart that could be obtained in the district, was engaged, and yet many were disappointed of their journey to london. on this london and birmingham line, in addition to, and without disturbing the ordinary traffic, , souls have been conveyed in one train, at the rate of thirty miles an hour. truly queen victoria can set the railway conquests of her reign against the glories of the war victories of queen anne and her grandfather, king george. [denbigh hall bridge: ill .jpg] the bucks railway. a recent extension from bletchley traverses buckinghamshire, and by a fork which commences at winslow, passes through buckingham and brackley to banbury by one line, and by bicester to oxford by the other. we need not pause at brackley or winslow. buckingham is notable chiefly as being on the road to princely palatial stowe, the seat of the buckingham family, now shorn of its internal glories in pictures, sculptures, carvings, tapestry, books, and manuscripts. its grounds and gardens, executed on a great scale in the french style, only remain to delight the traveller; these would require, and have been often described in, illustrated volumes. here we shall not dwell upon the melancholy scene of grandeur, power, and wealth frittered away in ignoble follies. banbury. banbury is more celebrated than worth seeing. commercial travellers consider it one of the best towns in england, as it is a sort of metropolis to a great number of thriving villages. banbury cakes are known wherever english children are bred, and to them, where not educated in too sensible a manner, the homeric ballad of-- "ride a cock horse to banbury cross," is sung. unfortunately, the puritans, in the time of edward vi., pulled this famous cross down. they were in great force there; for as drunken barnaby, in his tour, tells us:-- "there i found a puritan one, hanging of his cat on monday for killing of a rat on sunday." at banbury was fought, after the english fashion, one of the great fights that preceded the carrying of the reform bill. previous to that change, sixteen electors had the privilege of sending a member to parliament. during the reform excitement six of these privileged gentlemen seceded from their usual compact, and determined to set up on their own account. for want of a better man, they pitched upon mr. easthope, of the morning chronicle, since that period, much to his own astonishment no doubt, pitchforked into a baronetcy. the old original m.p. was colonel hutchinson, the companion of sir robert wilson in carrying off lavalette. on entering the town, ten thousand reformers set up such a howling, that colonel hutchinson, thinking his last hour at hand, drew a dagger. upon which more groans and shrieks followed, with such threats as made it prudent for the friends of the colonel to compel him to retreat. under these circumstances, the streets of the town were crammed full with an excited mob; the poll was opened; the six, amid tremendous plaudits, voted for easthope, and reform; the ten very discreetly staid at home, and thus, by six votes, a baronetcy was secured to the unopposed candidate. it is droll to look back upon the movement which led public opinion to prefer a stockjobber to a gallant soldier. banbury manufactures horse girths and other kinds of webbing, as well as excellent ale. there are two inns, both good. the buckinghamshire railway has reduced the price of coal to the inhabitants from s. to s. per ton, on , tons per annum. bicester, commonly pronounced bister, is thirteen miles by the road from oxford, a town as ancient as the heptarchy; famous for a well once sacred and dedicated to st. edburgh, for its well attended markets and cattle fairs, and especially for its excellent ale. it is in the centre of a capital hunting country. the women make a little bone lace. oxford. oxford is one of the great gates through which our rich middle classes send their sons to be amalgamated with the landed and titled aristocracy, who are all educated either there or at cambridge. to say of any one that he is an "oxford man," at once implies that he is a gentleman, and when a well-looking, well-mannered, and even moderately endowed young gentleman has passed respectably through his curriculum at christchurch or magdalen, balliol, oriel, university, or any other of the correct colleges, it rests with himself whether he runs the race of public life in england on equal terms with the sons of the oldest of the titled and untitled aristocracy, even though his father were an eminent retired dust contractor, and his mother laundry maid or factory girl. but money alone won't do it, and the pretension, the display, the coxcombry permitted in a peer, must be carefully avoided by a parvenu. thus oxford interests classes who care very little for its educational, antiquarian, or architectural resources, as one of the institutions of the country by which any capable man may cut off his plebeian entail, and start according to the continental term "noble." the material beauty of oxford is great--the situation, in a rich valley bounded by softly flowing rivers, fine--the domes, and spires, and old grey towers rising in clusters, prepare the mind of the approaching traveller for the city where the old colleges and churches, planting out and almost composing it, afford at every bend of the long streets, at every turn of the narrow thoroughfares, some grand picture, or charming architectural effect; even our quakers are proud of oxford in england when they travel in america. then oxford is so decorously clean, so spotlessly free from the smoke of engines and the roar of machinery; the groves and gardens, and trim green turf seen through richly-carved and corbeled archways, give such a feeling of calm study, and pleasant leisure, that we will defy the bitterest radical and the sourest dissenter not to be softened and charmed by his first impressions. to those who arrive prepared to be pleased, stored with associations of the past, fortunate enough to have leisure and introductions to some affable don long resident, and proud to display the treasures and glories of his beloved alma mater, oxford affords for many days a treat such as no other city in the world can supply to an englishman. the best known route from london is by the great western railway, which, according to the original plan, would have passed close to the city. but all the university and ecclesiastical dignitaries were up in arms; they saw, in their mind's eye, the tender, innocent undergraduates flying from the proctor-guarded precincts, where modesty, virtue, and sobriety ever reign, to the vice-haunted purlieus of london, at all hours of the night and day. the proctors and professors triumphed; the railway was obliged to leave a gap of ten miles of common road between its invading, unhallowed course, and the sacred city; and great was the rejoicing in the convocation chamber, and many the toasts in the senior common rooms to the health of the faithful sons of oxon, who in parliament had saved the city from this commercial desecration. but as even grosvenor-square was at length glad to admit gas after abiding longest of all in the genteel gloom of oil lamps, so was oxford in the end glad to be put on a branch, as it could not be put on a main line; and now, beside the rail on which we are travelling, worcester, banbury, and wolverhampton, and two roads to london and birmingham are open to the wandering tastes of the callow youth of the university; as may be ascertained by a statistical return from the railway stations whenever a steeple-chase or jenny lind concert takes place in or near any of the towns enumerated. the entrance from bletchley is, perhaps, the finer, as rolling round a semicircle, we sweep into sight of the dome of radcliffe library and the spire of st. mary's church, descend, enter the city by the cheltenham-road, and passing through an inferior suburb, reach the head of high-street, of which a great german art critic declared, "that it had not its equal in the whole world." wide, long, and gently curving, approached from either end, it presents in succession the colleges of lincoln, brasenose, university, all souls, queen's, st. mary's church, with peeps of gardens with private houses, and with shops, which do not detract, but rather add, to the dignity and weight of the grand old buildings. having slowly sauntered up and down, and scanned the various characters peculiar to the city of universities--as, for instance, an autocrat in the person of a dean of christchurch, a principal of balliol, or a master of jesus, a proctor newly made, but already endowed with something of the detective police expression; several senior fellows, plump, shy, proud, and lazy--walking for an appetite, and looking into the fishmongers on their way to the parks; a "cocky" master of arts, just made, and hastening to call on all his friends and tradesmen to show off his new dignity, and rustle the sleeves of his new gown; three lads, just entered from a public school (last month they laid out tip in mother brown's tarts), on their way to order three courses and dessert at the mitre, where very indifferent fare is provided for fashionable credit prices; a pale student, after dr. pusey's own heart, in cap and gown, pacing monk-like along, secretly telling his beads; a tuft (nobleman) lounging out of the shop of a tailor, who, as he follows his lordship to the door, presents the very picture of a dean bowing to a prime minister, when a bishop is very sick. a few ladies are seen, in care of papas in caps and gowns, or mammas, who look as if they were doctors of divinity, or deserved to be. the oxford female is only of two kinds--prim and brazen. the latter we will not describe; the former seem to live in perpetual fear of being winked at, and are indescribable. from these street scenes, where the ridiculous only is salient, for the quiet and gentlemanly pass by unnoticed, while pompous dons and coxcombical undergraduates are as certain of attention as turkeycocks and bantams, we will turn into the solemn precincts of a few of the colleges. at the head stands christchurch in dignity and size, founded by cardinal wolsey, pope clement vii. consenting, in , on the revenues of some dozen minor monasteries, under the title of cardinal college. the fall of wolsey--england's last cardinal, until by the invitation of modern mediaeval oxford, pius ix. sent us a wiseman--stopped the works. one of wolsey's latest petitions to henry was, "that his college at oxford might go on." and by the king, after some intermediate changes, it was finally established as christchurch. the foundation now consists of a dean, eight canons, eight chaplains, a schoolmaster, an organist, eight choristers, and students, of whom a considerable number are exhibitioners from westminster school. it is in symbolism of these students that the celebrated great tom of christchurch clangs each evening times. besides these students, there are generally nearly independent members, consisting of noblemen, gentlemen commoners, and commoners. to be a gentleman commoner of christchurch, all other advantages being equal, is the most "correct thing" in the university; none can compete with them, unless it be the gentlemen commoners of magdalen. the christchurch noblemen, or tufts, are considered the leaders of fashion, whether it be in mediaeval furniture, or rat hunting, boating, or steeple- chase riding, old politics or new religions. among the illustrious men it claims as pupils are, sir philip sydney and ben jonson, camden and south, bolingbroke and locke, canning and sir robert peel, whom oxford rejected. the front is in aldate's-street, for which consult mr. spier's pretty guide card, the entrance under the lofty clock tower, whence, at ten minutes past nine every evening, the mighty tom peals forth his sonorous summons. the "tom gateway" leads into the quadrangle familiarly termed "quad," feet by , the dimensions originally planned by wolsey; but the buildings which bound it on three sides were executed after the destruction of the old edifice in the great civil wars from designs by sir christopher wren in . the hall on the south side is ancient; we ascend to it by a flight of steps under a handsome groined roof supported by a single pillar. the hall is feet long, wide, and high. the open roof of oak richly carved, decorated with the arms of wolsey and henry viii. other carvings adorn the fire-place and a fine bay window. on the sides of the rooms are hung a series of portraits of ecclesiastics, poets, philosophers (these are few), statesmen, and noblemen, representing distinguished students of the college. the dinner hour, when the dean and chief officers sit in state on the dais, masters and bachelors at the side tables, and undergraduates at the lower end, is an impressive sight, recalling feudal times. the feeding is the worst of any in oxford, much to the advantage of the taverns and pastrycooks. when in queen elizabeth visited oxford, a play was performed before her in this hall by the students, in the course of which, "a cry of hounds belonging to themselves" having been counterfeited in the quadrangle, the students were seized with a sudden transport; whereat her majesty cried out, "o excellent! these boys in very truth are ready to leap out of the window to follow the hounds." amid the many changes of taste and opinion since the days of queen bess, the love of hunting still prevails in christchurch, not one of the least healthy tastes, in an age of perpetual competing work; and the christchurch drag is one of the stock amusements anathematized toward the end and permitted at the beginning of every hunting term, for the glory of the chief tuft and the benefit of hard-reading men, who cannot waste their time in trotting from cover to cover dependent on the vagaries of such an uncertain animal as a fox, and are therefore content to hunt a "cad" armed with a red herring over the stiffest country he can pick. after the hall, the kitchen should be visited. it is the most ancient part of the building, for wolsey, with a truly ecclesiastical appreciation of the foundation of all sound learning, began with the kitchen, and it survived him. agriculture, gardening, cooking, and confectionery, were among the civilizing arts brought to great perfection by religious houses and lost for a long period after the reformation, which, like other strong medicines, cleared our heads at the expense of our stomachs. in wolsey's kitchen may be seen the huge gridiron on which our ancestors roasted sheep whole and prepared other barbarous disgusting dishes. in the peckwater quadrangle are to be found the library and the guise collection of pictures, which contains curious specimens of that early school which the mad mediaevalists are now fond of imitating, and a few examples of the famous italian masters who rose on the force of genius, which did not disdain study but did disdain imitation. wickliff was a warden, and sir thomas more a student, in canterbury hall, which was amalgamated in wolsey's college. the chapel of christchurch is the cathedral of oxford. the oldest parts belonged to the church of st. frideswide's priory, consecrated a.d. . wolsey pulled down fifty feet of the nave and adapted it to the use of his college. the stained glass windows, without which every gothic cathedral has a bare, naked, cold appearance, and which were peculiarly fine, nearly all fell a sacrifice to puritanical bigotry. for the many curious and beautiful architectural features we must refer in this instance, as in all others, to the architectural guides, such as parker's, with which every one who feels any interest in the subject will provide himself. leaving christchurch by the canterbury gate up merton-lane, we pass on one hand corpus christi, founded in the reign of henry viii., where bishop sewel, author of "the laws of ecclesiastical polity," and richard hooker, a protestant whom even a pope praised, were bred; on the other, oriel, where studied walter raleigh, one of england's greatest men, a poet and philosopher, soldier and statesman, mariner and historian; not guiltless, yet worthy of pity in his fall and long imprisonment, and of honour in his brave and christian death,--the victim of the ever feeble treacherous stuarts. what other line of kings has had the fate to sign away the lives of two such men as raleigh and strafford? oriel also claims as students prynne, who, with his libels and his ears, laid the foundation of our liberty of the press; bishop butler, whose "analogy" showed how logic and philosophy could be applied to support the cause of christian truth; dr. arnold, the reformer of our modern school system, whom oxford persecuted during life and honoured in death; and lastly, the clever crotchety archbishop whateley, who has not only proved that napoleon bonaparte never existed, but that mr. gibbon wakefield's bankrupt schemes of colonization were triumphant successes. next we come to merton, the most ancient of all the colleges, founded th january . the oldest of its buildings now standing is the library, the oldest in england, erected . wickliff was a student of merton. university college, which next falls in our way, claims to date from king alfred, but has no charters so ancient as those of merton. the buildings are not more early than charles i., but the chapel contains some of grinling gibbons's best carvings, and a monument by flaxman of sir william jones, who was a fellow of this university. the modern part, fronting high-street, is from the designs of barry, the architect of the palace of westminster. university college has one of the old customs, of which several are retained in oxford, called "chopping at the tree." on easter sunday a bough is dressed up with flowers and evergreens, and laid on a turf by the buttery. after dinner each member, as he leaves the hall, takes up a cleaver and chops at the tree, and then hands over "largess" to the cook, who stands by with a plate. the contribution is, for the master half a guinea, the fellows five shillings, and other members half a crown each. in like manner, at queen's college, which stands opposite university, on christmas day a boar's head is brought into the hall in procession, while the old carol is sung-- the boar's head in hand bear i bedecked with bays and rosemary, and i pray you, my masters, be merry. qui estis in convivio, caput apri defero, reddens laudes domino. while on new year's day the bursar presents to every member a needle and thread with the words, "take this and be thrifty." we have not been able to obtain a statistical return of the standing of the queen's men in the books of the tradesmen of oxford as compared with members of other colleges, but we recommend the question to mr. newdegate or some other oxonian figure monger. this college was founded by philippa, queen of edward iii. it was directed by the statutes that there should be twelve fellows and seventy poor scholars, who were to be summoned to dinner by the sound of a trumpet; when the fellows, clothed in scarlet robes, were to sit and eat, while the poor scholars, kneeling in token of humility, were to dispute in philosophy. the kneeling, disputing, and scarlet robes have been discontinued, but the trumpet still sounds to dinner. there are usually about members on the books of this college. lower down the high-street is all-souls, whose two towers are picturesque centres of most views of oxford. the buildings are various in character and merit, and well worth examination. the grand court was designed by hawksmoor rather on the principles of a painter than an architect; he wished it to make a good picture with the existing buildings, and he succeeded. all-souls is composed entirely of fellows, who elect from other colleges gentlemen whose qualification consists in being "bene nati, bene vestiti, et moderater docti in arte musica." with so easy a qualification as that of being well born, well dressed, and able to sing the old hundredth psalm, old king cole, or kilruddery, it may be imagined that all-souls has never done anything to disturb the minds of kings, cabinets, or reviewers, or even of the musical critics. pleasant gentlemanly fellows, when they do get into parliament it is usually as the advocates of deceased opinions. had joanna southcote been genteel, the fellows of all-souls and some other colleges would have continued joanna southcotians fifty years after her decease. all-souls, too, has its legend and its commemorative ceremony. the diggers of the foundations found in an old drain a monstrous mallard, a sort of alderman among wild ducks, thriving and growing fat amid filth. on being cooked he was found first-rate, and, in memory of this treasure-trove and of the foundation-day, annually on the th january the best mallard that can be found is brought in in state, all the mallardians chanting-- o the swapping swapping mallard, etc. from queen's we proceed to new college, built in the palmiest days of gothic architecture by william of wykeham, also architect of windsor castle and of winchester cathedral, of which he was bishop, as well as chancellor of england under edward iii. he was indeed a learned, pious, earnest man. "a worker-out of the glorious dreams he dreamed." according to his plan, a certain number of poor boys, of origin as humble as his own, were to receive a training in the best learning of the age; from these, the ablest were to be selected annually and sent to new college, with the enjoyment of such an income as would support them while studying philosophy and theology. at present, after a year's probation, youths at eighteen or nineteen become actual fellows, in enjoyment of an income varying from to pounds per annum, until such time as they marry or are provided with a college living. "wykeham laid the first stone of his new college on the th march . being finished, the first warden and fellows took possession of it april , , at three o'clock in the morning." the original buildings consist of the principal quadrangle, containing the hall, chapel, and library, the cloisters, and the tower. additions, quite out of keeping with the rich simplicity of the original design, were made by sir christopher wren. the chapel, first shorn of its ancient splendour by puritan zeal, and since restored in mistaken taste, is still one of the most beautiful edifices of the kind in england,--perhaps in europe. weeks of study will not satisfy or exhaust the true student of gothic architecture here. we trust that, sooner or later, some of the funds now spent on guttling and guzzling will be devoted to substituting facsimiles of ancient coloured glass for the painted mistakes of sir joshua reynolds, and restoring the ancient glories of gilt and colour to the carved work. if possible, the stranger should attend the service, when he will hear grand singing and accompanied by a magnificent organ. the silver gilt crozier of wykeham, formerly studded with rich gems, is one of the few relics of value preserved by new college. charles i. received the greater part of a rich collection of plate as a contribution to his military chest in the great civil war. this crozier interests, for, gazing on it, we are carried back five centuries, when it was not a bauble made in birmingham, but a symbol of actual power and superior intelligence. the sceptre of a prince of a church which then absorbed almost all the intellect and all the learning of the age. the garden with its archery-ground, and the "slipe," with its stables and kennels, complete what was meant to be a temple of sacred learning and active piety, but which has become a very castle of indolence, a sort of happy valley, for single men. winchester school still retains its ancient character for scholarship. (it is said to be almost impossible to "pluck" a wykehamist); but the foundation has been grossly abused, the elected being not poor boys but the sons of wealthy clergymen and gentlemen, as indeed they had need be, for, by another abuse, the parents of boys on the foundation have to pay about pounds a-year for their board. but, when a boy, distinguished for diligence and ability among his fellows, has been, at eighteen or nineteen years, elected to a fellowship of new college, his work for life is done,--no more need for exertion,--every incentive to epicurean rest. fine rooms, a fine garden, a dinner daily the best in oxford, served in a style of profusion and elegance that leaves nothing to be desired, wine the choicest, new college ale most famous, a retiring-room, where, in obsequious dignity, a butler waits on his commands, with fresh bottles of the strong new college port, or ready to compound a variety of delicious drinks, amid which the new college cyder cup and mint julep can be specially recommended. newspapers, magazines, and novels, on the tables of both the junior and senior common rooms, and a stable for his horse and a kennel for his dog, form part of this grand club of learned ignorance. and so, in idle uselessness, he spends life, unless by good fortune he falls in love and marries; even then, we pity his wife and his cook for the first twelve months,--or, by reaction, flies into asceticism and becomes a father of st. philip neri or a follower of saint pusseycat. but, after all this virtuous remonstrance on the misdirection of william of wykeham's noble endowment, we must own that, of our oxford acquaintance, none are more agreeable than those new college fellows of the old school, "who wore shocking bad hats and asked you to dinner." much better than the cold- blooded "monks without mass" who are fast superseding them, just as idle and more ill-natured. from new college we will go on to magdalen, the finest--the wealthiest of all: it cannot be described, it must be seen; with its buildings occupying eleven acres and pleasure-grounds a hundred acres, its tower whereon every may morning at daybreak a mass used to be and a carol is still sung, and its deer-park. here we may say, as of new college, is too much luxury for learning. the sons of dukes have become mathematicians; we have known an attorney's clerk, the son of a low publican, become an accomplished linguist in his leisure hours,--but such men are mental miracles, almost monsters: a fellow of magdalen or new college who works as hard as other men deserves to be canonized. we have not space to say anything of the other colleges. st. john's is noted for its gardens, pembroke because samuel johnson lodged there for as long a space as his poverty would permit. the colleges visited, we proceed to "the schools," which contain the bodleian library, founded by sir thomas bodley in , and by bequests, gifts from private individuals, by the expenditure of a sum for the last seventy years out of the university chest, and the privilege of a copy of every new british publication, has become one of the finest collections in europe; especially rich in oriental literature. the books are freely open to the use of all literary men properly introduced, and the public are permitted to view the rooms three times a week. the picture gallery contains a collection of portraits of illustrious individuals connected with the university, by holbein, vandyke, kneller, reynolds, wilkie, and others. among these are henry viii., the earl of surrey, and sir thomas more, by holbein. among the sculptures are a bust of the duke of wellington by chantrey, and a brass statue of the earl of pembroke, chancellor of the university from to , which is said to have been executed from a design by rubens. there is also a chair made from timber of the ship in which drake sailed round the world, and the lantern of guy fawkes. on the ground floor are the arundel marbles, brought from smyrna in the seventeenth century by the earl of that name. the theatre, close at hand, built by sir christopher wren, will contain three thousand persons, and should be seen to be appreciated when crowded by the elite of the university and of england, on the occasion of some of the great oxford festivals, when the rich costumes of the university, scarlet, purple, and gold, are set off by the addition of england's beauty not unadorned; as, for instance, on the last visit of the queen and prince albert. the clarendon press, built from designs of vanbrugh out of the profits of the university (garbled) edition of "clarendon's history of the great rebellion," and the ashmolean museum, where may be seen the head of the dodo, that extinct and deeply to be regretted bird, are close at hand, as also the radcliffe library, from the dome of which an excellent view of the city may be obtained. the university galleries, which present an imposing front to st. giles- street, contain, beside antique sculpture, the original models of all chantrey's busts, and a collection of original drawings of michael angelo and raffaelle, made by sir thomas lawrence, and purchased after his death by the university, the present earl of eldon contributing two-thirds of the purchase-money. constitution and costume of the university of oxford. the university is a corporate body, under the style of "the chancellor, masters, and scholars of the university of oxford." it includes nineteen colleges and five halls, each of which is a corporate body, governed by its own head and statutes respectively. the business of the university, as such, is carried on in the two houses of convocation and of congregation; the first being the house of lords, and the other, which includes all of and above the rank of masters of arts, the house of commons. the chancellor--elected by convocation, for life--never, according to etiquette, sets his foot in the university, excepting on occasions of his installation, or when accompanying royal visitors. he nominates as his representative a vice chancellor from the heads of colleges, annually, in turn, each of whom holds his office for four years. the vice chancellor is the individual who may occasionally be seen walking about in state, preceded by a number of beadles carrying maces, or, as they are profanely called, "pokers." the two proctors are next in authority to the vice chancellor. their costume is a full dress gown, with velvet sleeves, and band-encircled neck. they are assisted by two deputies, or pro-proctors, who have a strip of velvet on each side of the gown front, and wear bands. the proctors have certain legislative powers; but are most conspicuous as a detective police force, supported by "bulldogs," i.e., constables. a proctor is regarded by an undergraduate, especially by a fast man, with the same affection that a costermonger looks on a policeman. in the evenings, it is their duty to prowl round, and search, if necessary, any house within three miles, for so far does their authority extend. the dread of the proctor compels tandem drivers to send their leaders a distance out of town; and many an excited youth, on the day of a neighbouring steeplechase, is stopped, when driving out of the city, with--"your name, sir, and of what college?" "lord r. christchurch." "go back to your rooms, my lord, and call on me in an hour at worcester." the members of the university are divided into those who are on the foundation and those who are not. those on the foundation are the dean, president, master, warden, according to the charter of the college; the fellows, scholars, called demies at magdalene, and post-masters at merton; chaplains, bible-clerks, servitors, at christchurch and jesus. the qualifications for these advantages vary; but leading colleges--oriel and balliol--have set an example likely to be followed of throwing fellowships and scholarships open to the competition of the whole university, so that the best man may win. the disadvantage of the system lies in the fact, that having won, the incentives are all in the direction of idleness. the degree was formerly obtained by passing first through a preliminary examination termed a "little go," and afterwards through the "great go." the latter, successfully performed, entitles, at choice, to the title of b.a. (bachelor of arts), or s.c.l. (student of civil law). with time and money, the degrees of m.a. or b.c.l., and eventually d.c.l., may be obtained, without farther examination. but very recently an intermediate examination has been imposed. a candidate for a degree in music has only to perform an exercise previously approved by the professor of music in the music schools. doctors of divinity and masters of arts wear a stuff gown, with two long sleeves, terminating in a semicircle. the full dress of doctors of divinity is scarlet, with sleeves of black velvet--pink silk for doctors of law and medicine. bachelors wear a black stuff gown, with long sleeves tapering to a point, and buttoned at the elbow; noblemen undergraduates a black silk gown, with full sleeves, "couped" at the elbows, and a velvet cap with gold tassel; scholars the same shaped gown, of a common stuff, with ordinary cloth cap; gentlemen commoners a silk gown with plaited sleeves, and velvet cap; if commoners, a plain black gown without sleeves, which is so hideous that they generally carry it on their arm. the expense of maintaining a son at the university may be fixed at from pounds, as a minimum, to pounds a-year; the latter being the utmost needful. but a fool may spend any amount, and get nothing for it. the fashion of drinking has gone out to a great extent; and the present race of undergraduates are not more random and extravagant than any set of young men of the same age and number would be if thrown together for two or three years. at the same time, it is not the place to which a father to whom economy is an object should send a son, least of all one previously educated on the milk and water stay-at-home principle. as a general rule, it is not among the nobility, and sons of the wealthy gentry, that much excess is found to prevail; but among those who at the university find themselves for the first time without control, with money and with credit at command. in a summer or autumnal visit, christchurch meadow, and some of the many beautiful walks round oxford, should be sought out and visited alone; on such occasions, on no account be tormented with one of the abominable parrot-like guides. these horrid fellows consider it their duty to chatter. we have often thought that a dumb guide, with a book for answering questions, would make a great success. in winter, when the flooded meadows are frozen over, those who love to see an army of first-class skaters will find an oxford day ticket well worth the money--youth, health, strength, grace, and manly beauty, in hundreds, cutting round and round, with less of drawback from the admixture of a squalid mob than in any other locality. and then again in the hunting season, take the ugliest road out of oxford, by the seven bridges, because there you may see farthest along the straight highway from the crown of the bridges, and number the ingenuous youth as on hunters they pace, or in hack or in dogcart or tandem they dash along to the "meet." arrived there, if the fox does get away--if no ambitious youngster heads him back--if no steeplechasing lot ride over the scent and before the hounds, to the destruction of sport and the master's temper--why then you will see a fiery charge at fences that will do your heart good. there is not such raw material for cavalry in any other city in europe, and there is no part of our social life so entirely novel, and so well worth exhibiting to a foreigner, as a "meet" near oxford, where in scarlet and in black, in hats and in velvet caps, in top-boots and black-jacks, on twenty pound hacks and two hundred guinea hunters, finest specimens of young england are to be seen. on returning, if the sport has been good, you may venture to open a chat with a well-splashed fellow traveller on a beaten horse, but in going not--for an oxford man in his normal state never speaks unless he has been introduced. the only local manufactures of oxford, except gentlemen, are boots, leather- breeches, and boats; these last in great perfection. the regattas and rowing-matches on the isis are very exciting affairs. from the narrowness of the stream, they are rather chases than races; the winners cannot pass, but must pursue and bump their competitors. the many silent, solitary wherries, urged by vigorous skilful arms, give, on a summer evening, a pleasing life to river-side walks, although that graceful flower, the pretty pink bonnet and parasol, peculiar to the waters of richmond and hampton, is not often found growing in the oxford wherry. comedies, in the shape of slanging matches with the barges, are less frequent than formerly, and melodramatic fistic combats still less frequent. but old boatmen still love to relate to their peaceable and admiring pupils how that pocket hercules, the honourable s--- c---, now a pious clergyman, had a single combat with a saucy six foot bargee, "all alone by they two selves," bunged up both his eyes, and left him all but dead to time, ignorant then, and for months after, of the name of his victor. oxford sometimes contends with cambridge on neutral waters in an eight-oared cutter match, but is generally defeated, for a very characteristic reason--cambridge picks a crew of the best men from the whole university; oxford, more exclusive, gives a preference to certain colleges over men. christchurch, magdalene, and a few others, will take the lead in all arrangements, and will not, if they can help it, admit oarsmen from the unfashionable colleges of jesus, lincoln, or worcester! it is worth knowing that in the long vacation, commencing on july , there is no place like oxford for purchasing good dogs and useful horses. oxford hacks have long been famous, and not without reason. nothing slow would be of any use, whether for saddle or harness; and although the proportion of high-priced sound unblemished animals may be small, the number of quick runners is large. there is an establishment in holywell street which is quite one of the oxford sights. there, early in winter mornings, more than a hundred stalls are to be found, full of blood cattle, in tip-top condition, and on summer afternoons no barracks of a cavalry regiment changing quarters are more busy. we must not leave oxford without visiting blenheim, the monument of one of our greatest captains and statesmen, with whom, perhaps, in genius and fortune, none can rank except clive and wellington. blenheim should be seen when the leaves are on the trees. the house is only open between eleven o'clock and one. the better plan is to hire a conveyance, of which there are plenty and excellent to be had in the city, at reasonable charges. when we remember this splendid pile--voted by acclamation, but paid for by grudging and insufficient instalments by the english parliament--was finished under the superintendence of that beautiful fiery termagant, sarah duchess of marlborough, who was at once the plague and the delight of the great duke's life, every stone and every tree must be viewed with interest. we should advise you, before passing a day at blenheim, to refresh your memory with the correspondence of the age of queen anne and her successors, including swift, bolingbroke, pope, and walpole; not forgetting the letters of duchess sarah herself, and disraeli's "curiosities of literature," for the history of the building of blenheim, and how the duchess worried the unfortunate architect, vanbrugh. blenheim contains a large number of first class paintings, including an altar-piece by raffaelle, several good titians, a very fine collection of rubens, choice specimens of vandyke and sir joshua reynolds. after returning to bletchley our next halt is at wolverton station. wolverton station. wolverton, the first specimen of a railway town built on a plan to order, is the central manufacturing and repairing shop for the locomotives north of birmingham. the population entirely consists of men employed in the company's service, as mechanics, guards, enginemen, stokers, porters, labourers, their wives and children, their superintendents, a clergyman, schoolmasters and schoolmistresses, the ladies engaged on the refreshment establishment, and the tradesmen attracted to wolverton by the demand of the population. this railway colony is well worth the attention of those who devote themselves to an investigation of the social condition of the labouring classes. we have here a body of mechanics of intelligence above average, regularly employed for ten and a-half hours during five days, and for eight hours during the sixth day of the week, well paid, well housed, with schools for their children, a reading-room and mechanics' institution at their disposal, gardens for their leisure hours, and a church and clergyman exclusively devoted to them. when work is ended, wolverton is a pure republic--equality reigns. there are no rich men or men of station: all are gentlemen. in theory it is the paradise of louis blanc, only that, instead of the state, it is a company which pays and employs the army of workmen. it is true, that during work hours a despotism rules, but it is a mild rule, tempered by customs and privileges. and what are the results of this colony, in which there are none idle, none poor, and few uneducated? why, in many respects gratifying, in some respects disappointing. the practical reformer will learn more than one useful lesson from a patient investigation of the social state of this great village. [the wolverton viaduct: ill .jpg] those who have not been in the habit of mixing with the superior class of english skilled mechanics will be agreeably surprised by the intelligence, information, and educational acquirements of a great number of the workmen here. they will find men labouring for daily wages capable of taking a creditable part in political, literary, and scientific discussion; but at the same time the followers of george sand, and french preachers of proletarian perfection will not find their notions of the ennobling effects of manual labour realised. there are exceptions, but as a general rule, after a hard day's work, a man is not inclined for study of any kind, least of all for the investigation of abstract sciences; and thus it is that at wolverton library, novels are much more in demand than scientific treatises. in summer, when walks in the fields are pleasant, and men can work in their gardens, the demand for books of any kind falls off. turning from the library to the mechanics' institution, pure science is not found to have many charms for the mechanics of wolverton. geological and astronomical lectures are ill attended, while musical entertainments, dissolving views, and dramatic recitations are popular. it must be confessed that dulness and monotony exercise a very unfavourable influence on this comfortable colony. the people, not being quakers, are not content without amusement. they receive their appointed wages regularly, so that they have not even the amusement of making and losing money. it would be an excellent thing for the world if the kind, charitable, cold-blooded people of middle age, or with middle-aged heads and hearts, who think that a population may be ruled into an every-day life of alternate work, study, and constitutional walks, without anything warmer than a weak simper from year's end to year's end, would consult the residents of wolverton and crewe before planning their next parallelogram. we commend to amateur actors, who often need an audience, the idea of an occasional trip to wolverton. the audience would be found indulgent of very indifferent performances. but to turn from generalities to the specialities for which wolverton is distinguished, we will walk round the workshops by which a rural parish has been colonised and reduced to a town shape. * * * * * wolverton workshops.--to attempt a description of the workshops of wolverton without the aid of diagrams and woodcuts would be a very unsatisfactory task. it is enough to say that they should be visited not only by those who are specially interested in machinery, but by all who would know what mechanical genius, stimulated as it has been to the utmost during the last half century, by the execution of profitable inventions, has been able to effect. at wolverton may be seen collected together in companies, each under command of its captains or foremen, in separate workshops, some hundreds of the best handicraftsmen that europe can produce, all steadily at work, not without noise, yet without confusion. among them are a few men advanced in life of the old generation; there are men of middle age; young men trained with all the manual advantages of the old generation, and all the book and lecture privileges of the present time; and then there are the rising generation of apprentices--the sons of steam and of railroads. among all it would be difficult to find a bad-shaped head, or a stupid face--as for a drunkard not one. it was once remarked to us by a gentleman at the head of a great establishment of this kind, that there was something about the labour of skilled workmen in iron that impressed itself upon their countenances, and showed itself in their characters. something of solidity, of determination, of careful forethought; and really after going over many shops of ironworkers, we are inclined to come to the same opinion. machinery, while superseding, has created manual labour. in a steam-engine factory, machinery is called upon to do what no amount of manual labour could effect. to appreciate the extraordinary amount of intellect and mental and manual dexterity daily called into exercise, it would be necessary to have the origin, progress to construction, trial, and amendment of a locomotive engine from the period that the report of the head of the locomotive department in favour of an increase of stock receives the authorization of the board of directors. but such a history would be a book itself. after passing through the drawing-office, where the rough designs of the locomotive engineer are worked out in detail by a staff of draughtsmen, and the carpenters' shop and wood-turners, where the models and cores for castings are prepared, we reach, but do not dwell on the dark lofty hall, where the castings in iron and in brass are made. the casting of a mass of metal of from five to twenty tons on a dark night is a fine sight. the tap being withdrawn the molten liquor spouts forth in an arched fiery continuous stream, casting a red glow on the half-dressed muscular figures busy around, which would afford a subject for an artist great in turner or danby-like effects. but we hasten to the steam-hammer to see scraps of tough iron, the size of a crown-piece, welded into a huge piston, or other instrument requiring the utmost strength. at wolverton the work is conducted under the supreme command of the chief hammerman, a huge-limbed, jolly, good-tempered vulcan, with half a dozen boy assistants. the steam-hammer, be it known, is the application of steam to a piston under complete regulation, so that the piston, armed with a hammer, regularly, steadily, perpendicularly descends as desired, either with the force of a hundred tons or with a gentle tap, just sufficient to drive home a tin tack and no more. at a word it stops midway in stroke, and at a word again it descends with a deadly thump. on our visit, an attempt was being made to execute in wrought, what had hitherto always been made in cast iron. success would effect a great saving in weight. the doors of the furnace were drawn back, and a white glow, unbearable as the noon-day sun, was made visible, long hooked iron poles were thrust in to fish for the prize, and presently a great round mass of metal was poked out to the door of the fiery furnace--a huge roll of glowing iron, larger than it was possible for any one or two men to lift, even had it been cold. by ingenious contrivances it was slipped out upon a small iron truck, dragged to the anvil of the steam-hammer, and under the direction of vulcan, not without his main strength, lodged upon the block. during the difficult operation of moving the white-red round ball, it was beautiful to see the rapid disciplined intelligence by which the hammerman, with word or sign, regulated the movements of his young assistants, each armed with an iron lever. at length the word was given, and thump, thump, like an earthquake the steam- hammer descended, rapidly reducing the red-hot dutch cheese shape to the flatter proportions of a mighty double gloucester, all the while the great smith was turning and twisting it about so that each part should receive its due share of hammering, and that the desired shape should be rapidly attained, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with the other, he interposed a flat poker between the red mass and the hammer, sharing a vibration that was powerful enough to dislocate the shoulder of any lesser man. "hold," he cried: the elephant-like machine stopped. he took and hauled the great ball into a new position. "go on," he shouted: the elephant machine went on, and again the red sparks flew as though a thousand homeric blacksmiths had been striking in unison, until it was time again to thrust the half-welded cheese into the fiery furnace, and again it was dragged forth, and the jolly giant bent, and tugged, and sweated, and commanded,--he did not swear over his task. at length having succeeded in making the unwieldy lump assume an approach to the desired shape, he observed, in a deep, bass, chuckling, triumphant aside, to the engineer who was looking on, "i'm not a very little one, but i think if i was as big again you'd try what i was made of." since that day we have learned that the experiment has been completely successful, with a great diminution in the weight and an increase of the strength of an important part of a locomotive. we have dwelt upon the picture because it combined mechanical with manual dexterity. a hammerman who might sit for one of homer's blacksmith heroes, and machinery which effects in a few minutes what an army of such hammermen could not do. if our painters of mythological vulcans and sprawling satyrs want to display their powers over flesh and muscle, they may find something real and not vulgar among our iron factories. after seeing the operations of forging or of casting, we may take a walk round the shops of the turners and smiths. in some, whitworth's beautiful self-acting machines are planing or polishing or boring holes, under charge of an intelligent boy; in others lathes are ranged round the walls, and a double row of vices down the centre of the long rooms. solid masses of cast or forged metal are carved by the keen powerful lathe tools like so much box- wood, and long shavings of iron and steel sweep off as easily as deal shavings from a carpenter's plane. at the long row of vices the smiths are hammering and filing away with careful dexterity. no mean amount of judgment in addition to the long training needed for acquiring manual skill, is requisite before a man can be admitted into this army of skilled mechanics; for every locomotive contains many hundred pieces, each of which must be fitted as carefully as a watch. if we fairly contemplate the result of these labours, created by the inventive genius of a line of ingenious men, headed by watt and stephenson, these workshops are a more imposing sight than the most brilliant review of disciplined troops. it is not mere strength, dexterity, and obedience, upon which the locomotive builder calculates for the success of his design, but also upon the separate and combined intelligence of his army of mechanics. considering that in annually increasing numbers, factories for the building of locomotive, of marine steam-engines, of iron ships, and of various kinds of machinery, are established in different parts of the kingdom, and that hence every year education becomes more needed, more valued, and more extended among this class of mechanics, it is impossible to doubt that the training, mental and moral, obtained in factories like those of wolverton, crewe, derby, swindon, and other railway shops, and in great private establishments like whitworth's and roberts' of manchester, maudslay and field's of london, ransome and may of ipswich, wilson of leeds, and stephenson of newcastle, must produce by imitative inoculation a powerful effect on the national character. the time has passed when the best workmen were the most notorious drunkards; in all skilled trades self-respect has made progress. a few passenger carriages are occasionally built at wolverton as experiments. one, the invention of mr. j. m'connel, the head of the locomotive department, effects several important improvements. it is a composite carriage of corrugated iron, lined with wood to prevent unpleasant vibration, on six wheels, the centre wheels following the leading wheels round curves by a very ingenious arrangement. this carriage holds sixty second-class passengers and fifteen first-class, beside a guard's brake, which will hold five more; all in one body. the saving in weight amounts to thirty-five per cent. a number of locomotives have lately been built from the designs of the same eminent engineer, to meet the demands of the passenger traffic in excursion trains for july and august, . it must be understood that although locomotives are built at wolverton, only a small proportion of the engines used on the line are built by the company, and the chief importance of the factory at wolverton is as a repairing shop, and school for engine-drivers. every engine has a number. when an engine on any part of the lines in connection with wolverton needs repair, it is forwarded with a printed form, filled up and signed by the superintendent of the station near which the engine has been working. as thus--"engine , axle of driving-wheel out of gauge, fire-box burned out," etc. this invoice or bill of particulars is copied into a sort of day-book, to be eventually transferred into the account in the ledger, in which no. has a place. the superintendent next in command under the locomotive engineer-in-chief, places the lame engine in the hands of the foreman who happens to be first disengaged. the foreman sets the workmen he can spare at the needful repairs. when completed, the foreman makes a report, which is entered in the ledger, opposite the number of the engine, stating the repairs done, the men's names who did it, and how many days, hours, and quarters of an hour each man was employed. the engine reported sound is then returned to its station, with a report of the repairs which have been effected. the whole work is completed on the principle of a series of links of responsibility. the engineer-in-chief is answerable to the directors for the efficiency of the locomotives; he examines the book, and depends on his superintendent. the superintendent depends on the foreman to whom the work was entrusted; and, should the work be slurred, must bear the shame, but can turn upon the workmen he selected for the job. in fact, the whole work of this vast establishment is carried on by dividing the workmen into small companies, under the superintendence of an officer responsible for the quantity and quality of the work of his men. the history of each engine, from the day of launching, is so kept, that, so long as it remains in use, every separate repair, with its date and the names of the men employed on it, can be traced. allowing, therefore, for the disadvantage as regards economy of a company, as compared with private individuals, the system at wolverton is as effective as anything that could well be imagined. the men employed at wolverton station in march, , numbered , of whom were overlookers, were foremen, draughtsmen, clerks, engine- drivers, firemen, and labourers; the rest were mechanics and apprentices. the weekly wages amounted to pounds s. d. of course these men have, for the most part, wives and families, and so with shopkeepers, raise the population of the railway town of wolverton to about , , inhabiting a series of uniform brick houses, in rectangular streets, about a mile distant from the ancient parish church of wolverton, and the half-dozen houses constituting the original parish. for the benefit of this population, the directors have built a church, schools for boys, for girls, and for infants, which are not the least remarkable or interesting parts of this curious town. the clergyman of the railway church, the rev. george waight, m.a., has been resident at wolverton from the commencement of the railway buildings. his difficulties are great; but he is well satisfied with his success. in railway towns there is only one class, and that so thoroughly independent, that the influence of the clergyman can only rest with his character and talents. the church is thinly attended in the morning, for hard-working men like to indulge in rest one day in the week; in the evening it is crowded, and the singing far above average. to the schools we should like to have devoted a whole chapter now, but must reserve an account of one of the most interesting results of railway enterprise. there is a literary and scientific institution, with a library attached. scientific lectures and scientific books are very little patronized at wolverton; astronomy and geology have few students; but there is a steady demand for a great number of novels, voyages, and travels; and musical entertainments are well supported. the lecture-room is extremely miserable, quite unfit for a good concert, as there is not even a retiring room, but the directors are about to build a better one, and while they are about it, they might as well build a small theatre. some such amusement is much needed; for want of relaxation in the monotony of a town composed of one class, without any public amusements, the men are driven too often to the pipe and pot, and the women to gossip. in the summer, the gardens which form a suburb are much resorted to, and the young men go to cricket and football; but still some amusements, in which all the members of every family could join, would improve the moral tone of wolverton. work, wages, churches, schools, libraries, and scientific lectures are not alone enough to satisfy a large population of any kind, certainly not a population of hard-handed workers. * * * * * wolverton embankment was one of the difficulties in railway making, which at one period interested the public; at present it is not admitted among engineers that there are any difficulties. the ground was a bog, and as fast as earth was tipped in at the top it bulged out at the bottom. when, after great labour, this difficulty had been overcome, part of the embankment, fifty feet in height, which contained alum shale, decomposed, and spontaneous combustion ensued. the amazement of the villagers was great, but finally they came to the conclusion expressed by one of them, in "dang it, they can't make this here railway arter all, and they've set it o' fire to cheat their creditors." on leaving wolverton, before arriving at roade, a second-class station, after clearing a short cutting, looking westerly, we catch a glimpse of the tower of the church of grafton, where, according to tradition, edward iv. married lady gray of groby. the last interview between henry viii. and cardinal campeggio, relative to his divorce from catherine of aragon, took place at the mansion house of this parish, which was demolished in . about this spot we enter northamptonshire, and passing roade, pause at blisworth station, where there is a neat little inn. blisworth, northampton. miles. miles. blisworth. . oundle. . northampton. . wansford. . wellingborough. stamford by coach. higham ferrers. . peterborough. thrapston. from blisworth branches out the line to peterborough, with sixteen stations, of which we name above the more important. the route presents a constant succession of beautiful and truly english rural scenery, of rich lowland pastures, watered by the winding rivers, and bounded by hills, on which, like sentinels, a row of ancient church towers stand. the first station is northampton. * * * * * northampton, on a hill on the banks of the river nene, is a remarkably pleasant town, with several fine old buildings, an ancient church, an open market square, neat clean streets, and suburbs of pretty villas, overlooking, from the hill top, fat green meadows, flooded in winter. shoemaking on a wholesale scale, is the principal occupation of the inhabitants. for strong shoes northampton can compete in any foreign market, and a good many light articles, cut after french patterns, have been successfully made since the trade was thrown open by peel's tariff. there are several factories, in which large numbers of young persons are employed, but the majority work by the piece at home for the master manufacturers. northampton is also great in the fairs and markets of a rich agricultural district, and rejoices over races twice a year, in which the facilities of the railroad have rendered some compensation to the inn-keepers for the loss of the coaching trade. northampton was originally intended to be a main station of the railway between london and birmingham. the inhabitants were silly enough to resist the bestowal of this benefit upon them, and unfortunate enough to be successful in their resistance. in after years, when experience had rendered fools wise, they were glad to obtain the present branch through to peterborough; but the injury of the ill-judged opposition can never be cured. the church of all saints, in the centre of the town, has an ancient embattled tower which escaped the great fire of . st. peter's, near the west bridge, a remarkably curious specimen of enriched norman; st. sepulchre's, a round church of the twelfth century, all deserve enumeration. there are also two hospitals, the only remains of many religious houses which existed before the reformation. st. john's consists of a chapel and a large hall, with apartments for inferior poor persons; st. thomas's is for twenty poor alms- women. no vestiges, beyond the earthworks, remain of the castle built by simon de st. liz, who was created earl of northampton by william the conqueror. northampton was a royal residence during the reigns of richard i., john, and henry iii.; a battlefield during the wars of the barons and the wars of the roses; but the ancient character of the town was almost entirely destroyed by the great fire of ,--not without benefit to the health, though at the expense of the picturesqueness of this ancient borough. northampton is important as the capital town of one of our finest grazing and hunting counties, where soil and climate are both favourable to the farmer. large numbers of the scotch, welch, and herefords sold in smithfield, are fed in the yards and finished in the pastures of northamptonshire. the present earl of spencer keeps up, on a limited scale, the herd of short- horns which were so celebrated during the lifetime of his brother, better known as lord althorpe,--at his seat of althorpe, six miles from the town, and also carries on a little fancy farming. the late earl of spencer was much more successful as a breeder than as a farmer; indeed, it may be questioned whether the prejudices of that amiable and excellent man in favour of pasture land, did not exercise an injurious influence over the proceedings of the royal agricultural association. northampton returns two members to parliament, and has a mayor and corporation. the railway route from northampton to peterborough presents a series of pleasant views on either side,--so pleasant that he who has leisure should walk, or ride on horseback, along the line of saxon villages, visit the series of curious churches at wellingborough, higham ferrers, with its collegiate church and almshouse, thrapston and oundle, and other stations. within two miles of thrapston is drayton house, lowick, the seat of the sackville family, which retains many of the features of an ancient castle, and has a gallery of paintings by the old masters. the church of lowick contains several monuments, brasses, and windows of stained glass. near oundle is to be found the earthwork of fotheringay castle, where mary queen of scots was confined, tried, and executed. the castle itself was levelled to the ground by order of her son, james i. on leaving oundle we pass a station appurtenant to wansford in england, of which we shall say a word presently. here we may take coach across to stamford in lincolnshire (see stamford), unless we prefer the rail from peterborough. there is a point somewhere hereabouts where the three counties of northampton, lincoln, and huntingdon all meet. * * * * * wansford in england.--if about to investigate the antiquities of stamford or peterborough, the traveller will do well to stop at wansford for the sake of one of the best inns in europe, well known under the sign of "the haycock at wansford in england." this sign represents a man stretched floating on a haycock, apparently in conversation with parties on a bridge. it is intended to illustrate the legend of drunken barnaby, who, travelling during the time of the plague from london northward, tasting and criticising the ale on the road, drank so much of the northamptonshire brewst that he fell asleep on a haycock, in one of the flat meadows. in the night time, as is often the case in this part of the country, a sudden flood arose, and our toper awaked to find himself floating on a great tide of water, which at length brought him to a bridge, upon which, hailing the passengers, he asked, "where am i?" in full expectation of having floated to france or spain; whereupon they answered, "at wansford." "what!" he exclaimed in ecstacy, "wansford in england!" and landing, drank the ale and gave a new name to the inn of this village between three counties. the inn (which belongs to the duke of bedford) affords a sort of accommodation which the rapid travelling and short halts of railways have almost abolished. but an easy rent, a large farm, and a trade in selling and hiring hunters, enables the landlord to provide as comfortably for his guests, as when, in old posting days, five dukes made the haycock their night halt at one time. on entering the well carpeted coffee- room, with its ample screen, blazing fire, and plentiful allowance of easy chairs, while a well appointed tempting dinner is rapidly and silently laid on the spotless table-cloth,--the tired sportsman or traveller will be inclined to fancy that he is visitor to some wealthy squire rather than the guest of an innkeeper. when we add that the bed-rooms match the sitting- rooms, that the charges are moderate, that the pytchley, earl fitzwilliam's, and the duke of rutland's hounds (the beevor), meet within an easy distance; that the county abounds in antiquities, show-houses like burleigh, that pleasant woodland rides are within a circle of ten miles, that good pike- fishing is to be had nearly all the year round, while in retirement wansford is complete; we have said enough to show that it is well worth the notice of a large class of travellers,--from young couples on their first day's journey, to old gentlemen travelling north and needing quiet and a bottle of old port. the last station, peterborough, presents an instance of a city without population, without manufactures, without trade, without a good inn, or even a copy of the times, except at the railway station; a city which would have gone on slumbering to the present hour without a go-a-head principle of any kind, and which has nevertheless, by the accident of situation, had railway greatness thrust upon it in a most extraordinary manner. * * * * * peterborough is one of the centres from which radiate three lines to london, viz., by the northampton route, on which we have travelled; by the direct line, through herts, of the great northern; and by the eastern counties, with all its norfolk communications. from peterborough also proceeds an arm of the midland counties, through stamford, oldham, and melton mowbray, and the best leicestershire grass country, to leicester or to nottingham,--while the great northern, dividing, embraces the whole of lincolnshire and makes way to hull, by the humber ferries, on the one hand, and to york on the other. there is, therefore, the best of consolation on being landed in this dull inhospitable city, that it is the easiest possible thing to leave it. peterborough dates from the revival of christianity among the saxons; destroyed by the danes a.d. , rebuilt by edgar in , it was attacked and plundered by saxon insurgents from the fens under hereward the wake, in the time of william the conqueror. at the dissolution of religious houses under henry viii., peterborough was one of the most magnificent abbeys, and, having been selected as the seat of one of the new bishoprics, the buildings were preserved entire. in the civil wars, the lady chapel and several conventual buildings were pulled down and the materials sold. at present the cathedral is a regular cruciform structure of norman character, remarkable for the solidity of its construction. it was commenced , by john de saiz, a norman. the chancel was finished, a.d. , by abbot martin de vecti. the great transept and a portion of the central tower were built by abbot william de vaudeville, a.d. to , and the nave by abbot benedict - . the fitting up of the choir is of woodwork richly carved. the greater number of the monuments, shrines, and chantry chapels, were destroyed by the parliamentary troops. two queens lie buried here, catherine of aragon and mary of scotland, without elegy or epitaph, monument or tombstone. the cathedral viewed, nothing remains to detain the traveller in this peculiarly stupid city. within a pleasant ride of five miles lies milton house, the seat of earl fitzwilliam. * * * * * stamford.--although stamford is not upon this line of railway, travellers passing near should not fail to visit so ancient and interesting a town. few english boroughs can trace back more distinctly their antiquity. six churches still remain of the fifteen which, beside many conventual buildings, formerly adorned it. for stamford was one of the towns which, had not the reformation intervened, would have been swallowed up by the ever hungry ecclesiastical maw. stamford awakens many historic recollections. it has a place in domesday book, being there styled stanford: king stephen had an interview there with ranulph, earl of chester. in , the jews of stamford were plundered and slain by the recruits proceeding to the crusades; and, ten years afterwards, when edward i. expelled the jews from england, "their synagogue and noble library at stamford were profaned and sold." many of the books were purchased by gregory of huntingdon, a monk of ramsey abbey, a diligent student of ancient languages; and thus the result of much learning, collected in spain and italy, and handed down from the times when the jews and arabs almost alone cultivated literature as well as commerce, was sown in england, the last of european kingdoms to become distinguished in letters. stamford was the refuge of oxford students on the occasion of disturbances in . it was taken by the lancastrian army of the north under queen margaret in , and given up to plunder; and, in , when thirty thousand lincolnshire men marched, under the command of sir robert wells, against edward iv., under the walls of stamford they were defeated, and, flying, left their coats behind. but the latest battles of stamford have been between whig and tory, and even these have ceased. the houses and public buildings are all built of a rich cream-coloured stone, which gives an air of cleanliness and even distinction, which is an immense advantage. there are two fine hotels. the borough returns two members, both nominated by the marquis of exeter, who owns a large proportion of the vote- giving houses. the bull-running has been abolished here, as also at tutbury, in staffordshire; but those who are curious to see the ceremony may have occasional opportunities in the neighbourhood of smithfield market, where it is performed under the especial patronage of the aldermen of the city of london. weedon. the next station after blisworth is weedon, properly, weedon bec, so called because formerly there was established here a religious house, or cell, to the abbey of bec in normandy. the church, a very ancient building, contains portions of norman, and various styles of english, architecture. [bridge in the blisworth embankment: ill .jpg] the importance of weedon rests in its being the site of a strongly fortified central depot for artillery, small arms, and ammunition, with extensive barracks, well worth seeing, but not to be seen without an order from the board of ordnance. in passing, a few mild soldiers may be seen fishing for roach in the canal, and a few active ones playing cricket in summer. the weedon system of fortification eschews lofty towers and threatening battlemented walls, and all that constitutes the picturesque; so that weedon barracks look scarcely more warlike than a royal rope manufactory. after weedon we pass through kilsby tunnel, , yards long, which was once one of the wonders of the world; but has been, by the progress of railway works, reduced to the level of any other long dark hole. [view from the top of kilsby tunnel: ill .jpg] rugby and its railways. rugby, miles from london, the centre of a vast network of railways, is our next halting place. that is to say, first, an arm of the midland to leicester, to burton, to derby, to nottingham, and through melton mowbray to stamford and peterborough; thus intersecting a great agricultural and a great manufacturing district. second, the trent valley line, through atherstone, tamworth and lichfield, to stafford, and by cutting off the birmingham curve, forming part of the direct line to manchester. third, a line to leamington, which may be reached from this point in three- quarters of an hour; and fourth, a direct line to stamford, by way of market harborough; which, with the leamington line, affords the most direct conveyance from norfolk, and lincolnshire, through peterborough to birmingham, gloucester, and all that midland district. the oxford and rugby line, which was one of the subjects of the celebrated battles of the gauges, has not been constructed; and it may be doubted whether it ever will. the town lies about a mile from the station on the banks of the avon, and owes all its importance to laurence sheriff, a london shopkeeper in the time of queen elizabeth, who, in , endowed a school in his native village with eight acres of land, situated where lamb's conduit-street, in london, now stands, whence at present upwards of pounds a year is derived. rugby was long considered the most snobbish of english public schools, a sad character in a country where style and name go so far. some twenty years ago, when the rugbaeans had the "presumption" to challenge the wykehamists to play at football, the latter proudly answered, that the rugbaeans might put on worsted stockings and clouted soles, and the wykehamists in silk stockings and pumps would meet them in any lane in england. but, since that time, the harrow gentlemen, the eton fops, the winchester scholars, and the westminster blackguards, have had reason to admit that arnold, a wykehamist, long considered by the fellows of that venerable institution an unworthy son, succeeded in making rugby the great nursery of sound scholars and christian gentlemen, and in revolutionizing and reforming the educational system of all our public schools. the following, by one of arnold's pupils, himself an eminent example of cultivated intellect and varied information, combined with great energy in the practical affairs of life and active untiring benevolence, is a sketch of "arnold and his school." in the year , the head mastership became vacant of the grammar school at rugby, and the trustees, a body of twelve country gentlemen and noblemen, selected, to the dismay of all the orthodox, the rev. thomas arnold, late fellow of oriel college, oxford, and then taking private pupils at laleham, middlesex. transplanted from oriel, the hotbed of strange and unsound opinions, out of which the conflicting views of whateley, hampden, keble, and newman, were struggling into day; himself a disciple of the suspected school of german criticism; known to entertain views at variance with the majority of his church brethren on all the semipolitical questions of the day; an advocate for the admission of roman catholics to parliament, for the reform of the liturgy and enlargement of the church, so as to embrace dissenters; the distrust with which he was regarded by all who did not know him may be imagined. it was a critical time, the year ; the mind of the country was then undergoing that process of change which shortly afterwards showed itself in the emancipation of the roman catholics, the passing of the reform bill, the foundation of the london university, and the publications of the useful knowledge society. old opinions were on all sides the objects of attack. at such a period, public schools, with their exclusively classical teaching and their "fagging" systems, were naturally regarded as institutions of the past not adapted to the present. it seemed probable that a remodelling, or, according to the phrase of the day, a "reform" of them, would be attempted by the new intellectual school of which lord brougham was regarded as the type. it was the views of this party which, it was anticipated, dr. arnold would hasten to introduce into rugby. we now know that he did not do this, although he did reform not only the school of rugby, but gave a bias to the education of the sons of what is still the most influential class in this country, which has lasted to the present day, and that in a direction and in a manner which surprised his opponents, and at one time provoked even his friends. it may not be uninteresting to such of our readers as love to trace the origin of those changes of opinion, which are at times seen to diffuse themselves over portions of society from an unseen source, to learn how this original man commenced his task of training the minds committed to him in those peculiar tendencies, both as to feeling and thinking, which enter appreciably into the tone of the upper classes of the present generation. dr. arnold, from the day on which he first took charge of the school, adopted the course which he ever after adhered to, of treating the boys like gentlemen and reasonable beings. thus, on receiving from an offender an answer to any question he would say, "if you say so, of course i believe you," and on this he would act. the effect of this was immediate and remarkable; the better feeling of the school was at once touched; boys declared, "it is a shame to tell arnold a lie, because he always believes you;" and thus, at one bold step, the axe was put to the root of the inveterate practice of lying to the master, one of the curses of schools. in pursuance of the same views, when reprimanding a boy, he generally took him apart and spoke to him in such a manner as to make him feel that his master was grieved and troubled at his wrong-doing; a quakerlike simplicity of mien and language, a sternness of manner not unmixed with tenderness, and a total absence of all "don-ish" airs, combined to produce this effect. nor were his personal habits without their effect. the boys saw in him no outward appearance of a solemn pedagogue or dignified ecclesiastic whom it was a temptation to dupe, or into whose ample wig javelins of paper might with impunity be darted; but a spare active determined man, six feet high, in duck trousers, a narrow-brimmed hat, a black sailor's handkerchief knotted round his neck, a heavy walking-stick in his hand,--a strong swimmer, a noted runner; the first of all the masters in the school-room on the winter mornings, teaching the lowest class when it was his turn with the same energy which he would have thrown into a lecture to a critical audience, listening with interest to an intelligent answer from the smallest boy, and speaking to them more like an elder brother than the head master. { } they soon perceived that they had to deal with a man thoroughly in earnest, acute, active, and not easily deceived; that he was not only a scholar but a gentleman, who expected them to behave as the sons of gentlemen themselves. their attention was awakened, and, although their fears were somewhat excited, their sympathies and interest were at the same time aroused. this was a good commencement; but arnold was ready with other means no less effectual for engaging their thoughts. he opened out to them at once "fresh fields and pastures new," in the domain of knowledge; he established periodical examinations, at which (if a tolerable proficiency in the regular studies was displayed) a boy might offer to be examined in books on any subject he might prefer, and prizes were awarded accordingly. the offer was eagerly seized; modern history, biography, travels, fiction, poetry, were sought after; the habit of general reading was created, and a new intellectual activity pervaded the school. the writer well remembers the effect produced on him when he heard that arnold had lent one of the boys humphrey clinker, to illustrate a passage in his theme. he felt from that time forth that the keys of knowledge were confided to him, and, in proof of this, his own little library, and those in the "studies" of many of his neighbours, shortly doubled their numbers. french, german, and mathematics, were encouraged by forming distinct classes on these subjects, and by conferring for high standing in them some of the privileges as to exemption from fagging, which previously had only attached to a similar standing in classics. modern history was also introduced as a recognised branch of school study. the advantage of this was, that many of the boys, who, from deficient early training or peculiar turn of mind, were unable to bring themselves to proficiency in the regular latin and greek course of the school, and consequently were idle and listless, found other and more congenial paths in which intelligence and application would still meet with their reward. by these simple means, now generally adopted in classical schools, but up to that time supposed to be incompatible with high accomplishments in classical learning, the standard of intelligence and information was incalculably raised, and the school, as a place of education in its wider sense, became infinitely more efficient. we should have stated that dr. arnold's skill as a teacher was unrivalled; he imparted a living interest to all he touched, to be attributed mainly to his habit of illustrating ancient events by "modern instances." thus, thucydides and napier were compared almost page by page; thus the "high church party" of the jews was pointed to as a type of "the tories." by means of his favourite topic, physical geography, he sought to bring the actual theatre of events before his pupils. thus he would describe (when living at laleham), the vatican and janiculum hills of rome, as being "like the hills on the right bank of the thames behind chertsey;" the monte marie as being "about the height and steepness of cooper's hill," and "having the tiber at the foot of it like the thames at anchorwick." to philology even, the deadly science of dead languages, and the great business of public schools, he contrived to impart life by continually pointing out its bearing on the history of the races of mankind. the interest thus given to study was something before unknown in schools. so far we have confined ourselves to the effect of arnold's system on the mind, but the source of his most anxious thoughts and constant solicitude lay deeper than this; it related to the spiritual condition, or, according to the german phrase, "the inner life," of the boys. with his usual indifference to personal labour he assumed the preachership of the chapel, declining however, also, with characteristic disinterestedness, the salary attached, hitherto given to increase the stipend of a junior master, and his famous "quarter of an hour" sermons, into which he threw all the power of his character and his intellect, no doubt gave him an opportunity of confirming, on certain minds, that influence which was primarily due to his earnest acts of heart and head. we here approach a portion of his career on which difference of opinion must always exist. impressed with an abiding conviction that all earthly things were subordinate to the relation between man and his maker; keenly appreciating all that was "of good report," and impatient of evil, or what seemed to him to be of evil tendency, even to intolerance, it must be admitted that in arnold there was something of the zealot. with his acute sense of responsibility as to the spiritual state of the boys, it was natural that he should seek to impress those with whom he was brought in contact, and he did so. the personal notice he bestowed on boys of serious tendencies, asking them to his house and conversing with them on solemn subjects had this effect, and soon engendered "a sect" in the school. now, the boys who were thus susceptible and formed this sect, were generally of the milder order of character, and not of that precocious virility which always gives influence in a great school; hence arose among the natural leaders of the school, the strong in character and the stout in heart and hand, a reaction against arnold and against arnold's views, as being opposed to the traditional notions of the school. this reaction was strengthened by the peculiar nature of some of these views, such, for instance as those on the subject of the code of honour. arnold, although himself a man actuated by a nice sense of honour, felt it his duty to set himself strongly in words against the code of honour; it was the constant object of vituperation on his part, even from the pulpit. his notions on this point, however, never gained ground with his hearers, who could not be brought to believe that their master (himself as true a knight errant as ever drew sword or pen,) was serious when he told them that the spirit of chivalry was "the true antichrist." the attempt to introduce a more highly-wrought tone of religious feeling than was perhaps of wholesome growth in very young minds was, therefore, not without its drawbacks; the antagonism to some of his own views which it called forth, combined with the utter disregard to established views which characterized his own teaching, and which the school caught from him, told upon the boys' minds. the direct and indirect effect of arnold's school of thought may indeed, now, we think, be traced in the general distrust of hitherto received opinions, which, but little tinged in england it is true with either licentiousness or irreverence, is nevertheless characteristic of the present generation. these effects are also more manifest now that arnold's personal influence can no longer be exercised. so long as he was at his post, his earnest simplicity of character, his purity of life, his intellectual vigour, his fearless seeking after truth, carried away the sympathies of all who were brought in contact with him; not one of whom but will say, on looking back to the impression he left on them, "behold an israelite indeed in whom there was no guile!" thus the reform introduced into rugby by arnold, and indirectly into other public schools through him, was then very different from that which was anticipated from him. he did, it will be seen, none of the things he was expected by his party to do. he strenuously inculcated the views of christian doctrine most opposed to those of the latitudinarian party. { } he stoutly adhered to the system of "fagging," as being the best mode of responsible government for the school "out of school," founding his opinion on his own experience at winchester, on which he often dwelt. he raised and improved the standard of classical learning in its wider sense, so that the scholars of rugby gained a high standing at the universities; and by showing that this was attainable consistently with acquirements in other branches of learning, and with the utmost amount of intelligent interest in the knowledge of the day, he confirmed that opinion in favour of the advantage of classical learning, as a sound philosophical means of training the faculties for worldly affairs, which we have seen lately advocated and applauded even in the heart of manchester itself, at the opening of owen's college. the change he introduced was thus more thorough, more deep and comprehensive, than any which the suggestions of his partisan supporters would have accomplished. it was a change in the very spirit of education, reaching beyond the years of boyhood or the limits of school walls. coventry to birmingham, instead of turning off from rugby by the new route to leamington, we will keep the old road, and so push on straight to the great warwickshire manufactory and mart of ribands and watches. first appears the graceful spire of st. michael's church; then the green pastures of the lammas, on which, for centuries, the freemen of coventry have fed their cattle, sweep into sight, and with a whiz, a whirl, and a whistle, we are in the city and county of coventry--the seat of the joint diocese of lichfield and coventry--which return two members to parliament, at the hands of one of the most stubbornly independent constituencies in england; a constituency which may be soft-sawdered, but cannot be bullied or bribed. a railroad here branches off to nuneaton, distant ten miles, a sort of manufacturing dependency of the great city; and on the other, at the same distance, to leamington, with a station at kenilworth. in addition to its manufacturing importance, an importance which has survived and increased in the face of the changes in the silk trade and watch trade, commenced by huskisson, and completed by peel, coventry affords rich food for the antiquarian, scenes of deep interest to the historical student, a legend for poets, a pageant for melodramatists, and a tableau for amateurs of poses plastiques. once upon a time kings held their courts and summoned parliaments at coventry; four hundred years ago the guilds of coventry recruited, armed, clothed, and sent forth six hundred stout fellows to take part in the wars of the roses; at coventry the lists were pitched for mary of lancaster, and phillip mowbray, duke of norfolk, to decide in single combat their counter- charges before the soon-to-be-dethroned richard ii. at coventry you will find the effigy of vile peeping tom, and can follow the course through which the fair godiva rode naked, veiled by her modesty and flowing tresses, to save her townsmen from a grievous tax. to be sure, some english niebuhrs have undertaken to prove the whole story a legend; but, for our parts, we are determined to believe in tradition and alfred tennyson's sonnet. there are three ancient churches in coventry, of which st. michael's, built in the reign of henry i., is the first; the spire rising feet from the ground, the lofty interior ornamented with a roof of oak, curiously carved, and several windows of stained glass. [coventry: ill .jpg] st. mary's hall, a large building, now used for corporation council meetings, and festivities, erected in the reign of henry vi., is one of the richest and most interesting vestiges of the ornamental architecture of england. the principal room has a grotesquely-carved roof of oak, a gallery for minstrels, an armoury, a chair of state, and a great painted window, which need only the filling up of royal and noble personages, their attendants, and the rich burgesses of coventry, to recall the time when richard ii. held his court in this ancient city, and, with "old john of gaunt," settled the sentence on harry of hereford, and philip of norfolk. in this chamber is to be seen a beautiful piece of tapestry, executed in , measuring thirty feet by ten, and containing eighty figures. in the free school, founded by john moles, in the reign of henry viii., sir william dugdale, the antiquarian and historian of warwickshire, was educated. the income is about pounds a-year, and the scholars have open to competition two fellowships of st. john's college, oxon, one at catherine's hall, cambridge, and six exhibitions at either university. previous to the investigations of the charity commissioners, the fine school-room was locked up, and the books of the library torn for waste paper to light fires. at present, under the reformed system, the school is attended by a large number of scholars. there are more than a dozen educational and other charities for the benefit of the poor, enjoying a revenue of many thousands a-year. there are also several curious specimens of domestic architecture of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to be found in coventry. it is, however, on the whole, a dark, dirty, inconvenient city. the surrounding belt of lammas lands on which the freemen have the right of pasturing their horses and cows, has prevented any increase in the limits of the city. in the middle ages coventry was celebrated for its "mysteries and pageants," of which an account has been published by mr. reader, a local bookseller. the chief manufactures are of ribands and of watches, both transplantations from the continent. the electors of coventry distinguished themselves by their consistency during the free-trade agitation. they exacted a pledge from their members in favour of free-trade, except in watches and ribands. more recently these same coventry men have had the good sense to prefer a successful man of business, the architect of his own fortunes, to a right honourable barrister and ex-railway commissioner. [the sherborne viaduct, near coventry: ill .jpg] one thing needful to preserve the manufacturing position of coventry is, a first-rate school of design--labour, and coal, and ample means of conveyance they have, east and west, and north and south; and now the manufacturers only need the cultivation of true principles of taste among the whole riband- weaving population. for taste is a rare article, and many draughts of small fry must be made before one leviathan salmon can be caught. great advances have been made recently in the production of the best kinds of ribands. a specimen produced by subscription for the hyde park exhibition of , proved that coventry was quite able to rival the choicest work of france in the class of machine-made ribands. the application of steam power to this class of manufactures is of but recent date. coventry surveyed, and this may be done in a few hours, unless the traveller is able and willing to examine its rich manufactories, it is difficult to resist the invitation of the railway porter, bawling, to kenilworth, leamington, and warwick, names calling up a crowd of romantic associations, from shakspeare to scott and bulwer; but for the present we must keep steadily on to birmingham, where steam finds the chief raw materials of poetry and fashioner of beauty. birmingham. a run of nineteen miles brings us to what the inhabitants call the hardware village, a healthy, ugly town, standing upon several hills, crowned with smoke, but free from fog. the old railway station stands at the foot of one of these hills, leaving a drive of a quarter of a mile through a squalid region, almost as bad as the railway entrance into bristol, before entering into the decent part of the town; but the new station, now in course of rapid completion, will land passengers behind the grammar school, in new street, the principal, and, indeed, only handsome street of any length in birmingham. at the old station there is an excellent hotel, kept by mr. robert bacon, who was so many years house steward to the athenaeum club, in pall mall; and at the refreshment-rooms a capital table d'hote is provided four times a-day, at two shillings a-head, servants included, an arrangement extremely acceptable after a ride of miles. [newton road station, near birmingham: ill .jpg] at the new station similar refreshment-rooms are to be provided, and it is to be hoped that the architect will plan the interior first, and the exterior afterwards, so that comfort may not be sacrificed, as it usually is in english public buildings, to the cost of an imposing portico and vestibule. as a railway starting point, birmingham has become a wonderful place. in addition to those main lines and branches passed and noted on our journey down, it is also the centre at which meet the railroads to derby and sheffield; to worcester, cheltenham, gloucester, and bristol; to london through oxford, by the broad gauge great western, to shrewsbury and chester through wolverhampton, beside the little south staffordshire lines, which form an omnibus route between birmingham, walsall, dudley, and lichfield, and other iron nets "too tedious to describe." to a stranger not interested in manufactures, and in mechanic men, this is a very dull, dark, dreary town, and the sooner he gets out of it the better. there are only two fine buildings. the town hall, an exact copy externally of the temple of jupiter stator at rome, built of a beautiful grey anglesey marble, from the designs of messrs. hansom and welch, who also undertook to execute it for , pounds. it cost , pounds, and the contractors were consequently ruined. a railway company would probably have paid the difference; but, in such cases, communities have no conscience, so the people of brummagem got the hall of which they are justly proud "a bargain." the interior is disappointing, and wants the expenditure of some more thousand pounds in sculptures and decorative details, to bring it into harmony with its noble external effect. the great room, feet in length, by feet in width and height, will contain upwards of , persons. musical meetings are held here periodically, for the benefit of certain charities; but the sight best worth seeing, is the hall at the period of an election, or of political excitement, crowded with a feverish army of workmen, cheering, groaning, swaying to and fro, under the speeches of their favourite orators. then in this pagan temple may be seen a living specimen of a brummagem jupiter, with a cross of vulcan, lion-faced, hairy, bearded, deep-mouthed swaggering, fluent in frank nonsense and bullying clap-trap, loved by the mob for his strength, and by the middle classes for his money. the lofty roof re-echoes with applause. the temple, the man, and the multitude, all together, are well worth a journey to birmingham to see. there is also the free school of king edward vi., in new street, a stately pile, built by barry, before he had become so famous as he is now; which supplies first-rate instruction in classics, mathematics, modern languages, and all branches of a useful english education, after the plan introduced into our public schools by dr. arnold, to the sons of all residents, at an extremely cheap, almost a nominal rate. ten exhibitions of pounds each for four years at oxford or cambridge are open to the competition of the scholars. the salary of the head master is pounds a-year, with a residence, and the privilege of boarding eighteen pupils. of the second master, pounds. beside under masters. these liberal appointments have secured a succession of competent masters, and cannot fail to produce a permanent and favourable change in the character of young birmingham. the diffusion of sound classical learning was much needed to mitigate the coxcombical pretensions of the half-educated, and the vulgar coarseness of the uneducated. the inhabitants of manufacturing towns are apt to grow petty plutocracies, in which after wealth, ignorance and assumption are the principal qualifications. brass turns up its nose at iron, and both look down upon tin, although half an hour in the world's fire make all so black as to be undistinguishable. besides this, which we may term the high school, there are four schools supported out of king edward vi.'s foundation, where reading, writing, and arithmetic, are taught. the funds on which these magnificent ecclesiastical establishments are supported, arise from lands in the neighbourhood which originally produced only pounds a year, and were part of the estates of the guild of the "holy cross." after being occupied first as fields and then as gardens, the rise of manufactures and extension of the town of birmingham, converted a great portion into building land. the present revenue amounts to about , pounds per annum, and are likely to be still further increased. twenty years ago, school lands which are now leased for terms of years, and covered with buildings, were occupied as suburban gardens at trifling rents. eventually the birmingham free school will enjoy an income equal to the wants of a university as well as a school. meagre accounts of the income and expenditure of this noble foundation are published annually, under the regulations of an act of parliament passed in ; but no report of the number of scholars, or the sort of education communicated, is attached to this balance sheet. it would be very useful; and we hope that the self- elected corporation, who have the management, will see the propriety of supplying it. birmingham also possesses a chartered college, "queen's college," similar to that at durham; first established as a medical school by the exertions of the present dean, mr. sands cox, since liberally endowed by the rev. dr. warneford to the extent of many thousand pounds, and placed in a position to afford the courses in law, physic, and divinity, required for taking a degree at the university of london. also a blue coat school, and school for the blind. in a picturesque point of view there are few towns more uninviting than birmingham; for the houses are built of brick toned down to a grimy red by smoke, in long streets crossing each other at right angles,--and the few modern stone buildings and blocks of houses seem as pert and as much out of place as the few idle dandies who are occasionally met among the crowds of busy mechanics and anxious manufacturers. what neatness--cleanliness--can do for the streets, bell-pulls, and door-knockers, has been done; the foot- pavements are, for the most part flagged, although some of the round pebble corn-creating footways still remain in the back streets. one suburb, edgbaston, is the property of lord calthorpe, and has been let out on building leases which entirely exclude all manufactories and inferior classes of houses. the result has been a crop of snug villas, either stucco or polished red brick; many of them surrounded by gardens and shrubberies, and a few of considerable pretension. of this suburb the birmingham people think a great deal; but, as it is built upon a dead flat in long straight lines, its effect is more pleasing to the citizen after a hard day's work, than to the artist, architect, landscape gardener, or lover of the picturesque. birmingham is, in fact, notable for its utility more than its beauty,--for what is done in its workshops, rather than for what is to be seen in its streets and suburbs. nowhere are there to be found so numerous a body of intelligent, ingenious, well educated workmen. the changes of fashion and the discoveries of science always find birmingham prepared to march in the van, and skilfully execute the work needed in iron, in brass, in gold and silver, in all the mixed metals and in glass. when guns are no longer required at the rate of a gun a minute, birmingham steel pens become famous all over the world. when steel buckles and gilt buttons have had their day, britannia teapots and brass bedsteads still hold their own. no sooner is electrotype invented, than the principal seat of the manufacture is established at birmingham. no sooner are the glass duties repealed than the same industrious town becomes renowned for plate glass, cut glass, and stained glass; and, when england demands a palace to hold the united contributions of "the industry of the world," a birmingham banker finds the contractor and the credit, and birmingham manufacturers find the iron, the glass, and the skill needful for the most rapid and gigantic piece of building ever executed in one year. in order to appreciate the independent character and quick inventive intelligence of the birmingham mechanic, he should be visited at his own home. a system of small independent houses, instead of lodgings, prevails in this town, to the great advantage of the workmen. it is only within a very few years that the working classes have had, in a local school of design, means of instruction in the principles of taste, and arts of drawing and modelling; while, until the patent laws are put upon a just foundation, their inventive faculties can never be fully developed. when the artizans of birmingham have legislative recognition of their rights as inventors, and free access to a first-rate school of design, their "cunning" hands will excel in beauty as well as ingenuity all previous triumphs. the wealthier classes have, from various causes, deteriorated within the last sixty years, while the workmen have improved within that time. men who have realized fortunes no longer settle down in the neighbourhood of their labours. they depart as far as possible from the smoke of manufactures and the bickerings of middle class cliques, purchase estates, send their sons to the universities, and in a few years subside into country squires. professional men, as soon as they have displayed eminent talent, emigrate to london; and the habit, now so prevalent in all manufacturing towns, of living in the suburbs, has sapped the prosperity of those literary and philosophical institutions and private reunions, which so much contributed to raise the tone of society during the latter half of the last century. the meetings of an old literary and philosophical society have been discontinued, and the news room was lately on the brink of dissolution. instead of meeting to discuss points of art, science, and literature, the middle classes read the times and punch, and consult the penny cyclopaedia. the literary and scientific character which birmingham acquired in the days when boulton, watt, priestly, darwin, murdoch, and their friends, met at the birmingham lunarian society, to discuss, to experiment, and to announce important discoveries, have passed away never to return; and we are not likely to see again any provincial town occupying so distinguished a position in the scientific world. the only sign of birmingham's ancient literary pre- eminence is to be found in several weekly newspapers, conducted with talent and spirit far beyond average. it is an amusing fact, that the sect to which priestly belonged still trade on his reputation, and claim an intellectual superiority over the members of other persuasions, which they may once have possessed, but which has long been levelled up by the universal march of education. the richer members publish little dull books in bad english on abstruse subjects, and, like consuelo's prebendary, have quartos in preparation which never reach the press. in fact, the suburban system of residence and the excessive pretension of superiority by the "pots over the kettles" have almost destroyed society in birmingham, although people meet occasionally at formal expensive parties, and are drawn together by sympathy in religion and politics. nothing would induce an educated gentleman to live in birmingham except to make a living, yet there are residing there, seldom seen out of their factories, men of the highest scientific and no mean literary attainments. there are a number of manufactories, which, in addition to their commercial importance, present either in finished articles, or in the process of manufacture, much that will interest an intelligent traveller. glass.--messrs. f. & c. oslers, of broad street, have attained a very high reputation for their cut and ornamental, as well as the ordinary, articles of flint glass. the have been especially successful in producing fine effects from prismatic arrangements. their gigantic chandeliers of great size, made for ibrahim pacha, and the nepalese prince, were the steps by which they achieved the lofty crystal fountain, of an entirely original design, which forms one of the most novel and effective ornaments of the crystal palace. the manufactory as well as the show-room is open to the inspection of respectable strangers. messrs. rice and harris are also extensive manufacturers of cut and coloured glass; and messrs. bacchus and sons have been very successful in their imitations of bohemian glass, both in form and colour. messrs. chance have acquired a world-wide reputation by supplying the largest quantity of crown glass in the shortest space of time for paxton's palace. these works, in which plate and every kind of crown glass is made, are situated at west bromwich. the proprietors have benevolently and wisely made arrangements for the education of their workmen and their families, which are worthy of imitation in all those great factories where the plan, which originated in lancashire, has not been already adopted. a letter of introduction will be required in order to view messrs. chance's establishment, of which we shall say more when noting the social state of the birmingham operatives. papier mache.--messrs. jennens and bettridge's works are so well known that it is only necessary to refer to them for the purpose of saying that in their show-rooms some new application of the art which they have carried to such perfection is constantly to be found. pianos, cradles, arm-chairs, indeed complete drawing-room suites, cornices, door-plates, and a variety of ornaments are displayed, in addition to the tea-trays and tea-chests in which the art of japanning first became known to us. although messrs. jennens and co. have the largest establishment in birmingham, there are several others who produce capital work; among them may be named mr. thomas lane and messrs. m'callum and hodgson, who both exhibited specimens of great merit at the last birmingham exhibition of manufactures. but metals afford the great staple of employment in birmingham, and we shall avail ourselves, in describing the leading trades, and touching on the social position of the workmen, of the admirable letters on labour and the poor in birmingham which appeared in the morning chronicle in the course of . { } * * * * * birmingham buttons.--"a brummagem button" is the old-fashioned nickname for a birmingham workman. the changes of fashion, and the advances of other manufactures, have deprived that trade of its ancient pre-eminence over all other local pursuits; but the "button trade," although not the same trade which made great fortunes in a previous generation, still employs five or six thousand hands, of which one-half are women and children. in the middle of the eighteenth century a plain white metal button was made, which may occasionally be seen in remote rural districts, on the green coats of old yeomen, wearing hereditary leather breeches. at that period the poorer classes wore coarse horn or wooden buttons, chiefly home made, and the tailor made, as well as the clothes, buttons covered with cloth. by degrees very handsome gilt buttons came into wear, and continued to employ many hands, while the blue coat which figures in the portraits of our grandfathers remained in fashion. in , the florentine, or covered button, now in almost universal use, which is manufactured by machinery with the aid of women and children, was introduced, and by the gilt button trade had been almost destroyed. the change produced great distress, vast numbers of persons were thrown out of work, who could not at once turn to any other employment. in a deputation from the gilt button trade waited upon george iv. and the principal nobility, to solicit their patronage. the application succeeded, coloured coats with metal buttons came into fashion, and dandies of the first water appeared in bright snuff-coloured, pale green, and blue coats, such as are now only worn by paul bedford or keeley, in broad farce. in a cheap mode of gilding, smart for a day, dull and shabby in a week, completely destroyed the character of gilt buttons, and brought up the florentine again. this change was, no doubt, materially assisted and maintained by bulwer's novel of "pelham," which set all young men dressing themselves up like crows with white shirts. in a deputation to prince albert attempted another revival of the gilt button trade, and at the same time the silk stocking weavers waited on the prince to endeavour to drive out the patent leather boots, and bring in the low shoe. both attempts failed. at present there are symptoms of a turn of fashion toward coloured coats and bright buttons, which may be successful, because the fashionable world abhors monotony. the flame coloured coats, long curls, and pink under waistcoats of george iv., were succeeded by the solemn sables of an undertaker; the high tight stock made way for a sailor's neckcloth. for a time shawl waistcoats, of gay colours, had their hour. then correct tight black yielded to the loosest and shaggiest garments that could be invented. perhaps the year may see our youth arrayed in blue, purple and pale brown. but a very little consideration will prove that these artificial changes, although they may benefit a class, are of little advantage to the community. if a man gives s. more for a coat with gilt buttons than for one with plain buttons, he has s. less to expend with some other tradesman. the florentine button, first invented in , and since much improved, is a very curious manufacture. it is made--as any one may see by cutting up a button--of five pieces; first, the covering of florentine, or silk; second, a cover of metal, which gives the shape to the button; third, a smaller circle of mill-board; fourth, a circle of coarse cloth, or calico; fifth, a circle of metal, with a hole punched in the centre, through which the calico or cloth is made to protrude, to form the shank, to be sewed on to the garment. "ranged in rows on either side of a long room of the button factory, (says the correspondent of the morning chronicle) are from to girls and young women, from the age of fourteen to four or five and twenty, all busily engaged, either at hand or steam presses, in punching out metal circles slightly larger than the size of the button which is to be produced. before each press the forewoman is seated, holding in her hand a sheet of zinc or iron, about two feet long, and four inches broad. this she passes rapidly under the press if worked by hand, and still more rapidly if worked by steam, punching and cutting at the rate of from fifty to sixty disks in a minute. as they are cut they fall into a receptacle prepared to receive them. the perforated sheets are sold to the founder to be melted up, and made into other sheets. in other rooms younger women are engaged in cutting up florentine cloth, or other outside covering material, paste board and calico. of these a young woman can punch , a-day, and of metal, , a-day. the upper discs are submitted by another set of girls to presses from which each receives a blow that turns up an edge all round, and reduces it to the exact size of the button. the lower disk is punched for the shank to come through, stamped with the maker's name, or the name of the tailor for whom the buttons are made, and coated with varnish, either light or black. "the five pieces then pass into a department where a woman superintends the labours of a number of children from seven to ten years of age. "these little creatures place all five pieces, one after another, in regular order, in a small machine like a dice-box, constructed to hold them, which is placed under a press, when a firm touch compresses the whole together in the neat form, which any one may examine on a black dress coat, without stitch or adhesive matter." this patent was the subject of long litigation between rival inventors, to the great benefit of the lawyers, and loss of the industrious and ingenious. within the last twelve months messrs. chadbourne, button-makers, of great charles street, have adapted this florentine button to nails for furniture and carriages. the patent linen sewn-through button is another recent invention, which has superseded the old wire button for under garments, than which it is cheaper, neater, and more durable. it is composed of linen and circles of zinc. horn buttons, with shanks, which are extensively used for cloth boots and sporting jackets, are made from the hoofs of horned cattle, which are boiled, cut, punched, dyed, stamped when soft, and polished by brushes moved by steam power; the chief part of the work being done by women and children. pearl buttons have become an important part of the birmingham manufactures, partly on the decline of metal buttons. they are extensively used on coats and waistcoats, where gilt buttons were formerly employed. the shell used in the manufacture of buttons, studs, card counters, etc., is the mother of pearl, the concha margaritifera of naturalists. five kinds of shell are employed:--first. the buffalo shell, so named because it arrived packed in buffalo skins; it comes chiefly from panama, is the smallest and commonest, and sells to the trade at about pounds a ton.--second. the black scotch, from the sandwich islands, whence it is sent to valparaiso and to sydney, new south wales, worth from to pounds a ton. the large outer rim is of a blackish, or rather greenish, tint, the centre only being white. the outer rim was formerly considered worthless, and large quantities were thrown away as rubbish. change of fashion has brought the prismatic hues of the dark pearl into fashion for shooting-coats, waistcoats, and even studs. it used to be a standing story with a bristol barber that a square in that city had been built on thousands of pounds worth of tobacco stalks, thrown away as useless, until it was discovered that that part of the plant was capable of making a most saleable snuff. and so in birmingham; the irvingite church, on new hall hill, is said to be built on hundreds of tons of refuse shell, which would now be worth from to pounds per ton. the third shell is the bombay, or white scotch, worth from to pounds per ton. the fourth comes from singapore, and is brought there to exchange for british manufactures by the native craft which frequent that free port. it is a first-rate article, white to the edge, worth from to pounds per ton. the fifth is the mother of pearl shell, from manilla, of equal value and size, but with a slight yellow tinge round the edge. pearl buttons are cut out and shaped by men with the lathe, polished by women with a grinding-stone, and sorted and arranged on cards by girls. glass buttons were formerly in use among canal boatmen, miners, and agricultural labourers, in certain districts. they are now chiefly made for the african market. the process of making them and studs is well worth seeing. beside the buttons already enumerated, they make in birmingham the flat iron and brass buttons, for trowsers; steel buttons, for ladies' dresses; wooden buttons, for overcoats; agate buttons, for which material is imported from bohemia; and, in fact, every kind of button and stud, including papier mache. the manufacture of brass shanks is a separate trade, and the writer of the letters already quoted, states the annual production at, or upwards of, three millions per working day. of these, part are made by hand, but the greater number by a shank-making machine, wrought by steam power, and only requiring the attendance of one tool-maker. "the machine feeds itself from a coil of brass or iron wire suspended from the roof, and cuts and twists into shanks, by one process, at the rate of per minute, or nearly , , per annum. some button manufacturers employ one of these machines; the majority buy the shanks." * * * * * guns and swords.--according to hutton, the historian of birmingham, the town was indebted for its occupation in supplying our army with fire-arms, to an ancestor of a gentleman who now represents a division of warwickshire, a sir roger newdigate, in the time of william iii. the story, however, seems only half-true. hutton would imply that the first muskets manufactured in england were made in birmingham. it seems more likely, that the connexion with william iii. arose from the desire of that monarch to have the flint-lock, which was superseding the match-lock on the continent, made in his own dominions. at any rate, the revolution of , which the romantic anti-commercial party of young england so deeply regret, gave birmingham its gun trade, as well as hampton court its asparagus beds. when walpole gave us peace, the attention of the manufacturers was directed to fowling-pieces, and from that time forward birmingham has contained the greatest fire-arm factory in the world, although, of course, subject to many fluctuations. twenty years ago, "a long war soon," was as regular a toast at convivial meetings of birmingham manufacturers, as at any mess-room or in any cock-pit in her majesty's service. the government has made several attempts, by establishing manufactories with public money and under official control, to become independent of birmingham, but the end has invariably been great loss and pitiful results in the number of arms produced. we hope to live to see the time when our navy will be built as economically as our guns are made--by private contract--and our public ship-yards confined to the repairing department. during the war which ended at the battle of waterloo, the importance and prosperity of the gun-makers were great. it was calculated that a gun a minute was made in birmingham on the average of a year, but the peace threw numbers out of work and reduced wages very considerably. time has brought the trade to a level; indeed, it is one of the great advantages of birmingham, that the prosperity of the town does not rest on any one trade; so that if some are blighted others are flourishing, and when one fails the workmen are absorbed into other parallel employments. the gun trade now depends for support on the demand for--first, cheap muskets for african and other aboriginal tribes; secondly, on cheap fowling-pieces, rifles, pistols, blunderbusses, etc., for exportation to america, australia, and other countries where something effective is required at a moderate price; thirdly, on the home demand for fowling-pieces of all qualities, from the commonest to those sold at the west end of london, at fancy prices; fourthly, on that for fire-arms required by our army and navy; and, lastly, on occasional uncertain orders created by wars and revolutions on the continent. there are a vast number of guns, or parts of guns, made in birmingham, which bear the names of retailers in different parts of the kingdom. even very fashionable gun-makers find it worth their while to purchase goods in the rough state from birmingham manufacturers on whom they can depend, and finish them themselves. this is rendered easy by the system. no one in birmingham makes the whole of a gun. the division of labour is very great; the makers of the lock, the barrel, and the stock, are completely distinct, and the mechanics confine themselves to one branch of a department. the man who makes the springs for a lock has nothing to do with the man who makes the nipple or the hammer; while the barrel-forger has no connexion with the stock-maker or lock-maker. the visitor who has the necessary introductions, should by no means omit to visit a gun-barrel factory, as there are a good many picturesque effects in the various processes, beside the mechanical instruction it affords. the following is the order of the fabrication of a common gun:-- the sheets for barrels are made from scraps of steel and iron, such as old coach-springs, knives, steel chains, horse shoes and horseshoe nails, and sheets of waste steel from steel pen manufactories. these, having been sorted, are bound together, and submitted first to such a furnace, and then to such a steam hammer as we described in our visit to wolverton, until it is shaped into a bar of tough iron, which is afterwards rolled into sheets of the requisite thickness. from one of these sheets a length sufficient to make a gun barrel is cut off by a pair of steam-moved shears, of which the lower jaw is stationary and the upper weighs a ton, of which plenty of examples may be seen in every steam engine factory. the slip of iron is made red hot, placed between a pair of rollers, one of which is convex and the other concave, and comes out in a semicircular trough shape; again heated, and again pressed by smaller rollers, by which the cylinder is nearly completed. a long bar of iron is passed through the cylinder, it is thrust into the fire again, and, when red hot, it is submitted to the welder, who hammers it and heats it and hammers it again, until it assumes the form of a perfect tube. damascus barrels are made by incorporating alternate layers of red hot steel and iron, which are then twisted into the shape of a screw while at white heat. the bar thus made is twisted in a cold state by steam power round a bar into a barrel shape, then heated and welded together. these are the barrels which present the beautiful variegated appearance which gives them the name of damascus. the barrels, whether common or twisted, are then bored by a steel rod, kept wet with water or oil, and turned by steam. the process occupies from two to three hours for each barrel. the next operation is that of grinding the outside of the barrel with sandstone wheels, from five to six feet in diameter when new, driven by steam. these stones chiefly come from the neighbouring district of bilston; in four months' work, a stone of this size will be reduced to two feet. the employment is hard, dangerous from the stones often breaking while in motion, in which case pieces of stone weighing a ton have been known to fly through the roof of the shop; unwholesome, because the sand and steel dust fill eyes, mouth, and lungs, unless a certain simple precaution is taken which grinders never take. after grinding, a nut is screwed into the breech, and the barrel is taken to the proof house to be proved. the proof house is a detached building, the interior of which is lined with plates of cast iron. the barrels are set in two iron stocks, the upper surface of one of which has a small gutter, to contain a train of powder; in this train the barrels rest with their touchholes downwards, and in the rear of the breeches of the barrels is a mass of sand. when the guns, loaded with five times the quantity of powder used in actual service, have been arranged, the iron-lined doors and windows are closed, and a train extending to the outside through a hole is fired. some barrels burst and twist into all manner of shapes; those which pass the ordeal are again examined after the lapse of twenty-four hours, and, if approved, marked with two separate marks, one for viewing and one for proving. the mark for proving consists of two sceptres crossed with a crown in the upper angle; the letters b and c in the left and right, and the letter p in the lower angle. for viewing only, v stands instead of p underneath the crown, the other letters omitted. after proving, the jiggerer fastens the pin, which closes up the breech. in the mean time the construction of the lock, which is an entirely different business, and carried on in the neighbouring towns of wednesbury, darleston, and wolverhampton, as well as in birmingham, has been going on. the gun lock makers are ranged into two great divisions of forgers and filers, beside many subdivisions. the forgers manufacture the pieces in the rough, the filers polish them and put them together. in the percussion lock, there are fifteen pieces; in the common flint lock, eight. by a process patented about eleven years ago, parts of a gun lock formerly forged by hand are now stamped with a die. the use of this invention was opposed by the men, but without success. the barrel and lock next pass into the hands of the stocker. the stocks, of beechwood for common guns, of walnut for superior, of which much is imported from france and italy, arrive in birmingham in a rough state. the stocker cuts away enough of the stock to receive the barrel, the lock, the ramrod, and shapes it a little. the next workman employed is the screw-together. he screws on the heel plate, the guard that protects the trigger, puts in the trigger plate, lets in the pipes to hold the ramrod, puts on the nozzle cap, and all other mountings. after all this, a finisher takes the gun to pieces, and polishes, fits all the mountings, or sends them to be polished by women; the lock is sent to the engraver to have an elephant and the word "warranted," if for the african market, put on it; a crown and the words "tower proof," if for our own military service; while the stock is in the hands of the maker off and cleanser, it is carved, polished, and, if needful, stained. common gun barrels are polished or browned to prevent them from rusting, real damascus barrels are subjected to a chemical process, which brings out the fine wavy lines and prevents them from rusting. all these operations having been performed, the barrel, the lock, and the stock, are brought back by the respective workmen who have given them the final touch, and put together by the finisher or gun maker, and this putting together is as much as many eminent gunmakers ever do. but, by care and good judgment, they acquire a reputation for which they can charge a handsome percentage. for these reasons, with local knowledge, it is possible to obtain from a birmingham finisher who keeps no shop, a first-rate double gun at a very low figure compared with retail prices. belgium and germany compete with birmingham for cheap african guns, and even forge the proof marks. neither in quality nor in price for first-rate articles can any country compete with us. * * * * * swords and matchetts.--the sword trade of birmingham is trifling compared with that in guns. the foreign demand has dwindled away until it has become quite insignificant, and the chief employment is afforded by our own army and navy. nevertheless, good swords are made in birmingham, which is the only town in england where any manufacture of the kind exists, although the blades often bear the names of more fashionable localities. it is among the traditions of the birmingham trade, that in , when our government was about to transfer its orders for swords to germany, in consequence of the inferiority of english swords, a mr. gill claimed to compete for the contract; and that in order to show what he could do, he appeared before the board of ordnance with a sword, which he tied round his thigh, and then untied, when it immediately became straight. in the end mr. gill was the means of retaining the sword trade in birmingham. sword-grinding is worth seeing. sword-makers find their principal employment in producing matchetts, a tool or weapon very much like the modern regulation cutlass, but stronger and heavier, with a plain beech-wood handle, worth wholesale from d. to d. each. they are used in the east and west indies, ceylon, and south america, for cutting down sugar-canes and similar uses. we take the name to be spanish; it is used by defoe and dampier. we only mention the article as one of the many odd manufactures made, but never sold retail, in england. * * * * * steel pens.--all the steel pens made in england, and a great many sold in france, germany, and america, whatever names or devices they may bear, are manufactured in birmingham. in this respect, as in many others of the same nature, the birmingham manufacturers are very accommodating, and quite prepared to stamp on their productions the american eagle, the cap of liberty, the effigy of pio nono, or of the comte de chambord, if they get the order, the cash, or a good credit. and they are very right; their business is to supply the article, the sentiment is merely a matter of taste. there are eighteen steel pen manufacturers in the birmingham directory, and eight penholder makers. two manufacturers employ about , hands, and the other seventeen about as many more. we can most of us remember when a long hard steel pen, which required the nicest management to make it write, cost a shilling, and was used more as a curiosity than as a useful comfortable instrument. about , or , the first gross of three slit pens was sold wholesale at pounds s. the gross of twelve dozen. a better article is now sold at d. a gross. the cheapest pens are now sold wholesale at d. a gross, the best at from s. d. to s.; and it has been calculated that birmingham produces not less than a thousand million steel pens every year. america is the best foreign customer, in spite of a duty of twenty-four per cent; france ranks next, for the french pens are bad and dear. mr. gillott, who is one of the very first in the steel-pen trade, rose by his own mechanical talents and prudent industry from a very humble station. he was, we believe, a working mechanic, and invented the first machine for making steel pens, which for a long period he worked with his own hands; he makes a noble use of the wealth he has acquired; his manufactory is in every respect a model for the imitation of his townsmen, as we shall show when we say a few words about the condition of the working population; a liberal patron of our best modern artists, he has made a collection of their works, which is open to the inspection of any respectable stranger. the following description of his manufactory, which is not open to strangers without special cause shown, will be found interesting in a social as well as a commercial and mechanical point of view. * * * * * gillott's steel-pen factory.--in the first department, sheets of steel received from sheffield are passed through rolling mills driven by steam, under charge of men and boys, until they are reduced to the thinness of a steel pen, to the length of about thirty inches, and the breadth of about three inches. these steel slips are conveyed to a large roomy workshop, with windows at both sides, scrupulously clean, where are seated in double rows an army of women and girls, from fourteen to forty years of age, who, unlike most of the women employed in birmingham manufactories, are extremely neat in person and in dress. a hand press is opposite each; the only sound to be heard is the bump of the press, and the clinking of the small pieces of metal as they fall from the block into the receptacle prepared for them. one girl of average dexterity is able to punch out one hundred gross per day. each division is superintended by a toolmaker, whose business it is to keep the punches and presses in good working condition, to superintend the work generally, and to keep order among the workpeople. the next operation is to place the blank in a concave die, on which a slight touch from a concave punch produces the shape of a semitube. the slits and apertures which increase the elasticity of the pen, and the maker's or vendor's name, are produced by a similar tool. when complete all but the slit, the pens are soft and pliable, and may be bent or twisted in the hand like a piece of thin lead. they are collected in grosses, or great grosses, into small square iron boxes, and placed by men who are exclusively employed in this department in a furnace, where they remain until box and pens are of a white heat. they are then taken out and immediately thrown hissing into oil, which cures them of their softness, by making them as brittle as wafers. on being taken out they are put in a sieve to drain, and then into a cylinder full of holes, invented by mr. gillott, which, rapidly revolving, extracts the last drop of moisture from the pens, on a principle that has been successfully applied to drying sugar, salt, and a vast number of other articles of the same nature. by this invention mr. gillott saves in oil from to pounds a-year. the pens having been dried are placed in other cylinders, and polished by mutual friction, produced by reverberatory motion. they are then roasted or annealed, so as to procure the requisite temper and colour, whether bronze or blue. the last process is that of slitting, which is done by women, with a sharp cutting tool. one girl, with a quick practised finger, can slit as many as , pens in a day. they are now ready for the young girls whose duty it is to count and pack them in boxes or grosses for the wholesale market. it has lately been stated by one of a deputation to the chancellor of the exchequer, on the subject of the paper duties, that steel pens for the french market are sent in bags instead of arranged on cards to the loss of paper makers and female labour, in consequence of the heavy excise duty on card board. * * * * * brasswork.--birmingham is by far the greatest producer of ornamental and useful brasswork. in the directory will be found a list which affords some idea of the number and varieties of the brass trade, as all these employ a certain number of working hands, varying from two or three apprentices to many hundred skilled workmen. it includes bell-founders, bottle-jack makers, brass founders, bronze powder makers, brass casters, clasp makers, coach lamp furniture, ornament makers, cock founders, compass makers, copper-smiths, cornice pole makers, curtain ring, bronze wire fender, gas-fitting, lamps, chandeliers (partly brass, partly glass), ecclesiastical ornament, lantern, letter-clip, mathematical instrument, brass and metallic bedstead, military ornament, brass nail, saddlers' ironmonger, (chiefly brass), scale, beam, and weighing machines, stair rod, moulding and astrigal, brass thimble makers, tube, brass and copper-wire drawers, wire workers and weavers, and many other trades less directly connected with brass. new articles are made in this metal every day. one manufacturer, who first hit upon the hand-clip for papers, made a very handsome sum by it. the registration of designs act has been a great stimulus to certain branches of this trade. lucifer boxes are quite a new article, unknown the other day, now manufactured in thousands for all quarters of the globe, germany, russia, holland, india, australia, california. then there are ornaments for south american and cuban saddles and harness; rings for lassos, and bells for sheep, cattle, and sledges, brass rings, as coins for africa; and weights for weighing gold in california. among the branches of the brass trade which have become important, since the increase of emigration about ship lamps have been made in one year, at a cheap rate; and within the last five years brass egg cups have been sent in enormous numbers to turkey, where they are used to hand round coffee. south america is a great mart for cheap brass ware. of this trade, it may be said, in the words of a vulgar proverb, "as one door shuts another opens." the use of china and glass, in conjunction with brass for house furniture and chandeliers, has also created a variety, and afforded an advantageous impetus to the trade. mr. winfield is one of the manufacturers in brass whose showrooms are open to the public. he also has claims on our attention for the wise and philanthropic manner in which he has endeavoured to supply the lamentable deficiency of education among the working classes. he holds a very leading position as a manufacturer of balustrades, tables, window-cornices, candelabra chandeliers, brackets, curtain-bands, and above all of metal bedsteads, which last he has supplied to some of the chief royal and princely families of europe, besides spain, algeria, and the united states. in all these works great attention has been paid to design as well as workmanship, as was amply proved both at the local exhibition in , where a large gas bracket, in the italian style, of brass, with parisian ornaments, excited much admiration; and in , in hyde park, where we especially noted an ormolu cradle and french bedstead in gilt and bronze, amid a number of capital works of his production. mr. winfield is patentee of a curious process for drawing out the cylinders used in making bedsteads. messrs. messengers and sons have one of the finest manufactories in ornamental iron, brass, and bronze, for lamps, chandeliers, and table ornaments. for a long series of years they have spared no expense in obtaining the best models and educating their workmen in drawing and modelling. in their show-rooms will be found many very pleasing statues in gold-colour, in bronze, and copies from antique types of vases, lamps, candelabra, etc. messrs. salt and lloyd are also eminent lamp makers, and generally exhibit, beside table-lamps, the last and best carriage-lamps. messrs. ratcliffes are another enterprising firm. all such of these manufactories as have show-rooms open to strangers, will be found by an inquiry at any hotel; for although birmingham is a large town, everybody knows everybody, and the cab drivers will usually be found competent to guide through the voyage of investigation. next, after brass, we will take steel, divided into heavy and light steel toys. * * * * * heavy steel toys.--heavy steel toys are the name by which, by a sort of brummagem bull, a variety of articles which are the very reverse of toys, and which are often not made of steel at all, are designated. heavy steel toys are tools or articles of an implement nature, used in domestic economy. the list includes nearly articles. among these are included the tools of carpenters, coopers, gardeners, butchers, glaziers, farriers, saddlers, tinmen, shoemakers, weavers, wheelwrights, as well as corkscrews, sugar- tongs, sugar-nippers, boot-hooks, button-hooks, door-scrapers, calipers, printing-irons, dog-collars, chains, whistles, tinderboxes, and tobacco- stoppers. hammers occupy a leading place, of which there are two or three hundred varieties, belonging to different trades, each of which is divided into eight or ten different weights. birmingham has the largest share of the heavy toy trade, although there are extensive manufacturers in sheffield and wolverhampton. fine edge tools are chiefly and best made at sheffield. this trade increases annually in importance, as it consists of articles which are greatly in demand in new countries; and new markets are opened by every new colonising enterprise of the anglo-saxon race. the manufacture includes a great deal of wood-work for handles, as well as iron and steel. for although many axes are made for the american market, after special patterns, and with national mottoes, no handles are ever sent, as the backwoodsmen have better wood for their purpose at command. our axe handles are stiff; a backwoodsman must have a flexible handle or haft. the germans once tried to compete with us in the home market, but the attempt was a failure. as an instance of the odd accidents that affect the birmingham trade, about three years ago, when flounces were in fashion, a great demand sprang up for pinking irons, previously only used for ornamenting the hems of shrouds. a workman informed the correspondent of the morning chronicle that he had earned about pounds a week for two years at making them. the scientific tools of housebreakers are known to be made by certain journeymen in the steel toy trade. on the other hand, hand-cuffs, leg-irons, and similar restraining instruments are manufactured for home use and exportation. occasionally, london and liverpool houses in the brazilian or cuban trade have ordered suits of chains, intended for the use of slave-ships. these are cheap, coarse, painted black, and horrid looking. among the orders on the books of a manufacturer, were several dozen pair of hand-cuffs for ladies. * * * * * the edge tool manufacture, which is increasing in birmingham, probably in consequence of the repeated strikes at sheffield, added to the superior position of birmingham as regards coal, and the markets of london, liverpool, and bristol, is often carried on in conjunction with that of steel toys. there are forty-five different kinds of axes; fourteen for the american market, twelve adzes, twenty-six bills and bill-hooks, and upwards of seventy hoes for different foreign countries--spain, portugal, south america, the united states, and australia, which will soon consume as much hardware as america did fifty years ago. * * * * * light steel toys.--these include chatelains, watch chains, keys, seals, purses, slides, beads, waist buckles, dress swords, steel buttons for court dresses, bodkins, spectacle frames, knitting and netting implements, and steel snuffers. shoe and knee buckles, which were once universally worn, alone employed five thousand persons in their manufacture, when it was the staple trade of the town. the expense and inconvenience of shoe buckles sent them out of fashion. dragoons hung in the stirrup, and cricketers tore the nails of their fingers in picking up cricket balls, from the inconvenient buckle. the trade is extremely fluctuating, and depends very much on inventive taste in which we are manifestly inferior to the french. some articles we can make better than they can, but they are always bringing out something new and pretty. in small beads they undersell us enormously, while in beads of / th of an inch in diameter, and upwards, we can undersell them. a visit to a manufactory of light steel toys will afford a great deal of amusement and instruction. * * * * * medalling.--die sinking.--here again are trades by which birmingham keeps up its communication with all the civilised, and part of the uncivilised world. the first great improvements in coining the current money of the realm originated at soho, near birmingham, at the manufactories of two men whose memory englishmen can never hold in sufficient respect--matthew boulton and james watt. they were the inventors of the machinery now in use in the royal mint; for a long period they coined the copper money, as also some silver money for the united kingdom, as well as money of all denominations for many foreign countries, tokens, and medals innumerable. they made coins for the french convention. during the war, when money was scarce and small notes were in circulation, many tradesmen, and several public establishments issued "tokens," which were, in fact, metal promissory notes, as they were seldom of the intrinsic value stamped on them. by this expedient retailers advertised themselves, and temporarily increased their capital. some successful speculators made fortunes, others were ruined by the presentation of all their metal notes of hand at periods of panic. at any rate, the manufacture of these articles had a great deal to do with the education of workmen for the medal manufacture which is now so extensively carried on. the dies from which coins and medals are struck, are, of course, all executed by hand, and the excellence of each coin or medal depends on the skill of each individual workman; therefore there has been no great improvement in execution--indeed, some medals and coins struck two thousand years ago, rival, if they do not excel, the best works of the present day. the improvements of modern mechanical science are all in the die presses, and in producing cheap metal. these improvements have enabled birmingham to establish a large trade in cheap medals, which are issued in tens of thousands on every occasion that excites the public mind. jenny lind and father mathew were both excellent customers of the medallists in their day. the medallists are not confined to the home market; france has been supplied with effigies of her rival presidents, louis napoleon and cavaignac, and we should not be surprised to find that some day a contract has been taken for the medals which the pope blesses and distributes. schools and temperance societies are good customers, and occasionally a good order comes in from a foreign state or colony, for coins. in mr. ralph heaton made ten tons of copper coin for bombay, called cock money, so called because bearing a cock on the obverse, from dies purchased at the sale at soho. the late sir richard thomason was a considerable manufacturer of medals, and a very curious collection may be seen at the showrooms of his successor, mr. g. r. collis, who carries on the same trade, and is consul for a number of countries between turkey and timbuctoo. the most important part of the die-sinking trade, is that for making patterns in brass, mixed metal, and iron in curtain bands, pins, lamp pillars, cornices, coffin furniture, and all articles in which stamping has superseded the more expensive process of hammering out. within the last twenty years, and notably within the last ten years, public taste has required an increased amount of ornament in all domestic manufactures; stimulated by this demand, great improvements have been made in stamping, and excellence in the art of die-sinking has become more widely diffused. the birmingham die-sinkers admit that they are inferior to the french in design, while in the execution of cutting heavy steel dies, they are decidedly superior. die-sinking is an art, like painting or sculpture, which requires personal aptitude to enable an apprentice to acquire excellence. it is carried on in birmingham by men who work themselves, employing two or three journeymen. the names of these artists seldom appear. a london or parisian tradesman undertakes an order which is passed to some noted birmingham house, which transmits it to a hard-handed man in a back street. * * * * * coffin ornaments.--the manufacture of ornaments for coffins is a very important part of the trade, and it is curious to find, that even in this last concession to human vanity, there is a constant demand for new designs. who is it that examines and compares the ornaments of one coffin with that of another? we never heard of the survivors of a deceased examining an undertaker's patterns. and yet, a house which consumes forty tons of cast iron per annum for coffin handles, stated to the gentleman to whose letters we are indebted for this information, "our travellers find it useless to show themselves with their pattern books at an undertaker's, unless they have something tasteful, new, and uncommon. the orders for ireland are chiefly for gilt furniture for coffins. the scotch, also, are fond of gilt, and so are the people in the west of england. but the taste of the english is decidedly for black. the welsh like a mixture of black and white. coffin lace is formed of very light stamped metal, and is made of almost as many patterns as the ribbons of coventry. all our designs are registered, as there is a constant piracy going on, which it is necessary to check." dies are cut in soft metal and then hardened. die-sinking is one of the arts so interesting in all its branches, from the first design to the finished coin or ornament, that every intelligent traveller should endeavour to see it. * * * * * platers, gilders, and electro-platers.--large fortunes have been made in birmingham by plating copper, "in the good old times;" but sheffield was, until within the last ten years, the principal seat of the manufacture. sheffield plate was a very superior article, and for years would look and stand wear like silver. plating was effected by laying a thin film of silver on a sheet of copper, which was afterwards shaped into tea or coffee services, forks, spoons, candlesticks, trays, tea urns, and other articles for house use. it was also applied to harness, saddlery, and every thing formerly made of silver alone. a great impetus was given to this trade by our intercourse with the continent at the close of the war, which sent steel pronged forks out of fashion. the first inroad upon the plates on copper was made by the invention of white metal, called german silver. the next was the discovery of the art of plating by galvanic instead of mechanical agency, now known as electro-plating. the result of the application of electric power to plating, however, has been to transfer a large share of the sheffield plate business to birmingham. it is a curious fact that a veterinary surgeon (of the name of askew) invented the first german silver manufactured in england, and that a dr. wright, of the same town, discovered the practicability of electro-plating about the same time that several other persons had discovered that metal could be deposited by a galvanic current, but had not thought of applying it practically to manufactures. the old system of plating is still carried on both in sheffield and in birmingham; improvements have been introduced by the employment of a white metal instead of copper as the foundation, and by grafting on, as it were, silver tips to forks and silver edges to prominent ornaments; but the balance of advantage in economy and facility are so greatly in favour of the electro- plating process, that, no doubt, when the patents under which it is now worked expire, its use will become universal. since the first patent was published, important improvements have been made in france, germany, and america, which the original patentees have incorporated. copperplates cast from wood cuts and stereotypes can be reproduced with great facility and economy, and the exact touches of an artist in clay or wax can be reproduced in metal without the translation of casting. nothing is too small or too large,--the colossal statue of an amazon on horseback spearing a lioness, by kiss, the berlin sculptor, exhibiting in the hyde park exhibition of , was copied in zinc and bronzed by this process; and, by the same means, flowers, feathers, and even spiders' webs have been covered with a metal film. at present, a handsome electro-plated teapot, exactly resembling silver, may be purchased at what a britannia metal one cost fifteen years ago. messrs. elkington and mason, the purchasers of the secret from the original discoverer and authors of valuable improvements, are at the head of one of the finest and most interesting silver and electroplating establishments in the kingdom. in commencing this new manufacture, the commercial difficulties they had to overcome, in addition to those of a practical and mechanical nature, were very formidable. the messrs. elkingtons originally intended to confine themselves to plating for the trade. but the prejudice against the new process was so great, that the manufacturers of the needful articles could not be induced to try it. messrs. elkington were, therefore, very unwillingly, compelled to invest a capital in becoming manufacturers of plated forks, spoons, cruets, candlesticks, tea services, and all the et ceteras of imitation silver. the additional venture did not serve their purpose. the retail dealers, equally prejudiced, refused or neglected to push off the new plate. more anxiety and more expenditure of capital followed, for the patentees were obliged to establish retail establishments in several cities in this country, america, and our colonies. the struggle ended in complete success; the use of electro plate has become universal, and the manufacture is not confined to messrs. elkington, but is carried on, under licence from the patentees, by a vast number of firms. the result, however, has been, as already stated, to transfer a good deal of the plated trade of sheffield to birmingham, for the former town has slowly and unwillingly adopted the new method, which has deprived its manufacturers of their ancient pre-eminence. electro-plating has not, as was imagined on its first discovery, lessened the demand for manual labour in the plate trade; on the contrary, it has largely increased it, while extending the sale of a superior, and superseding an inferior, class of goods. although for all ordinary articles, such as forks, spoons, teapots, etc., there are, no doubt, many manufacturers in birmingham quite equal to messrs. elkingtons, their manufactory is especially worth visiting; because, in the first place, the whole manufactory is open, and conveniently arranged for the inspection of visitors; and, in the next place, the firm pay great attention to the artistic merit of their more expensive work. they spare no expense to obtain copies from the best antique models, and original designs from living artists, beside keeping up a staff of draughtsmen and modellers. in the manufactory may be seen the whole history of a plated dinner service, from the pickle fork to the epergne, or vase, which crowns the centre of the table at a grand banquet. in one room men are at work in cutting out forks and spoons from flat sheets of white metal, which is afterwards shaped, ornamented, engraved, and then, if to be covered with silver, subjected to the action of a current of electricity, produced by an immense pair of magnets--if to be coated with gold, to the action of galvanic batteries; this process requires explanation which must be sought in works, like mr. alfred smee's, especially devoted to the subject. then comes the burnishing, by the action of leather-covered wheels and wire brushes, in steam-driven motion, and then the burnishing by hand, which is chiefly performed by young girls and women. and an agreeable and profitable occupation it seems to be. the manufacture of such articles as teapots is equally interesting. in the process of joining such parts as the handle and spout by hard solder, that is to say, solder as difficult to melt as the main body of the object, one of the most valuable inventions for chemical processes, the blow-pipe, is employed with the aid of two other great scientific aids of modern times. the flame of the blow-pipe is made by a stream of gas, and driven, instead of by a man's breath, by a steam blast, so that the mechanic has a power and a facility of manipulation which would be unattainable under the old system of working with a lamp and puffed out cheeks. there is great matter for reflection in the sight of the hundreds of ingenious industrious workmen and workwomen under one roof, employed mainly through the agency of three powers, which, if not discovered, were utilised in the last years of the eighteenth, and early years of the nineteenth century--steam, gas and electricity. in one series of the workshops of this same establishment, a considerable manufacture of genuine silver plate is carried on, and it is curious to find mechanics engaged in hammering out or chasing plate, using exactly the same tool that was employed in the fifteenth century, or perhaps in roman times. no improvement has, or, as it would appear, can be, effected; all superiority now, as then, depending on the workmen. a great deal of ornamental work, of a stereotype character, is done by stamping instead of chasing. the steel dies for this purpose form a very costly stock in trade. a single pair of dies for a sacramental cup will sometimes cost pounds. among the modern improvements, we must not fail to note the patent seamless teapots of britannia metal, and white metal, electrotyped--capital things for bachelors, the spouts are not likely to melt off on the hob. the show rooms of this establishment contain, in addition to the ordinary contents of a silversmith's shop, a number of exquisite copies in gold, silver, and bronze electro-plate of cups and vases of greek and etruscan execution, and of chased work by benvenuto cellini, and other master goldsmiths of the fifteenth century. the messrs. elkington have doubled their trade since the birmingham exhibition in , and there is reason to believe that, instead of displacing labour as was anticipated, this invention has increased the number and the wages of the parties employed. * * * * * the britannia metal manufacture is closely allied to the plate trade; an ingenious improvement, well worth examination, has recently been introduced by messrs. sturgis of broad street, by which teapots are cast whole, instead of having the spouts and handles soldered on. * * * * * the gilt toy and mock jewellery trade, once one of the staple employments of birmingham artizans, has dwindled away until it now occupies a very insignificant place in the directory. bad cheap articles, with neglect of novelty and taste in design, ruined it. in cheap rubbish foreigners can always beat us, but the birmingham gilt toy men made things "to sell" until no one would buy. * * * * * fox and henderson's manufactory.--the london works conducted by messrs. fox, henderson, and co., who have become known to all the world by their rapid and successful erection of the crystal palace, are situated at smethwick, about four miles from birmingham on the dudley road. they were established after the commencement of the london and birmingham railway, for the manufacture of iron and machinery required in the construction of railways. the shops, which are of large dimensions, are built in a quadrangle, enclosing a large area or open space, which is employed as a yard for material or finished goods as may be accidentally required. the first place into which the stranger is shown is called the truck shop, and will accommodate three hundred carriage builders and carpenters. adjoining it is the boiler makers' shop, or, more properly, a shop for workers in plate-iron, for boilers are not made in the establishment, but iron doors, navy casks, and wrought iron railway carriages are produced in this department. these shops form one side of the quadrangle. the forges, which are very numerous, occupy the first department of another side of the range of buildings. the forges, as is now usual, are supplied with air by the motion of a fan worked by the engine, and by the side of them many strong and stalwart arms are wielded with as much skill and ingenuity as distinguished some of the smiths of the middle ages. the mechanical engineering shops join the forges, and in them will be found many of those beautiful self-acting tools for which this age is so remarkable. there are drilling, planing, screwing, and slotting machines of various designs and adapted to different purposes, as well as numerous expensive and very perfect lathes. here the switches used for conducting trains from one line to another are made, as well as all kinds of machine work. connected with this is the turntable shop, which is, to a stranger, as interesting as any part of the establishment, from the magnitude of the machinery and the ease with which gigantic masses of iron are carried about by the traveller to and from the planing and other machines. the wheel shop, which is next visited, is chiefly used for the manufacture of railway carriage wheels, of which, as must be well known, there are many varieties. the foundry and anchor manufactory must not be omitted in an enumeration of the departments. the other two sides of the quadrangle are occupied by saw-pits, painters' shops, stores, offices, and all the conveniences required for carrying on a business which frequently gives employment to eleven or twelve hundred men. the reputation of messrs. fox, henderson, and co., has been long established among engineers for the construction of railway bridges, iron roofs, and works of a similar kind; but it has been made european, if not universal, by the rapidity and skill with which they have constructed the industrial exhibition. strangers, if introduced, are permitted to see the works. besides the manufactures we have enumerated and described, there are many others of more or less importance; and new inventions and the spur of enterprise are creating new manufactures in birmingham every day. there are manufacturers of steam-engines and other machinery, of stoves, grates, and other iron foundry. one firm (messrs. hardman iliffe) employs a great number of workmen in making every kind of church furniture, from the most approved mediaeval models and the designs of mr. pugin. another executes stained-glass windows. saddlery and harness, or parts of saddles and whips, employ a certain number of hands; and not only imitation but a good deal of real jewellery is made. there is one large and curious manufactory of gold chains. in a word, there is no town in the world in which the execution of work, however new or complex, in metal, wood, horn, or ivory, can be so certainly effected as in birmingham. there are not many merchants in birmingham, in the large sense of the term. the chief mercantile business is done by parties termed factors, who in effect are, if not actually, the agents of great merchants. these "factors" purchase what they need for their wholesale customers from the manufacturers. about , of the birmingham manufacturers are what are termed garret- masters; they work themselves, and employ a few hands. the "factor" buys as few as half-a-dozen tea-pots, or a hundred gross of pearl buttons, from these little men, until he makes up his number. his business partakes more of the character of retail than wholesale, and the grinding--technically slaughtering--system of the factors of birmingham has an unfavourable yankeefying effect on their character. the principal mercantile houses are in direct communication with american houses, if not actual partners or agents. a panic in new york finds an immediate echo in warwickshire and staffordshire, just as a fall or rise of cotton in new orleans is immediately felt in lancashire. it is worth observing, that in some instances great transactions are carried on with wonderfully little show in birmingham, and no state. we could not give a better instance of the difficulty of "judging by appearances" than in the following sketch from nature. there is a broad street of tall mean houses, which, except at the workmen's dinner hour, seems always empty. in this street is a large house of a dirty, faded appearance; the cobwebbed windows blocked up; the door with a broken knocker and a sad want of paint. it is evidently the ci-devant residence of a birmingham manufacturer of the old school, before the suburbs of edgbaston and handsworth sprang up, now turned into a warehouse or receptacle for lumber. as to apply to the front door would be useless, you turn up a dark passage at the side, and reach another dingy door, which gives way with a rattle at your touch, and closes with a rattle and a bang; passing through you ascend a flight of creaking deal stairs, and reach a suite of low rooms, about as imposing in appearance as a deserted printing-office. a few juvenile clerks--the very converse of the snug merchants' clerks of the city of london--are distributed about. a stranger would not give pounds for the furniture, capital, and credit, of the whole concern. and yet, in this strange place, is conducted a trade of many tens of thousands per annum, with branches in all the principal towns of germany, spain, portugal, south america, and british india! a rapid idea of the birmingham hardware trade may be obtained from the extensive show-rooms of messrs. herbert, in the bull-ring. if we have failed to do justice to any branch of manufacture, we have a very sufficient excuse in the difficulty we experienced in obtaining access to manufactories, or even information as to what was worth examination. health and education. after detailing at such length the material advantages of this interesting and important community, we should not be doing right if we did not present the reverse of the medal in certain drawbacks and deficiencies which seriously interfere with the prosperity and progress of "the hardware village." the birmingham public are so often in the habit of hearing from their favourite orators that they are the most intelligent, moral, and intellectual people in the world,--that their town is the healthiest, and their opinions the soundest, of any community in england, that it is not extraordinary if they overlook blots which are plain enough to a stranger. perhaps they are quite right; perhaps they are more honest, more sensible, more sound politicians, than any other british community. perhaps, too, they are cleaner, more sober, and better educated than the towns of a, b, and c; but, without entering into comparisons, which, in such cases, are of no practical benefit, we shall proceed to show that, with all their excellent industrious, intelligent, and ingenious qualities, the people of birmingham are much more dirty, drunken, and uneducated than they ought to be, considering that the town is in a very healthy situation; that the mass of the population is engaged in skilled employments, and that patriots, bearded and unbearded, are plentiful, who seem to have a great deal of influence, for good or evil. first, then, as to drunkenness, the great parent of british poverty and crime--drunkenness, which is a greater tax upon us than the national debt; let us see what share that has in the grievances of birmingham. it appears that in there were, including hotels, taverns, gin-shops, and beer-shops, altogether establishments for the supply of intoxicating liquors. the total number of houses in the borough being , , it results that in every houses one is a wine, beer, or spirit shop. that as the number of bakers' and chandlers' shops is only , there are more shops engaged in selling drink than in selling bread, and if only four persons be supposed to be supported by selling liquors, that will be more than twice as many as are engaged in the gun trade, viz., . or to put the calculation in another form, if we allow the sum of pounds per annum as the wages of the five thousand persons who live by the sale of intoxicating drinks, it will be found that the people of birmingham must expend at least a quarter of a million on wine, beer, and spirits. that too much is so expended is proved by the police returns, which show that out of persons taken into custody in , nearly half the offences arose from intoxication. in other respects, considering the population, the crime of birmingham is rather below than above average. it cannot be said that it is either a brutal or dishonest, but it is essentially a drunken town. the causes of the prevalence of this degrading vice are several, and may be traced out very clearly. metal work is hard and thirsty work, but it may be doubted whether what is really drunk while at work, or immediately after work, does harm. but it has long been, and still is, the habit of the mechanics in a number of trades, to make a holiday of monday; it has even a local name--it is called shackling day, "shackling" being a term which can be perfectly translated by the french verb, flaner. a shackler must drink, if not smoke. the more plentiful and pressing the work is, the more determined are the men engaged to make saint monday, and very often tuesday and wednesday also. the time so lost when trade is at high water, and the losses imposed on the manufacturer by the consequent non-fulfilment of contracts, eventually form a second drawback on the earnings of the workman, in addition to the day's wages lost, and the days' wages spent on "shackling days." secondly, it has been proved that a large percentage of the married women engaged in work factories are compelled so to work to support their families in consequence of the improvidence of their husbands. thirdly, in the same way children, from a very early age,--seven years, and even younger,--work in order to support their improvident parents. women engaged in work all day cannot keep comfortable houses for their husbands. an uncomfortable home drives a husband, no matter of what rank, to the tavern or the club. the custom of sending children to work from the time they can earn sixpence a-week, renders education impossible. in the evenings they are only fit to sleep: on sundays, in fine weather, the majority very naturally prefer walking in the fields to the dry task of acquiring knowledge, the value of which they are not sufficiently educated to appreciate. the effect of the want of education and the habit of idle mondays on the male population is sufficiently lamentable. a man who can neither read nor write, in addition to the abstract pleasure saxons have in drinking, finds an occupation and a substitute for ideas in a pot and pipe. the effect on the female population is even more baneful. they are so fully occupied that they have neither time to write, nor to cook, to read nor to sew, and they become wives and mothers with no better qualification for their important duties than girls educated in a fashionable school, without being able to obtain the assistance of servants and governesses. wives engaged in factories are obliged to leave their children to the care of strangers or elder children, themselves scarcely above the age of children. one consequence is, that according to the report of a committee of physicians and surgeons in : "the ratio of infant mortality in birmingham is very considerable, greatly exceeding that of the metropolis, and of the agricultural districts, though not as high as in some provincial towns." "severe burns and scalds, particularly the former, are so numerous, that in the general hospital two rooms are devoted for their reception." we have not been able to obtain any precise statistics of education among the operative classes; but we find that among criminals upwards of ninety per cent. are either totally or very imperfectly educated, and that of , young persons between the age of ten and fifteen engaged in manufacture, not more than , have an opportunity of education, except from sunday schools. in sunday schools the instruction is confined to reading the scriptures and religious books, except in the schools attached to the meeting-houses of the society of friends and the unitarians, the conductors of which have had the good sense to accommodate their plans to the peculiar wants of a manufacturing district. no general movement seems to have been attempted to correct this crying evil of infant employment and neglected education, none of the patriots, bearded or shaven, have ventured to exert their strong lungs in so unpopular a cause: it is so much easier to stand on your own dunghill and abuse the lord of the manor than to put on an apron and a cap, mix up the lime and water, and whitewash your own cottage. but several manufacturers have honourably distinguished themselves by beginning the work of reformation at home. mr. gillet, the pen manufacturer, whose work is principally done by females, admits no girls into his shops under thirteen; he makes ability to read indispensable, and gives a preference in obtaining employment to those who can write; and requires a certificate of regular attendance from a sunday school teacher. mr. winfield, who employs nearly five hundred hands, of whom few are women, established an evening school in , at a charge of a penny a week, for his own work people, in which reading, writing, arithmetic, english grammar, geography, and drawing, are taught, with occasional lectures on the principles of mechanics, natural philosophy, and history. a small library is attached to the school. "when the school was first established, it was remarked that scarcely a boy knew his companion except by a nickname, and that fights on entering and leaving school were of common occurrence. at present the practice of nicknames has disappeared, and a fight does not take place once in three months. "the proceedings of the evening commenced with a hymn. an orphan boy, fourteen years of age, a self-taught musician, placed himself before a small organ, provided by mr. winfield, and played the evening hymn. all the boys accompanied him with their voices, and sang very creditably; after this they were formed into their usual classes. "the school labours under great disadvantages; the hours of attendance are not sufficiently long; even these few hours are infringed on when trade is brisk, and the men, working over-hours, require the boys to assist them; and from physical exhaustion of the boys after the labour of the day, they sometimes fall asleep over their books. "a hymn is sung, a prayer said, and the bible read without comment, no catechism or doctrinal point is introduced. the school includes the sons of people of the church of england, roman catholics, wesleyans, presbyterians, and unitarians." messrs. peyton & barlow, metal-bedstead makers, mr. bacchus, glass-maker, mr. middlemore, currier, and messrs. chance, glassmakers, have also established schools for the parties in their employ. mr. william chance is an earnest philanthropist; he has established a ragged school, at his own expense, in birmingham, open to all, and at his works in spon lane, west bromwich, one school for his workmen alone, and another open to the neighbourhood. the first school, in spon lane, is divided into three departments, for infants, for girls, and for boys. a weekly charge of d. is made, for which books and stationery are provided; punctual attendance and cleanliness are conditions insisted upon. the number of scholars, of whom one-third are from messrs. chance's works, has steadily increased from the time of opening. the boys are instructed in reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar, geography, and the elements of drawing. the girls are taught plain needlework instead of drawing. no catechism is taught, but the bible is read without comment. one- half are the children of parents in communion with the church of england, and the other half of dissenters. in it contained boys, girls, and infants. it is difficult to rate too highly the advantage the operative classes obtain from the preliminary training afforded by infant schools. but infant schools are useless, if the education is to cease at seven years old. the other school is strictly confined to the boys and men employed in the glass works. it opened july, , with scholars, all boys from twelve years of age, before which none are admitted into the manufactory. by degrees the men, at first deterred by shame, began to attend, and at present a considerable number avail themselves of the advantage for commencing or extending the imperfect education they had obtained at sunday schools. these schools are not self-supporting, but are found, even in a commercial point of view, to repay the philanthropic firm by whom they have been founded and supported. the birmingham free and industrial school, founded in by the energetic exertions of the hon. and rev. grantham yorke, rector of st. philip, includes a day school for boys and girls above seven years of age; two industrial classes; and an asylum for deserted and orphans. the scholars are not of the class to which we are specially calling attention. we shall, therefore, content ourselves with mentioning the existence of such a school for the refuse population of this large town. the deficient education of the working classes, consequent on unregulated infant labour, would alone be sufficient to account for the prevalence of the idle custom of losing at least one day every week in busy times, and the drinking habits, which are a blot upon a population of superior intelligence. but a still more demoralizing influence exists in the state of the dwellings of the working classes in birmingham, which, although at first sight very attractive in appearance, forming neat courts of cottages, compared with the crowded lodging-houses of many manufacturing towns, are, nevertheless, lamentably deficient in two essentials for health and decency, viz., efficient drainage, and a sufficient supply of wholesome water. in two thousand courts, inhabited by fifty thousand people, the supply of water is either obtained at great loss of time from wells, often dirty, sometimes fetid, or purchased at an extravagant rate from itinerant water- carriers. a private water company exists, but has scarcely been called upon at all to supply the houses of the working classes. under these circumstances, with a clean external appearance, the filth in which fifty thousand people live seems to be only understood by the local medical inspectors, whose reports have hitherto produced so little effect, it is not extraordinary that after long hours of toil, the inhabitants fly to the bright saloons of gin shops, and the snug tap-rooms of beer shops. we have dwelt thus at length upon the moral, and educational, and sanitary shortcomings of a town which can, no doubt, draw comparisons, very much to its own advantage, with other manufacturing district towns, because birmingham is in a position to set an example, to lead the way in an all- important reform without consulting the opinions of the ministers or the parliament of the day. birmingham may, if it pleases, go far toward affording every working man the means of drinking and washing in an ample supply of clean water, of living in a well-drained cottage, and of sending his children to school for two hours every day, without waiting for the decision of parliament upon all the crotchets of the chartists, or plans of the financial reform association. pity it is that none of the well-applauded brummagem patriots have pluck enough to battle a little unpopularity in so honest a cause. but clap-trap costs less trouble than work, and gets more cheers. it is the misfortune of birmingham to be sacrificed to the disagreements of two rival factions, one calling itself conservative, and the other radical, both filling the pockets and doing the work of lawyers at the expense of the ratepayers. nothing can be done until the municipal corporation obtains the powers now vested in several sets of virtually irresponsible commissioners. when these wars of the pots and kettles are ended, the ratepayers will be able to turn their undivided attention to local reforms without having their minds distracted by those little legal squabbles, under cover of which business is neglected, and pockets are picked. it is to be hoped that the session of will settle this point. the whole kingdom is interested in the good government and prosperity of its greatest inland town. { } warwick, leamington, kenilworth, stratford on avon. before leaving birmingham, it will be convenient to say something about warwick, leamington, kenilworth, and stratford on avon, of which the one is the assize town, another the watering place, and the third and fourth the antiquarian or rather romantic lions of the county in which birmingham stands first, for wealth, population, manufacturing, and political importance. warwick, in spite of its parliamentary, municipal, and assize honours, would soon be as much forgotten as a hundred other dull little country towns, without local trade or local attractions, if it were not for the castle, the church, and the river, which, in connection with striking epochs in england's history, will ever render it a favourite pilgrimage. after being destroyed by the danes, warwick was restored by ethelfreda, the daughter of alfred the great, who built a fort there, a.d. . at domesday survey it was a borough, and contained houses, of which belonged to the king. members were sent to parliament in the time of edward i., when also the paving of the town and the erection of a wall round it were commenced. in the time of philip and mary, the first charter of incorporation was granted. the town stands on the west side of the river avon,--shakspeare's avon, from which it is separated by warwick castle and grounds. it was formerly a little county metropolis, many of the families of rank and fortune had winter residences there; the warwick balls were frequented by a select and exclusive set; a small theatre was well supported, and few races assembled more distinguished company than used to throng the warwick course once a year, in family coaches and four-in-hands. all this grandeur has departed, leamington has absorbed the wealth and fashion of warwick, the town mansions have fallen into plebeian hands, the theatre has ceased to be a training school for the london boards, the streets are silent except when a little temporary bustle is produced by an influx of birmingham attorneys, their clients, and witnesses, at the assizes, of stout agriculturists and holiday labourers on "fair days," or the annual "mop," when an ox is roasted whole, and lads and lasses of rosy rural breed range themselves along the pavement to be hired, or at the races twice a year, when, although the four horses with postilions and outriders are seldom seen, railroads from a distance, and leamington from close at hand, pour a variegated stream of sightseers and gamblers on one of the prettiest pieces of ground in england. warwick has no manufactures, but, being a borough very evenly balanced between the two contending political parties, its inhabitants have enjoyed a fuller share of the favours of government than has fallen to the lot of towns of more commercial importance. warwick stands on solid rock, in which the cellars are excavated; and this circumstance, added to its position on the top of a hill, renders it particularly dry and clean. there are several excellent inns, supported by the surrounding' farmers, which are much to be preferred to more fashionable hotels. the roast geese to be found at the farmers' ordinaries on market days about michaelmas time, are worthy of commendation; and the farmers themselves, being of a jovial and hospitable turn of mind, render these dinners pleasanter to a stranger who can dine at an unfashionable hour, than the eternal "anything you please, sir; steak or chop, sir," in a solitary box, which haunts us for our sins in the coffee-rooms of english hotels. warwick deserves a long journey, if it were only for the sake of the fine woodland scenery which surrounds it for ten miles, but the castle is the especial object of attraction,--a castle which realizes almost more than any other those romantic ideas of a feudal abode which were first put into circulation by the "castle of otranto," and became part of the education of our youth under the influence of the genius of sir walter scott. the castle rises upon the brink of the river, which foams past over the weir of an ancient mill, where once the inhabitants of the borough were bound by feudal service to grind all their corn. the best approach is from the leamington lower road, over a bridge of one arch, built by a late earl of warwick. caesar's and guy's towers rise into sight from a surrounding grove. the entrance is through an arched gateway, past a lodge, where the relics of earl guy, the dun cow slayer, are preserved; and a winding avenue cut in solid rock effects a sort of surprise, which, as the castle comes again suddenly into view, is very pleasing. the exterior realizes a baronial abode of the fourteenth or fifteenth century; the interior has been modernized sufficiently to be made comfortable, still retaining many striking features of its ancient state. a closely cropped green sward covers the quadrangle, which was formerly the tilting ground. the date of caesar's tower, the oldest part of the building, is uncertain. guy's tower, of the latter part of the fourteenth century, is in fine preservation. the great entrance hall, a grand old room sixty-two feet by thirty-seven, is adorned with armour and other appurtenances to feudal state. at a great fire-place with fire dogs, room might be found for a cartload of faggots. a suite of rooms, commanding views of delightful scenery, are adorned with ancient tapestry, armour, and pictures by rubens, vandyke, velasquez, and other eminent painters. among the portraits are ignatius loyola, the founder of the jesuits, prince rupert, and charles i. on horseback, by vandyke. hours may be profitably and agreeably spent in investigating the treasures of warwick castle. the grounds, although not extensive, are picturesquely arranged; in one of the greenhouses, the warwick vase, an antique celebrated for its size and beauty, will be found. the numerous copies in various materials, but especially in metals, cast in birmingham, have rendered the form of this relic of classic art well known. after the castle, st. mary's church must be visited for its beautiful chapel with altar tomb, on which lies prostrate in humble prayer the effigy of richard beauchamp, earl of warwick, styled "the good." this beauchamp was regent of france in , during the absence of the duke of bedford, and carried on the war there with signal success. he was afterwards governor of the infant king, henry vi. while a second time ruling over france, he died at rouen on the th april, . it was the daughter of the good earl who married richard nevil, created, on succeeding to the warwick estates through his wife, earl of warwick, known as "the king maker;" a grand character in shakspeare's henry vi., and the hero of sir bulwer lytton's "last of the barons." then there is leicester hospital, founded in the time of richard ii., as two guilds, in honour of the virgin and st. george the martyr, which, after the reformation, was re-established under its present name by queen elizabeth's favourite, robert dudley, earl of leicester, as an almshouse for a master and twelve brethren, "being impotent or infirm men." these last have been, in consequence of the improved value of the trust-funds, increased to twenty, and receive each an allowance of pounds per annum: the master has pounds. the buildings of this charity consist of a quadrangle, formed by the brethren's lodgings and public kitchen, of a chapel of ancient architecture over the west gate of the town, and an ancient hall. previous to the reform bill, the influence of the warwick family returned two members for the borough of warwick: since that period they have as yet only returned one; but, in the absence of the countervailing influence of any manufactures, it seems likely that a popular earl, of whatever politics, would be able to resume the ancient influence of the house, and again return two. * * * * * leamington, about two miles distant, may be reached by two turnpike roads and a pleasant footpath; the distance of all being about two miles. mineral waters, fashion, a clever physician, the warwickshire hounds, the surplus capital of birmingham, speculative builders, and excellent sanitary regulations have contributed to the rapid rise of this picturesque and fashionable watering-place; in what proportions it would be difficult to say. the waters, which resemble mild epsom salts, first brought the village into notice in , although the existence of mineral springs at leamington priory had been recorded by camden and dugdale. in people drank harder than they do now, read less, played cards more, were altogether "faster," and had more need of purifying waters and pump-room amusements. a long war shut out our idlers from the continent, and created an additional demand for our native mineral produce. at a later period the talents of dr. jephson attracted an army of invalids and would-be invalids; sir walter scott's novels brought kenilworth and warwick castle into fashion, just as garrick, like a second peter the hermit, preached up a pilgrimage to stratford-on- avon. so land-jobbers and builders rushed to prepare tempting abodes for the armies of the sick, the sporting, and the romantic, who gathered round the springs. although the beautiful stone which has made bath the queen of watering- places, was not to be had, the materials for roman cement, then lately invented, were plentiful. with these aids the town authorities had the good sense to enforce cleanliness, and all manner of rules for making the streets fit for the lounging promenades of the well-dressed. water-carts and brooms were kept in active employment; beggars and dust-heaps were under the eye of a vigilant police. the result was, that at the expense of many ruined builders and speculators, leamington grew from a pretty village into a fine town, peopled not only by invalids in the water-drinking season, and sportsmen in the winter season, but by a number of permanent residents of independent fortune, of all ranks between retired manufacturers and irish peers. attached to the manufacturing districts, it has become what brighton is to the london stock exchange. as hunting quarters, leamington is convenient for men with few horses, as the meets are near and the railways convenient. an ill-natured opinion prevails that the scarlet coat is more worn there by fortune-hunters than fox-hunters, and that the tailor is a person of more importance with the majority of the field than the huntsman; but this story probably originates in the number of carriages full of pretty faces to be found at the cover sides round leamington. the country cannot be compared with northamptonshire or leicestershire, or even oxfordshire. the farmers are better sportsmen than agriculturists. warwickshire landlords think more of the politics of their tenants, than of their intelligence or capital. great improvements have, however, been effected within the last ten years, and we must not forget to mention that the birmingham agricultural and poultry show, which is the finest local exhibition in the kingdom, draws a great many of its exhibitors from this county. leamington, long without direct railway communication, is now wrapped up between the broad-gauge and the narrow-gauge, like a hare in a bottle-spit. the opening of the line to rugby affords a new short way to london. the population will henceforward increase at the expense of its gentility, but the police and sanitary arrangements before alluded to, will always make leamington a favourite with invalids, hypochondriacs, and flaneurs. the multiplicity of these railroads compels us to abandon the plan of describing, as we pass, the more celebrated towns, mansions, or castles, because it would be impossible to follow out such a zig-zag of topography. it is better to take it for granted that the traveller will stop at certain places, and from them make excursions to everything worth seeing in the neighbourhood. in this manner, as birmingham gave occasion for an examination into the leading manufactures, we presume that leamington will be the best central encampment for a survey of everything within a circle of ten miles interesting to the antiquarian, the historian, the artist, the poet, the agriculturist, and the happy beings who have a taste for all these pursuits. the number of interesting places within an easy walk or drive of leamington, forms one of its great advantages as a watering place. either on foot or in a carriage (and leamington is extremely well provided with carriages for hire), warwick castle, or stratford-on-avon, or guy's cliff, and kenilworth, or stoneleigh abbey, may be visited in the course of a day, or part of a day. the detailed beauties of these places will be found fully set forth in county histories and local guides. a brief reference, sufficient to enable a traveller to make up a plan of campaign, will be all we shall attempt. * * * * * stoneleigh abbey, the residence of lord leigh, is noticeable for its fine woodland scenery,--splendid oaks adorn the park, and as having been the subject of a series of very extraordinary trials at the suit of claimants of the estate and ancient title. the true heirs of this estate have never been discovered; many claimants have successively appeared, and endeavoured to prop up their claims by extraordinary fabrications of evidence. for instance, a certain tombstone, bearing inscriptions of great importance, was not only described and sworn to by a cloud of witnesses, as having been at a certain year in stoneleigh church, but other witnesses, with equal circumstantiality, related how, on a particular occasion, this said tombstone was taken down and destroyed. and yet, it was clearly proved before the house of lords that no such tombstone ever existed. the present family are now secure in the estates under the statute of limitations, but the late peer, up to a short period before the old title was revived in his favour, occupied stoneleigh as a trustee, as it were, for want of a better claimant. in the incidents of the leigh peerage, are the materials of half-a-dozen romances. * * * * * guy's cliff--where guy, earl of warwick, and slayer of the dun cow, lived and died as a hermit, fed daily by his countess, little knowing whom she fed--is situated on the banks of the avon, about a mile from warwick, on the high road to kenilworth, and may also be approached by footpaths across the fields leading to the same village. the pictures of guy's cliff have been extravagantly praised, but the natural and artificial beauties of its gardens and pleasure grounds constitute its chief attraction. for, says dugdale, it is "a place of so great delight in respect to the river gliding below the rock, the dry wholesome situation, and the fair grove of lofty elms overshadowing it, that to one who desireth a retired life, either for his devotions or study, the like is hardly to be found." what dugdale said two hundred years ago may truly be repeated now, especially in a warm autumn or summer evening, when the click of a water-mill adds sound to the pleasure to be derived from the thick shade of the lofty trees overhead, mossy turf under the feet, and the sight of flowing water. henry v. visited this hermitage; and shakspeare, on what authority we know not, is said to have frequented it. * * * * * kenilworth follows guy's cliff, once a retired country village of one street, one church, and one inn, now vulgarized by being made the site of a railway station. at the risk of offending the kenilworthians, we strongly advise the romantic youths and maidens inspired by sir walter scott's romance not to visit the ruins, which, although an excellent excuse and pleasant situation for a picnic, have nothing romantic about them beyond grey walls. the woods and waters which formed so important a part of the scenery during queen elizabeth's visit, have disappeared, as well as all the stately buildings. at the same time, imagination will go a long way, and it may not be a day ill spent after reading laleham's "princely pleasures of kenilworth," in which he describes what he himself saw when queen elizabeth visited the earl of leicester there in , to journey over, especially if accompanied by a cold collation, including a salad of the avon crawfish, and a little iced punch. it would be still better for good pedestrians to walk the distance by the fields and push on to the inn for refreshment, without which all tame scenery is so very flat. in the sublimity of the alps, the pyrenees, or even the great highland hills, a man may forget his dinner; but, when within the verge of the horizon church-towers and smoking chimneys of farm-houses continually occur, visions of fat, brown, sucking pigs, rashers of ham and boiled fowls, with foaming tankards, will intrude unbidden after an hour or two of contemplation. * * * * * stratford on avon, with shottery, where ann hathaway was courted by shakspeare and charlecote, the residence of the sir thomas lucy whom the poet immortalised as justice shallow, are all within ten miles of leamington. on all these so much has been written that we will not venture to "pile up the agony" any higher. the best companion on the road to stratford is charles knight's life of shakspeare, which colours all the scenes of the poet's life in warwickshire with the atmosphere of the sixteenth century, and summons to meet us in the streets of stratford costumes and characters contemporary with falstaff, shallow, and dogberry so well, that we do not see the clods in corduroys, the commercial gents in paletots, and the police in trim blue, whom we really meet. [the avon viaduct: ill .jpg] soho. watt, boulton, murdoch. on leaving birmingham, the railway almost immediately passes from warwickshire into staffordshire, through two parishes, handsworth and aston, which, presenting nothing picturesque in natural scenery or remarkable in ancient or modern buildings, with one exception, yet cannot be passed over without notice, because they were residences of three remarkable men, to whom we are largely indebted for our use of the inventions which have most contributed to the civilisation and advance of social comfort in the nineteenth century. two miles from old birmingham, now part of the modern town, lies soho, in the suburb of handsworth, which, in , was a bleak and barren heath. in that year matthew boulton, the son of a wealthy birmingham hardwareman, purchased soho, and erected on it a mansion, with pleasure grounds, and a series of workshops, for carrying on the then staple trades of the town, in shoe buckles, buttons, and other articles included in the general title of "toys." in , boulton entered into partnership with james watt, and commenced, in concert with him, the experiments in which watt had been for some years engaged for improving savary's imperfect steam-pumping engine. after years of the concentrated labour of genius of the highest order, and the expenditure of not less than , pounds, their success was complete, and watt's inventions, in the words of lord jeffrey, rendered the steam engine "capable of being applied to the finest and most delicate manufactures, and its power so increased, as to set weight and solidity at defiance. by his admirable contrivances, it became a thing stupendous alike for its force and its applicability, for the prodigious power it can exert, and the ease and precision, and ductility with which that power can be varied, distributed, and applied. the trunk of an elephant that can pick up a pin or rend an oak, is as nothing to it. it can engrave a seal, and crush masses of obdurate metal like wax before it; draw out, without breaking, a thread as fine as gossamer, and lift a ship of war like a bauble in the air. it can embroider muslin, and forge anchors, cut steel into ribands, and impel loaded vessels against the fury of the winds and waves." the march of death and time have removed all the men who were engaged in assisting james watt and matthew boulton in their great works. the numerous mechanical trades in coining, plating, and other birmingham manufactures, in addition to the construction of steam engines, which first turned the waste of soho into the largest workshop in europe, have passed into other hands, and been transplanted. the manufactory of steam engines, removed to another site, still exists under the name of the old firm; but within a very recent period the pleasure grounds in which james watt often walked, in earnest converse with the partner to whose energetic and appreciative mind he owed so much, have been invaded by the advances of the neighbouring town, and sliced and divided into building lots. aston hall and park must soon suffer the same fate. [aston viaduct: ill .jpg] very soon there will be no vestiges of the homes of these great men, but they need no monuments, no shrines for the reverence of admiring pilgrims. every manufactory in the town of birmingham is a monument of the genius which first fully expanded within the precincts of soho. thousands on thousands find bread from inventions there first perfected or suggested. when watt explained to smeaton, the architect of eddystone lighthouse and the greatest engineer of the day, the plan of his steam engine, he doubted whether mechanics could be found capable of executing the different parts with sufficient precision; and, in fact, in , when watt produced, under the patronage of dr. roebuck, his third model, with a cylinder of block tin eighteen inches in diameter, there were only one or two men capable of giving the requisite truth of workmanship to air-pump cylinders of two inches in diameter. at the present day, as before observed in reference to wolverton, there are thousands of skilled workmen employed at weekly wages, to whom the most difficult problems of watt's early experiments are familiar handiwork. at handsworth, too, working for a long life in the soho manufactories as the servant, confidential assistant, and friend, lived another remarkable man, william murdoch, the inventor of illumination by gas, and the author of the first locomotive steam engine, and of several important contributions to practical science, to which justice has scarcely been done. william murdoch employed coal gas so early as , for the purpose of lighting his house and offices at redruth, in cornwall, when he was superintending the pumping engines erected there by messrs. boulton and watt; for it was he who erected for them in that district the first cornish pumping engine, with separate condenser. he had at that time in regular use a portable gas lantern, formed by filling a bladder with gas, and fixing to it a jet, which was attached to the bottom of a glass lantern, which he used for the purpose of lighting himself home at night across the moors from the mining engines. his locomotive engine, made upon the non-condensing principle (since adopted in all engines for that purpose), was constructed, in consequence of a lameness which confined him to the sofa, and set to work at redruth in . it is still in existence in perfect working order, and was exhibited before a meeting of the mechanical engineers at birmingham, in the year , when a memoir of mr. murdoch was read, which has been kindly forwarded to us by the president, john m'connell, esq., c.e. it is among the traditions of redruth, that one night william murdoch, wishing to try an experiment with his new invention, lighted the lamp under the boiler, and set it a-going on a narrow, smooth, hard-rolled gravel walk leading to the church, a mile distant. the little engine went off at a great pace, whistling and hissing as it went, and the inventor followed as fast as he could in chase. soon he heard cries of alarm, horror, despair, and came up to the worthy clergyman of the parish cowering up against the hedge, almost in a fainting fit, under a strong impression that it was the evil one in person who just hissed past him in a fire-flaught. those of this generation who remember their first encounter with a locomotive in a dark night, can realize the terror of a country clergyman on encountering so strange an apparition in a night walk. it speaks as highly for messrs. boulton and watt, in whose service he passed all the active years of his life, as for mr. murdoch, that on leaving cornwall, he refused pounds a-year, which was offered him by the mining adventurers to remain in the county, in charge of the steam-pumping engines. liberal as the offer seems, it would have paid them well, for on his departure the engines lost twenty-five per cent. of their working power. handsworth church, near soho, contains a marble statue of james watt, by chantrey, a copy of that erected in westminster abbey. the railway passes aston hall, where james watt and his only surviving son lived until his death a few years ago. the park contains some fine trees, and the house is a good specimen of the domestic architecture of the time of elizabeth. [aston hall: ill .jpg] it was sold for a trifling sum, with an imperfect title, which time has cured, to a speculating banker; and, after having been let to the late james watt on a long lease, is now likely to exchange mansion and park for a congeries of cottages in rows, forming forty-shilling freeholders. the passion which the mechanics of birmingham have for investing in land has rendered land near that town dearer than in parallel situations near london. the black country. walsall, dudley, wednesbury, darlaston. the first diverging railway after leaving handsworth, on the road to the north, is what, for want of a better name, is called the south staffordshire, which connects birmingham with dudley, walsall, lichfield, and tamworth, thus uniting the most purely agricultural with the most thoroughly manufacturing districts, and especially with that part of the great coal-field which is locally known as the "black country." in this black country, including west bromwich, wednesbury, dudley, and darlaston, bilston, wolverhampton, and several minor villages, a perpetual twilight reigns during the day, and during the night fires on all sides light up the dark landscape with a fiery glow. the pleasant green of pastures is almost unknown, the streams, in which no fishes swim, are black and unwholesome; the natural dead flat is often broken by huge hills of cinders and spoil from the mines; the few trees are stunted and blasted; no birds are to be seen, except a few smoky sparrows; and for miles on miles a black waste spreads around, where furnaces continually smoke, steam-engines thud and hiss, and long chains clank, while blind gin-horses walk their doleful round. from time to time you pass a cluster of deserted roofless cottages of dingiest brick, half-swallowed up in sinking pits or inclining to every point of the compass, while the timbers point up like the ribs of a half-decayed corpse. the majority of the natives of this tartarian region are in full keeping with the scenery--savages, without the grace of savages, coarsely clad in filthy garments, with no change on week-days and sundays, they converse in a language belarded with fearful and disgusting oaths, which can scarcely be recognized as the same as that of civilized england. on working days few men are to be seen, they are in the pits or the ironworks, but women are met on the high-road clad in men's once white linsey-woolsey coats and felt hats, driving and cursing strings of donkeys laden with coals or iron rods for the use of the nailers. on certain rare holidays these people wash their faces, clothe themselves in decent garments, and, since the opening of the south staffordshire railway, take advantage of cheap excursion trains, go down to birmingham to amuse themselves and make purchases. it would be a useful lesson for any one who is particularly well satisfied with the moral, educational, and religious state of his countrymen, to make a little journey through this black country. he will find that the amiable enthusiasts who meet every may at exeter hall to consider on the best means of converting certain aboriginal tribes in africa, india, and the islands of the pacific, need not go so far to find human beings more barbarous and yet much more easily reclaimed. the people of this district are engaged in coal-mining, in ironworks, in making nails, and many other articles, or parts of articles, for the birmingham trade. their wages are, for the most part, good; fuel is cheap; well supplied markets, and means of obtaining the best clothing are close at hand. but, within sixty years a vast dense population has been collected together in districts which were but thinly inhabited as long as the value lay on the surface, instead of in the bowels of the earth. the people gathered together and found neither churches, nor schools, nor laws, nor customs, nor means for cleanliness at first, nor even an effective police to keep order. and thus they became one of the most ignorant, brutal, depraved, drunken, unhealthy populations in the kingdom, unless it be a set of people in the same occupations in the neighbourhood of manchester. we shall never forget, some five-and-twenty years ago, passing near bilston on a summer's holiday, and seeing a great red, pied bull foaming, and roaring, and marching round a ring in which he was chained, while a crowd of men, each with a demoniacal-looking bulldog in his arms, and a number of ragged women, with their hair about their ears, some of them also carrying bull-dog pups, yelled about the baited bull. it gave us an awful fright, and haunted our childish dreams for years after. the first change forced upon the governing classes, by feelings of self- protection was an organized police, and the "black" people are now more disgusting than dangerous. the cholera of , which decimated bilston and wednesbury, did something toward calling attention to the grievous social and sanitary wants of this district. in that pestilence several clergymen and medical men died, like heroes, in the discharge of their duties. some churches were built, some schools established; but an immense work remains to be done. bull-baiting has been put down, but no rational amusements have been substituted for that brutal and exciting sport. in the northern coal fields, near newcastle-on-tyne especially, we have noticed that when the miner ascends from the pit in the evening, his first care is to wash himself from head to foot, and then to put on a clean suit of white flannel. as you pass along the one street of a pitman's village, you will see the father reading a chambers' journal or a cheap religious magazine at the door of his cottage while smoking a pipe, and nursing a child or two on his knee; and through the open door, a neat four-post bed and an oak or mahogany chest of drawers bear witness to his frugality. in wednesbury, bilston, and all that district, when work is over you find the men drinking in their dirty clothes and with grimy faces at the beer-shop of the "buttey," that is to say, the contractor or middleman under whom they work, according to the system of the country, and the women hanging about the doors of their dingy dwellings, gossiping or quarreling,--the old furies and the young slatterns. in the face of such savagery, so evidently the result of defective education, two opposite and extreme parties in the state, the anti-church mialls and the pro-church anthony denisons, combine to oppose the multiplication of education that teaches decency if it teaches nothing else. one great step has been made by the health of town's act, which is about to be applied to some of these coal towns; and railways have rendered the whole district so accessible that no foul spot can long remain unknown or unnoticed. * * * * * walsall, eight miles from birmingham, the first town in our way, which may be reached directly by following the south staffordshire, or by an omnibus, travelling half-a-mile from bescot bridge, lies among green fields, out of the bounds of the mining country, although upon the edge of the warwickshire and staffordshire coalfield,--indeed the parliamentary borough includes part of the rough population just described. it is very clean, without antiquities or picturesque beauties, and contains nothing to attract visitors except its manufactures, of which the best known is cheap saddlery for the american, west indian, and australian markets. they make the leather and wooden parts, as well as stirrups and bridles; also gunlocks, bits, spurs, spades, hinges, screws, files, edge tools, and there is one steel-pen manufactory, besides many articles connected with the birmingham trade, either finished or unfinished, the number of which is constantly increasing. walsall is celebrated for its pig-market, a celebrity which railroads have not destroyed, as was expected, but rather increased. special arrangements for comfortably disembarking these, the most interesting strangers who visit walsall, have been made at the railway station. the principal church, with a handsome spire, stands upon a hill, and forms a landmark to the surrounding country. the ascent to it, by a number of steps, has, according to popular prejudice, produced an effect upon the legs of the inhabitants more strengthening than elegant, which has originated the provincial phrase of "walsall-legged." but this is, no doubt, a libel on the understandings of the independent borough. the houses are chiefly built of brick, but it seems as if some years ago the inhabitants had been seized with an architectural disease, which has left its marks in the shape of an eruption of stucco porticoes, and one or two pretensious mansions, externally resembling jails or infirmaries, internally boasting halls which bear the same proportion to the living rooms as falstaff's gallon of sack to his halfpennyworth of bread. no doubt there are persons whom this style of house exactly suits, the portico represents their pride, the parlour their economy. what was intended for the walsall public library consists of a thin closet behind a gigantic ionic portico, now tottering to its fall; and in like manner a perfectly dungeon-like effect has been given to the principal hotel by another portico, which affords a much better idea of the charges than of the accommodation to be found within. as a general rule in travelling, we pass by all hotels with porticoes to take refuge in more modest green dragons or blue boars. walsall has a municipal corporation of six aldermen and eighteen councillors. the reform bill, to increase the troubles of this innocent borough, placed it in schedule b, and gave it the privilege of making one m.p. fierce contests at every general election have been the result, in which some blood, much money, and more beer, have been expended. but neither party has thought it worth while to make the education of the savages of the black country a piece of politics, and, if any one did, he would only be torn to pieces between church and dissenters. * * * * * dudley in worcestershire, about six miles from walsall by the south staffordshire railway, has a castle and more than one legend for the antiquarian, a cave, and limestone pits full of fossils for the geologist, and especial interest for the historical economist, being the centre of the district where the first successful attempts were made to smelt iron by coal,--a process which has contributed, almost as much as our success in textile manufactures, to give this small island a wealth and power which a merely agricultural non-exporting community could never have attained. iron was manufactured with charcoal in england from the time of the romans till the middle of the eighteenth century, when the timber of many counties had been entirely exhausted by the process. in , in the reign of elizabeth, it was enacted that "no timber of the breadth of one foot square at the stub, and growing within fourteen miles of the sea, or any part of the river thames or severn, or any other river, creek, or stream, by the which carriage is commonly used by boat or other vessel, to any part of the sea, shall be converted to coal, or fuel for making iron;" { a} and, in , a further act was passed to prevent the destruction of timber. "for remedy whereof it was enacted that no new iron works should be erected within twenty-two miles of london nor within fourteen miles of the river thames, nor in the several parts of sussex near the sea therein named. this act not to extend to the woods of christopher durrell, in the parish of newdigate, within the weald of surrey, which woods have been coppiced by him for the use of his iron works in those parts." at the same period, we find from a letter in the stradling correspondence, { b} that, while iron was made in surrey, sussex, and kent, where not a pound is now manufactured, in glamorganshire, at present a great seat of iron manufacture, iron was so scarce that an anvil was leased out at the rent of s. d. a year, { } a rent at which, taking the then value of money, a very tolerable anvil could now be purchased. when the woods of the kingdom began to be exhausted, attention was turned to pit coal, which had long been in use for fuel in the counties where it was plentifully found. a curious account of the first successful experiments is to be found, told in very quaint language, in the metallum martis of dudley dudley, son of lord edward dudley (an ancestor of the late earl dudley and ward, and of the present lord ward, who now enjoys the very estates referred to, and derives a princely income from the mineral treasures, the true value of which was discovered by his unfortunate ancestor), published in the reign of charles ii. this mr. dudley was an early victim of the patent laws, which, to this day, have proved to be for the benefit of lawyers and officials, and the tantalization of true inventors and discoverers. the following extracts contain his story, and enable us to compare the present with the then state of iron manufacture:-- "having former knowledge and delight in ironworks of my father's when i was but a youth, afterwards, at twenty years old, was i fetched from oxford, then of baliol college, anno , to look after and manage three ironworks of my father's, one furnace and two forges in the chace of pensnel, in worcestershire; but wood and charcoal growing very scanty, and pit-coals in great quantities abounding near the furnace, did induce me to alter my furnace and to attempt by my new invention, the making of iron with pit-coal, and found at my trial or blast, facere est addere inventioni. after i had proved by a second blast and trial, the feasibility of making iron with pit- coal and sea-coal, i found by my new invention the quality good and profitable, but the quantity did not exceed above three tons a week." after this, the inventor obtained a patent from king james i., for thirty-one years in the nineteenth year of his reign. "but the year following the grant there was so great a flood of rain,--to this day called the great may-day flood,--that it ruined the author's ironworks and inventions, and at a market town called sturbridge, in comitatu wigorniae, one resolute man was carried from the bridge in the day time." "as soon as the author had repaired his works, he was commanded to send all sorts of bar iron up to the tower of london, fit for making of muskets and carbines, { } and the iron being so tried by artists and smiths, that the ironmasters and ironmongers who had complained that the author's iron was not merchantable, were silenced until the twenty-first of king james." "at the then parliament all monopolies were made null, and divers of the ironmeasters endeavoured to bring the invention of making iron with pit-coal within the compass of a monopoly; but the lord dudley and the author did prevail, yet the patent was limited to continue but fourteen years." this exception in the statute of monopolies, which incontestably proves the claim of the dudley family to the honour of having invented the art of smelting iron with coal, runs in the following terms:--"provided also that this act shall not extend to, or be prejudicial to, a graunt or priviledge for the melting of iron ewer, and of maling the same into sea coals or pit coals, by his majesties letters patent under the great seale of england, made or graunted to edward lord dudley." after the passing of the act, it seems that dudley dudley made "great store of iron and sold it at pounds a ton, and also cast-iron wares, as brewing cisterns, pots, mortars;" but, being ousted of his works, he again set up a furnace at "himley, in the county of stafford." himley hall is the present residence of lord ward, the representative of the dudley family. from that time forward, the life of the unfortunate inventor was but one series of misfortunes. under charles i. he got into law-suits, was the victim of riots set on by the charcoal ironmasters, and was eventually lodged in prison in the compter. then came the great rebellion, during which he had the disadvantage of being a royalist as well as an inventor, and of having "cromwell, with major wildman and many of his officers, as opponents in rival experiments tried in the forest of dean, where they employed an ingenious glassmaster, edward dagney, an italian then living in bristow," but they failed. and so he was utterly ruined. on the accession of charles ii., he petitioned, and eventually sent in the statement from which the preceding extracts have been made, but apparently without any success. the king was too busy making dukes and melting the louis d'ors of his french pension, to think of anything so common as iron or so tiresome as gratitude. the iron manufacture, for want of the art of smelting by coal, and of a supply of wood, which the march of agriculture daily diminished, dwindled away, until, in the middle of the eighteenth century, it was revived at colebrook dale by the darbys. in the intermediate period, we were dependent on russia, spain, and sweden for the chief part of the iron used in manufactures. but one of the most curious passages in dudley's metallum martis, is the following picture of the dudley coal-field:--"now let me show some reasons that induced me to undertake these inventions. well knowing that within ten miles of dudley castle, there be near , smiths of all sorts, and many ironworks within that circle decayed for want of wood (yet formerly a mighty woodland country); secondly, lord dudley's woods and works decayed, but pit- coal and iron stone or mines abounding upon his lands, but of little use; thirdly, because most of the coal mines in these parts are coals ten, eleven, and twelve yards thick; fourthly, under this great thickness of coal are very many sorts of ironstone mines; fifthly, that one-third part of the coals gotten under the ground are small, when the colliers are forced to sink pits for getting of ten yards thick, and are of little use in an inland country, unless it might be made use of by making iron therewith; sixthly, these colliers must cast these coals and slack out of their ways, which, becoming moist, heat naturally, and kindle in the middle of these great heaps, often sets the coal works on fire and flaming out of the pits, and continue burning like aetna in sicily or hecla in the indies." (sic.) at present, for more than ten miles round dudley castle, iron works of one kind or another are constantly at work; no remains of mighty woodland are to be found. the value of the ten yard coal is fully appreciated, but the available quantity is far from having been worked out. the untouched mineral wealth of lord ward in this district was valued, ten years ago, at a million sterling. the small coal is no longer wasted, but carefully raised from the pits and conveyed by the numerous canals, tram-roads, and railroads, to iron works, glass works, and chemical works. but still heaps of waste, moistened by rain, do smoke by day, and flaming by night in conjunction with hundreds of fiery furnaces and natural gases blazing, do produce, on a night's journey from dudley to wolverhampton, not the effect of one aetna or hecla, but of a broad "inferno," from which even dante might have gathered some burning notions. the political croakers who are constantly predicting that the last inevitable change, whether it be a municipal corporation reform, a tithe commutation, or a corn tax repeal, will prove the ruin of england, should study the geographical march of our manufactures, and mark how, on the whole population, the rise of a new staple in one district, or the invention of a new art, constantly creates a new demand for labour. the exhaustion of our forests, instead of destroying, founded one great element of our world-wide commercial influence. we make no apology for this digression, knowing that, to many minds, facts connected with the rise of the iron trade will have as much interest as notes on the scene of a battle or the birthplace of a second-rate poet, besides, as we omit to say what we do not know, it is necessary we should say what we do. besides mining and smelting iron ore, a considerable population in and around dudley is engaged in the manufacture of glass and of nails; the latter being a domestic manufacture, at which men, women, and children all work at home. the castle dates from a saxon prince, dodo, a.d. ; but, like the bird of the same name, the original building is extinct. but very interesting ruins of a norman gateway, tower, and keep, are in existence; and form, with the caves, a show-place leased by the south staffordshire as an attraction to their excursion trains. the caves are lighted up on special occasions, and were honoured by a visit from the geologists of the british association when last they met at birmingham. a fossil, called the dudley locust, is found in great quantities and varieties in the limestone quarries, which form part of the mineral wealth of the neighbourhood. the broad gauge line through birmingham and oxford will shortly afford dudley a direct and rapid communication with london. to passengers this will be a great convenience, but a mode of conveyance so unwieldy, clumsy, and costly, is singularly ill fitted for a mineral district, as experience among the narrow tram-ways of the north has amply proved. dudley returns one member to parliament; whose politics must, it is supposed, be those of the holder of the ward estate. returning from dudley through walsall to bescot bridge, the rail pursues its course through a mining country to bilston and wolverhampton. on the road we pass in sight of the birmingham canal, one of the finest works of the kind in the kingdom. an enormous sum was spent in improving the navigation, in order to prove that any railway was unnecessary. the proprietors, under the influence of their officials, a snug family party, shut their eyes and spent their money in opposing the inevitable progress of locomotive power to the last possible moment. even when the first london and birmingham railway was nearly open, a scheme for a new canal was industriously hawked round the county; and, although there were not enough subscribers found to execute the work, a small percentage was sufficient to furnish a surveyor's new house very handsomely. still, there is no probability of the canal ever ceasing to be an important aid to the coal trade in heavy freights. * * * * * wednesbury, { } pronounced wedgebury, and spelt wednesberie in domesday book, stands in the very heart of the coal and iron district, and is as like tipton, darlaston, bilston, and other towns where the inhabitants are similarly employed, as one sweep is like another. birmingham factors depend largely on wedgebury for various kinds of ironwork and "heavy steel toys." the coal pits in the neighbourhood are of great value, and there is no better place in the kingdom to buy a thoroughbred bull dog that will "kill or die on it," but never turn tail. the name is supposed to incorporate that of the saxon god woden, whose worship consisted in getting drunk and fighting, and, to this day, that is the only kind of relaxation in which many of the inhabitants ever indulge. the church stands upon a hill, where ethelfleda, lady of mercia, built a castle to resist the danes, a.d. , about the time that she erected similar bulwarks at tamworth and other towns in the midland counties, but there are no antiquities worth the trouble of visiting. parties who take an interest in the progress of education in this kingdom among those classes where it is most needed, that is to say, masses of miners and mechanics residing in districts from which all the higher and most of the middle classes have removed; where the clergy are few, hard worked, and ill paid; where the virtues of a thinly peopled agricultural district have been exchanged for the vices, without the refinements, of a crowded town population, should traverse this part of staffordshire on foot. they will own that, in spite of the praiseworthy labours of both church and dissent,--in spite of the progress of temperance societies and savings' banks,--a crowd of children are daily growing up in a state of ignorance, dirt, and degradation fearful to contemplate. to active philanthropists, not to seekers of the picturesque, archaeologists, and antiquarians, do we address ourselves. still we ought to add that, in the iron works and rolling mills, there are studies of half naked men in active motion at night, with effect of red firelight and dark shade, in which the power of painting flesh and muscular development might be more effectively displayed than in the perpetual repetition of model eves and sprawling nymphs. * * * * * wolverhampton formerly lay away from railroads, at a convenient omnibus distance; but competition has doubly pierced it through and through. one line connects it with shrewsbury; another, on the point of completion, will connect it with dudley, birmingham, and oxford, and another with worcester,--add to these means of communication the canals existing before railroads commenced, extending to hull, liverpool, chester, and london, and it will be seen that wolverhampton is most fortunately placed. the great railway battle of the gauges commenced at wolverhampton, and has been carried on ever since at the cost of more than a million sterling in legal and parliamentary expenses, beside the waste of capital in constructing three railways where one would have been sufficient, and the extra cost of land traversed where a price was paid, st, for the land; nd, for the revenue; rd, for compulsion; th, for influence, and th, for vote, if the landowner were a member of either house of parliament. at the end of the battle, a competing line to london has been established, which will end shortly in a compromise; and, if one district has two railways, others, much needing, have none. the shareholders on both sides have lost their money, the engineers have reaped a harvest, and the lawyers have realized a fortune. the experience of water companies, gas companies, canal companies, and railway companies, has distinctly been, that, between great monied corporations with large capitals sunk in plant, competition is impossible and must end in a compromise. but these contests are profitable to lawyers, who must always win, whether their clients do or not. it is no exaggeration to say that, as surely as spain and portugal are priest-ridden, so surely is great britain lawyer- ridden. no sooner does the science, the industry, and the enterprise of the country carve out some new road to commercial prosperity, than the attorney sets up a turnpike upon it and takes toll; and, if dispute arises as to the right of road, however the contest be decided, it ends in two attornies taking toll. in chancery, in the laws affecting patents of inventions, in the law affecting canals, in railways, a standing army of lawyers are constantly engaged in fighting battles, which end in our bearing the wounds and their sharing the spoil. so it was in these battles of the gauges. but to return to wolverhampton, the name of which recalled battles wherein so much useful money has been wasted, the town, although of rising importance in a commercial point, offers no other attraction to the curious traveller than its numerous manufactories of hardware, and machinery of various kinds, including firearms, tinned ware, locks and keys, of extraordinary cheapness, gun locks, files, screws, and japanned ware. the tea trays, and other japanned ware of wolverhampton, are equal in taste and execution to anything produced in birmingham; indeed, it was at the manufactory of the messrs. walton that the plan of skilfully copying the landscapes of our best artists on japan were originated. the first tea-tray of the kind was copied from one of turner's rivers of france, by a gentleman who has since taken up a very important position in applying the true principles of art to british manufactures. wolverhampton, and all the towns and villages in the coal and iron district, are only so many branch-birminghams; in that hardware metropolis the greater part of the goods made are ordered and sold. the town is of great antiquity, although with as few remains as most flourishing towns built of brick, where manufactures have chased away mansions. the name is derived from walfrana, a sister of king edgar, who founded a monastery there in a.d. , and collected a village round it named walfrana hampton, which was eventually corrupted into wolverhampton. in the oldest church, st. peter's, there is a pulpit formed of a single stone, elaborately sculptured, and a font, with curious bas-relief figures of saints. the church is collegiate, and the college consists of a dean, who holds the prebend of wolverhampton, which was annexed by edward iv. to his free chapel of st. george, within the castle of windsor. a free grammar school, supported by endowments, affords a head master pounds a-year; the second master pounds; and a third master pounds. some years ago these gentlemen had only seventy scholars to teach, but we trust this is, or will be, amended. wolverhampton was made a parliamentary borough by the reform act, returning two members from boundaries which include the townships of bilston, willenhall, wednesfield, and the parish of sedgeley. the population has increased more than five fold in the last forty years. bird, the artist, congreve, inventor of the rockets which bear his name, and abernethy, the eminent surgeon, were natives of wolverhampton; huskisson, who began the commercial reforms which peel finished, was born at oxley hall, in the immediate neighbourhood. close to the town is a good racecourse, well frequented once a year, formerly one of the most fashionable meetings in the country. the ladies' division of the grand stand used to be a complete parterre of the gayest flowers; but railroads, which have added to the quantity, have very much deteriorated the quality of the frequenters of races, and unless a change takes place, a grand stand will soon be as dark, as busy, and as dull as the stock exchange. from wolverhampton a line nineteen miles in length, through albrighton (where staffordshire ends and shropshire begins) and shifnal to wellington, shortens the route to shrewsbury by cutting off an angle; but as there is nothing to be said about this route except that at albrighton are the kennels of the hunt of that name, (a hunt in which the greater or less luxury in horseflesh of the young ironmasters affords a thermometer of the state of the iron trade,) we shall on this occasion take the stafford line. within an easy distance of wolverhampton are a very large number of the noblemen's and gentlemen's seats, in which staffordshire is so rich; more than one ancient and dilapidated family has been restored by the progress of smoke-creating manufactures, which have added to the wealth even more than they destroyed the picturesqueness of the country. if we were conducting a foreigner over england with the view of showing him the wealth, the power, and the beauties of our country, we should follow exactly the course we have hitherto pursued, and after an exhausting inspection of the manufactories of the coal country, should turn off the rail, after leaving wolverhampton on our road to stafford, and visit some of the beautiful mansions surrounded by that rich combination of nature and art which so eminently distinguishes the "stately homes of england." for instance, before reaching penkridge we pass--on the right hand, moseley court, where the ancestors of the proprietors, the whitgreaves, concealed charles ii. after the battle of worcester,--on the left, wrottesley hall, the seat of the scientific nobleman of that name, and chellington park, the residence of the ancient roman catholic family of the giffords, where an avenue of oaks, the growth of centuries, with a magnificent domain stocked with deer and game, afford the admirers of english scenery delicious vistas of wood, water, and rich undulating pasture. the contrast between the murky atmosphere and continued roar of the ironmaking country, and the silence of the deer-haunted green glades is most striking, and most grateful to eye and ear. as we rush along the valley of the penk, too rapidly to drink in its full beauties; on the right, teddesley hall, the mansion of lord hatherton, rising above the tops of the trees, reminds us that the noble lord's farms are well worth a visit from any one taking an interest in agriculture. poor land has been rendered comparatively fertile, and by a complete system of drainage, mere marshy rush-growing meadows have been made capable of carrying capital root and wheat crops, while the waste water has been carried to a head, and then by a large overshot water wheel, working below the surface of the ground, made useful for thrashing, chaff and root cutting, and other operations of the farm. at penkridge, a rural village of considerable antiquity, ten miles from wolverhampton, adorned by a gothic church, and several picturesque houses of the elizabethan style of domestic architecture, it will be convenient to descend, if an expedition is intended, over cannock chase to beaudesert, the seat of the marquis of anglesey. [the railway near penkridge: ill .jpg] this cannock chase completes the singular variations of soil and occupation to be found in staffordshire. from the densely-populated iron districts, and the model agriculture of disciples of the same school as lord hatherton, we can turn our faces to a vast moorland, forty miles square, stretching from where it is first seen on the banks of the railway to the banks of the trent, as wild as any part of wales or scotland, intersected by steep hills, by deep valleys, covered with gorse and broom, dotted with peat marshes, tenanted by wild deer and feathered game, and fed over by the famous "kenk" sheep, nearly as wild as deer, and in flavour rivalling the best mountain mutton. this great waste was once covered with dense forests, in which the wolf, the bear, the wild boar, and the wild bull were hunted by our saxon kings. it is not among the least wonders effected by the locomotive that a short hour can transport us from the midst of the busiest centres of manufactures to a solitude as complete as is to be found in the prairies of america or australia, unless we by chance stumble upon a prying gamekeeper or an idle rustic seeking whortle-berries or snaring hares. on this chase, begged by his ancestors from an easy king as a kitchen garden, the hero of the light cavalry at waterloo annually takes his sport, mounted on a perfect shooting cob, and with eighty years upon his shoulders, can still manage to bring down his birds right and left. long may such blanks of solitude and wild nature remain amid the busy hum of commerce to remind us of what all england once was, to afford, at a few holidays in the year, a free breathing place to the hardworking multitude, and to the poet and student that calm delight which the golden fragrance of a gorse-covered moor can bestow. before we reach stafford we leave on the right, although not in sight, shugborough, the deserted mansion of the earl of lichfield, a descendant of the lord anson who "sailed round the world but was never in it." stafford. stafford castle, on the summit of a high hill, whose slopes are clothed with forest trees, gives in the romantic associations it awakens a very false idea of the town to be found below. the towers of the castle built by the son of robert de tonei, the standard bearer of william the conqueror, have survived the wars of the roses and the contests of the great rebellion, while the remainder has been restored in an appropriate style by the family of the present possessors, representatives of the ancient barony of stafford--no relation of the staffords who in another part of the county enjoy the dukedom of sutherland. but the town, prosperous in spite of many changes of fashion, has completely lost any antique air it may ever have enjoyed, and now, in all the smugness of brick, quite realises the idea of a borough which at every election is for sale to the highest bidder. [stafford: ill .jpg] the principal manufacture is that of shoes for exportation. many remarkable men have represented stafford, some as remarkable for their talent as for their folly. sheridan's most brilliant speeches, and urquhart's most undeniable failures in the house of commons, were both due to the borough of stafford. it is, in fact, a stepping-stone to the house of commons, always ready for the highest bidder and promiser, but whoever would sit for stafford for a series of parliaments, would need the use of the philosopher's stone. the independent electors would exhaust california if they had the chance. as the stafford shoemakers, to the deep disappointment of its agricultural neighbours, have not yet been ruined by the influx of foreign boots and shoes, its chief interest at present is derived from its being the point from which several important railways radiate. * * * * * stafford to manchester.--beside the old grand junction line to crewe, the trent valley line, about which we intend to say a few words on our return journey, ends, strictly speaking, at stafford, after passing by atherston, tamworth, and lichfield; but, since the construction of the north staffordshire, which joins the trent valley at colewich, the most direct way to manchester is through the pottery district and macclesfield, instead of by stafford and crewe. direct lines have generally proved a great mistake, except so far as they have accommodated the local traffic through which they passed. to the shareholders they have been most unprofitable wherever the original shareholders were not lucky enough to bully the main lines into a lease, and, to the average of travellers very inconvenient, by dividing accommodation. but shareholders should look at the local traffic of a proposed direct line, on which alone good dividends can be earned. these direct projects were partly the result of the imperfect manner in which, in consequence of opposition and from want of experience, the original main branch lines were executed, and partly in that plethora of money, which, in this thriving country, must be relieved from time to time by the bleeding of ingenious schemers. we are enjoying, in this year of , the advantages derived from money spent, and lost to the spenders, in our own country instead of being sunk in greek or spanish bonds, south american mines, or the banks and public works of the united states. at one period, in the height of the ten per cent. mania, a school of railway economists sprang up which advocated placing the construction and the profits of railways in the hands of government, and they supported their theories by ex post facto criticism on the blunders of railway companies,--on the astonishing dividends of mr. george hudson's lines,--and on the hard terms on which capitalists had agreed to execute french railways for the french government. these ingenious reasons did not prevail. people were reminded that the steam boats, the public works, the "woods and forests" under government charge, were not managed with remarkable success or economy. the tempting dividends melted away, and projects for french railways, on the principle of the state taking profits and the speculators the risk, which had excited the admiration of cato morrisson, first hung fire and then exploded, so that rich districts of france which, on the system of "profits to private enterprise," would have enjoyed railway conveyance ten years ago, are still left to the mercy of the slow diligences and slower waggons to this hour. to a commercial country like england, the waste of a few millions on railways badly planned, are of little importance compared with the national saving effected by the cheap conveyance of produce. the great importance of the direct line between rugby, macclesfield, and manchester, is not that it saves an hour in the transit of an impatient traveller, but that it places in easy communication purely agricultural and thoroughly manufacturing communities, so as to render an interchange of produce easy. shareholders sometimes suffer, but the public always gains. on the other hand, parliament should take care that railway extension to blank districts is not prevented by conceding parallel lines to directors hunting for a dividend, by dividing instead of increasing the existing traffic. when an alteration of the law settlement has released from parish bondage and vegetation those adscripti glebae agricultural labourers, the advantage of our network of railways will be still more felt. * * * * * stafford to shrewsbury.--the third line diverging from stafford, counting the continuation of the london as a fourth, is the railway to shrewsbury, passing through newport and wellington, where it joins the direct line from wolverhampton, and affording, by a continuation which passes near oswestry, chirk, and llangollen, { } to wrexham, chester, and birkenhead, another route to liverpool, and, through chester, the nearest way to holyhead and ireland. * * * * * newport.--the first station after leaving stafford for shrewsbury, and immediately after crossing into shropshire, is a small market town and borough, with a corporation, which can be traced back to henry iii. the church, of the fifteenth century, with an interior of great beauty, has been frightfully disfigured by aisles built of bricks in a common builders' style of architecture. this corporation offers an example which might be with advantage followed by greater men holding the same office; they have but a small income, and they apply it to keeping in order cisterns and conduits which supply the town with water. there is a free grammar school founded by one william adams in , which has a library attached to the school and five scholarships. the best, of pounds a year, to christchurch, oxford. * * * * * wellington stands at the base of the wrekin, is the centre of the shropshireman's toast and the chief town of the coal and iron district, and is the point where the line from wolverhampton makes a junction, affording the nearest road from birmingham to shrewsbury. it was here that charles i., on his march from wellington to shrewsbury, assembled his troops, and, in order to allay the growing disaffection among them, declared that he would "support the reformed religion, govern by law, uphold the privileges of parliament, and preserve the liberty of the subject." from wellington you may proceed by omnibus to coalbrookdale, where the first iron bridge was built over the severn, where the darbys and dickensons have carried on iron works for more than a century, where coal was first applied profitably to smelting iron, and where the fine iron castings of berlin have been rivalled, and successful attempts have been made to introduce the principles of the fine arts into domestic manufactures. the firm are members of the society of friends. fortunately their tenets do not prevent them from selling us coal-scuttles of beautiful design, although their wives and daughters are bound, according to the conservative principles of their sect, to wear bonnets of an unvarying and hideous coal-scuttle shape. * * * * * shrewsbury, miles from wellington, is, in more respects than one, an interesting town, situated partly on a precipitous peninsula formed by the swift clear waters of the severn, united to the opposite side by bridges, in one of which the huge undershot waterwheels of a corn mill are for ever turning. a stranger without letters of introduction, condemned to spend a few hours here with nothing to do, may easily pass the time pleasantly in hunting out picturesque bits of river scenery, or even in chucking pebbles into the stream, instead of drinking sherry negus he does not want, or poking about the dull streets of a modern town, while all the respectable inhabitants are lost in wonder "who that strange man in the white hat is." the manufactures of shrewsbury are not very important; thread, linen, and canvas, and iron-works in the neighbouring suburb of coleham; a considerable and ancient trade is carried on in welsh flannel and cloths from the neighbouring counties of denbigh, montgomery, and merioneth, and markets and fairs are held for the benefit of the rich agricultural district around, in which, besides fine butter, cheese, poultry, and live stock, a large assemblage of the blooming, rosy, broad-built shropshire lasses show the advantage of a mixture of welsh and english blood. but shrewsbury is most famous for its school, its cakes, its ale, and the clock mentioned by falstaff, for which on our last visit we found an ingenuous frenchman industriously searching. the royal free grammar school, endowed by edward vi., was raised, by the educational talents of the late dr. butler, afterwards bishop of lichfield and coventry, to a very high position among our public schools; a position which has been fully maintained by the present master, dr. kennedy. as for the cakes and ale, they must be tasted to be appreciated, but not at the same time. in the history of england and wales, shrewsbury plays an important part. it is supposed that the town was founded by the britons of the kingdom of powis, while they were yet struggling with the saxons, or rather the angles, for the midland counties, and, it is probable, was founded by them when they found uttoxeter (the uriconiam of the romans), no longer tenable. on the conquest of the town by the anglo-saxons it received the name of scrobbes- byrig; that is to say scrub-burgh, or a town in a scrubby or bushy district, and, in the saxon chronicle, scrobbesbyrig-scire is mentioned, now corrupted or polished into shropshire. ethelfleda, whose name we have so often had occasion to mention as the builder of castles and churches, founded the collegiate church of st. alkmund; and athelstan established a mint here. it is evident that the "athelstan the unready," mentioned in ivanhoe, must have very much degenerated from the ancestor who established a mint for ready money. according to domesday-book, shrewsbury had, in edward the confessor's time, two hundred and fifty-two houses, with a resident burgess in each house, and five churches. it was included in the earldom of shrewsbury, granted by william the conqueror to his kinsman, roger de montgomery, who erected a castle on the entrance of the peninsula on which the town now stands, pulling down fifty houses for that purpose. in the wars between stephen and the empress maude, the castle was taken and retaken; and in the reign of john the town was taken by the welsh under llewellyn the great, who had joined the insurgent barons in ; and again attacked and the suburbs burned by the welsh in . shrewsbury was again taken by simon de montfort and his ally, llewellyn, grandson of llewellyn the great, in , the year before de montfort fell on the field of evesham. and here, in , david, the last prince of wales, was tried, condemned, and executed as a traitor. here, too, in , in the reign of richard ii., a parliament was held, at which the earl of hereford (afterwards henry iv.) charged the duke of norfolk with treason. the charge was to have been decided by a trial of battle at coventry. on the appointed morning, "hereford came forth armed at all points, mounted on a white courser, barded with blue and green velvet, gorgeously embroidered with swans and antelopes of goldsmiths' work. the duke of norfolk rode a horse barded with crimson velvet, embroidered with lines of silver and mulberries." at that time it took more days to travel from shrewsbury to coventry than it now does hours. the cloth of gold was as splendidly, perhaps more splendidly, embroidered than anything we can do now; but in the matter of shirts, shoes, stockings, and the clothing necessary for health and comfort, and of windows and chimneys, and matters necessary for air and shelter, mechanics and day labourers are better provided than the squires and pages of those great noblemen. five years after, the harry of hereford having become henry iv. of england, assembled an army at shrewsbury to march against owen glendower, and the following year he fought the battle of shrewsbury against hotspur, and his ally the douglas, which forms the subject of a scene in shakspeare's play of henry iv. at that battle percy hotspur marched from stafford toward shrewsbury, hoping to reach it before the king, and by being able to command the passage of the severn to communicate with his ally glendower; but henry, who came from lichfield, arrived there first, on the th july, . the battle was fought the next day at hateley field, about three miles from the town. in the wars of the roses shrewsbury was yorkist. in the great civil war charles i. came to shrewsbury, there received liberal contributions, in money and plate, from the neighbouring gentry, and largely recruited his forces; and in the course of the war the town was taken and retaken more than once. thus it will be seen that shrewsbury is connected with many important events in english history. the first charter of incorporation extant is of richard i. two members are returned to parliament of opposite politics at present; but a few years ago it was the boast of the salopians, that the twelve members returned by the different constituencies of the county were all of that class of politics which, for want of a better name, may be called "sibthorpian." shrewsbury is a good starting point for an expedition into wales, and we can strongly recommend the walk from chirk, one of the stations on the line to chester, over the hills by footpaths to llangollen: from one point a view may be caught of the three great civilizers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. a splendid viaduct, carrying the shropshire canal over a deep valley, in its day considered a triumph of engineering art--the holyhead mail road, perhaps the best piece of work of the kind in the world, and the railway, which has partly superseded both. there is more than one pleasant spot on the bye-path we have suggested where a thoughtful pedestrian may sit down, and, smoking a cigar in the presence of a sweetly calm landscape of grassy valleys and round-topped hills, ponder over these things, not without advantage, to the sound of bells borne by lively welsh sheep, whose mutton has been raised d. a pound in value by stephenson's steam-engines. but our road lies by the english rail this time, therefore we must return to stafford. * * * * * stafford to crewe.--on leaving stafford for crewe we pass on the right ingestrie park, the seat of the earl of talbot; the ruins of chartley castle, the property of earl ferrers, the defendant in the action brought by miss smith for breach of promise of marriage; and sandon park, the seat of the earl of harrowby, who for many years, before succeeding his father, represented liverpool in the house of commons as lord sandon. soon after passing norton bridge station, about seven miles from stafford, we come in sight of swinnerton hall, the seat of the ancient family of fitz- herbert. the first lord of the manor of swinnerton received this name at the hands of the norman conqueror. one of the farms of the present proprietor of swinnerton hall is held by a liverpool merchant, who has carried out modern agricultural improvements, especially in stock feeding, with great success; having availed himself of the facilities of the railroad and his commercial knowledge, to import from liverpool various kinds of nutritive pulse and grain. near the whitmore station the railway winds for two miles through an excavation in solid stone, enclosed by intermediate slopes of turf, ending, as it were in an arch, which, spanning the road, forms a sort of frame to a wild region that stretches on beyond. [view near whitmore: ill .jpg] without anything very important to induce a halt by the way, the train runs into crewe. crewe is a wonderful place; sixteen years ago, the quietest of country- villages, now intersected in every direction with iron roads pointing from it to almost every point of the compass. a story is extant, with what foundation of truth we know not, of a gentleman who purchased a small farm here, as a safe investment and occasional retreat from the bustle of manchester, and eventually realized from it, when a railway station was erected, more hundreds than he had paid pounds. at any rate, if it is not true, it might have been. at present, besides the line formerly called the grand junction, until its amalgamation with the london and birmingham, there is a line from crewe to chester and birkenhead; another to manchester direct, by macclesfield, formerly known as the manchester and birmingham--both are now merged in the london and north western; and lastly, a short cross branch of fifteen miles, forming a union with burslem on the north staffordshire. in addition to the bustle created by the arrival and departure of innumerable trains at crewe, the london and north western company have a large establishment for building and repairing the locomotives and other machinery in use on their lines north of birmingham. this establishment is under the charge of mr. trevethick, c.e., a son of the trevethick who, in , in conjunction with vivian, took out the first patent for a locomotive engine, which they executed the following year. { } the railway village of crewe is on the same plan as that of wolverton, but situated in much prettier scenery; and includes a church, infant, boys' and girls' schools, a library and literary institution, held in the town-hall, where a fine room is occasionally well filled by popular lectures, and balls in the winter. on one occasion, about three years ago, the name of a gentleman looking over the works in company with a foreman was recognized as that of a writer on a popular subject, and he was requested by a deputation of the men to deliver a lecture the same evening in the town-hall. he consented; and a written notice, stuck up in the workshops at one o'clock, assembled at six o'clock upwards of six hundred of the mechanics and their wives and families, forming a most attentive and intelligent audience. this establishment was considerably reduced during the depression in railway property, and several of the mechanics emigrated to the united states. one of these, a chartist politician, a methodist preacher, and a coach-spring maker, with a little taste for sporting, expressed himself, in a letter which found its way into the "emigrant's journal," well pleased with the people, the laws, and the institutions amongst which he had transplanted himself; but when he came to speak of the railroads, he considered them "not fit to carry hogs to market." so much for a man criticising his own trade. we must not pause to describe as we could wish, in detail, the arrangements of this interesting village; for we have heavy work before us, and must press on. parties passing, who have leisure to stay a day, will find very fair accommodation at the inn overlooking the station, and often, about one o'clock, a fine hot joint of grass-fed beef of magnificent dimensions. in winter, this hotel is one of the quarters of gentlemen going to meet the cheshire hounds, a first-rate pack, with a country which, if not first-rate, is far from second-rate, including certain parts of grass country which may be fairly compared to leicestershire and northamptonshire. crewe hall, one of the "meets," is the seat of lord crewe, the grandson of the beautiful mrs. crewe, so celebrated for her wit and buff and blue politics, in the time of charles james fox, the duchess of devonshire, the westminster election, and "all the talents of the last century." the hall is picturesquely situated on a rising ground, well wooded, near a small lake, and contains, among other pictures, portraits of fox, "coke of norfolk," and several other political friends with whom the first lord crewe was closely associated. the hounds meet there occasionally, when a "find" is sure, and a gallop through the park a thing to be remembered. * * * * * nantwich, about five miles from crewe, is one of the towns which supplies cheshire's salt exports, middlewich and northwich being the other two. in all, rich brine springs are found, but the celebrated mines of rock-salt are found at northwich only. it is vulgarly imagined that the word wich has something to do with salt, these three towns being often described as the "wiches." this is an error; and wich is merely an anglo-saxon corruption of the roman word vicus, as in harwich. the salt-works of nantwich are mentioned in "domesday book." the town was more than once besieged during the great civil wars, lastly by lord byron, unsuccessfully, with an army chiefly irish, which was compelled to raise the siege and defeated by sir thomas fairfax and sir william brereton. among the antiquities remaining is a cross church, in a mixture of styles, partly early english and partly decorated english, and a several curious old houses of black timber and plaster. the trade of this place has derived much advantage from the junction of the chester, ellesmere, and liverpool and birmingham canals, close by. at the nantwich yearly fairs, samples of the famous cheshire cheese made in the neighbourhood, of the best brands, may be found. major-general harrison, one of the regicides who was put to death on the restoration of charles ii., was a native of nantwich, and milton's widow, who was born in the neighbourhood, died there in . just before reaching the hartford bridge station, on the way to chester, we pass vale royal abbey, the seat of the cholmondeley family, pronounced chumleigh, whose head was created in lord delamere. [vale royal viaduct: ill .jpg] the abbey lies in a valley sheltered by old trees, the remains of a great forest; wood-covered hills rise behind it, closing in the vale; below runs the weaver, "that famous flood," whose praises were sung by michael drayton in his polyolbion. in this instance, as in many others, the "monks of old" showed their taste in choosing one of the most beautiful and fertile sites in the county for their residence. the cheshire prophet, nixon, lived as ploughboy with the cholmondeley family, according to tradition, for which we no more answer than for his prophecies, doubts having recently been thrown on both. a breed of white cattle with red ears are preserved at vale royal, in memory of the preservation of part of the family by a white cow when in hiding during the civil wars. but we have not space to enter into the details of this, or the historical reminiscences connected with the ruins of beeston castle, which also falls in our way to chester; for we must get on to liverpool and leave for the present cheshire, with its cheesemaking pastures, ancient mansions, and more ancient families, as well as its coal mines and cotton mills, to visit the twin capitals of liverpool and manchester, which are at once the objects of the contempt and sources of the rent of the cheshire territorial aristocracy. the antiquarian and historical student may linger long in cheshire, which abounds in interesting architectural remains of several centuries, particularly of the black and white timbered mansions, and is studded with the sites of famous stories. [excavation at hartford: ill .jpg] we shall pass hartford station without notice, and shall not pause to visit northwich and the celebrated marston salt pits, although well worth visiting, for which purpose a cricketer's suit of flannel will be found the best costume, and a few good bengal lights an assistance in viewing the wonders of the salt caves. on across the long dutton viaduct, spanning the weaver navigation, we drive until, crossing the mersey and irwell canal and the river mersey, we quit cheshire and enter lancashire, to run into the warrington station. [the dutton viaduct: ill .jpg] * * * * * warrington may be dismissed in a very few words. it is situated in the ugliest part of lancashire, in a flat district, among coal mines, on the banks of a very unpicturesque river, surrounded by a population in character much resembling that described in the "black country" of staffordshire, and worcestershire, and shropshire. it was one of the earliest seats of manufacture in lancashire, and has the advantage of coal close at hand, with canal and river navigation and railways to chester through runcorn (nineteen miles), to crewe, to liverpool, to manchester, and thereby to all quarters in the north of england. [the warrington viaduct: ill .jpg] coarse linens and checks, then sailcloth, were its first manufactures; at present, cotton spinning, power-loom weaving, the manufacture of glass, machinery, and millwork, pins, nails, tools, spades, soap, hats, and gunpowder, and many other trades, are carried on here. the markets for live stock of the district and from ireland are important, and market gardening is carried on to a considerable amount in the neighbourhood of the town. the mersey is navigable up to warrington at spring tides for vessels, "flats," of from seventy to one hundred tons. a salmon and smelt fishery, which formerly existed, has disappeared from the waters by so many manufactories. warrington, under the reform act, returns one member to parliament. its ale is celebrated: it formerly returned an m.p. the inhabitants enjoy the benefit of three endowed schools, one of them richly endowed. howard's work on prisons was first printed at warrington. [warrington: ill .jpg] on leaving warrington, a few minutes bring us to newton junction, upon the old manchester and liverpool railway, where george stephenson established the economy of steam locomotive conveyance twenty-one years ago. in half an hour we are rolling down the edgehill tunnel into liverpool. liverpool. when you land on the platform, if you can afford it, go to the adelphi hotel, where the accommodation is first-rate, but the charges about the same as in bond street or st. james's street, london. there are others to suit all purses, and plenty of dining-houses on the london system, so that it is not absolutely necessary to submit to the dear and often indifferent dinners which are the rule in the coffee-rooms of most english hotels. liverpool has no antiquities of any mark; the public buildings and works worth seeing are few but important, although a page might be filled with the names of institutions of various kinds. by far the most interesting, original, and important, are those connected with the commerce of the town. that is to say, the docks and the gigantic arrangements at the railways for goods' traffic. st. george's hall, a splendid building in the corinthian style, containing the law courts and a hall for public meetings, as a sort of supplement to the town-hall, meets the view immediately on leaving the railway station. the mechanics' institution in mount street, one of the finest establishments of the kind in the kingdom, provides an excellent education for the young, and for adults, at a very cheap rate. a collegiate institution, opened in , for affording a first-class education on the plan of the durham and marlborough colleges, at a less expense than at oxford or cambridge, is to be found at everton in a handsome elizabethan building. the town-hall, with its auxiliary buildings, encloses the exchange on three sides. the vestibule contains a statue of george canning by chantrey: in the centre of the exchange stands a monument to nelson, which we cannot admire. on the occasion of an invitation to dinner from the mayor, or of a grand ball, it is worth while to penetrate beyond the vestibule, otherwise the walk through tolerably handsome rooms is scarcely worth the trouble, although it costs nothing. the immense news-rooms of the exchange, under one of the arcades, are open to every respectable stranger introduced,--we may almost say without introduction. there are several other news-rooms with libraries attached. the lyceum in bold street, and the athenaeum in church street, which was founded by purchases from the library of william roscoe, contain a number of valuable works of reference. the royal institution of science and literature, founded by william roscoe in , by the subscription of shareholders, contains a museum of natural history of considerable value, some curious pictures, a set of casts from the aegina and phigaleian marbles, and a collection of philosophical instruments, with a laboratory and a theatre in which lectures are occasionally delivered. this institution is not flourishing. it was lately offered to the corporation as a free gift by the proprietors, on condition that the museum, etc., were to be open free to the town. the offer was declined by a small majority. there are several cemeteries, one of which has been ingeniously arranged in an exhausted stone quarry, and contains a marble statue of huskisson, by gibson, commemorating the facts of his having represented liverpool in several parliaments, and been killed on the th sept., , by a locomotive, at the opening of the manchester and liverpool railway. on the last occasion of his election for liverpool, in conjunction with the late general gascoigne, without opposition, the windows of huskisson's friends were smashed by the high tory mob which accompanied gascoigne's chairing procession. such are the changes of time. where could a high tory mob be found now, or who now differs with the mild liberalism of huskisson? a workhouse on a very extensive scale, capable of affording indoor relief to ; a blind asylum, celebrated for the singing of the inmates, two infirmaries, are far from completing the list of public institutions of a town with nearly , inhabitants; but, in the greater number, resemble all other institutions of the same kind, and, for the rest, a local guide may be consulted. the best part of the town may be seen in a walk from st. lukes' church at the top of bold street, a short distance from the adelphi hotel, through church street, lord street, crossing castle street, down to st. george's pier. by this line the best and the busiest streets of liverpool will be seen, with shops nearly equal to the finest in london, and with customers in fine ladies, who are quite as pretty, and much more finely dressed, than the residents of that paradise of provincial belles, belgravia. indeed both sexes in this town are remarkable for their good looks and fashionable costume, forming a strong contrast to the more busy inhabitants of manchester. in bold street is the palatine, a miniature copy of the clubs of pall mall: at the doors and windows may be seen, in the intervals of business, a number of young gentlemen trying very hard to look as if they had nothing to do but dress fine and amuse themselves. but so far from being the idle fellows they would be thought, the majority are hardworking merchants and pains-taking attornies, who bet a little, play a little, dote upon a lord, and fancy that by being excessively supercilious in the rococo style of that poor heathen bankrupt brummel, they are performing to perfection the character of men of fashion. this, the normal state of young liverpool, at a certain period the butterfly becomes a grub, a money grub, and abandoning brilliant cravats, primrose gloves, and tight shiny boots, subsides into the respectable heavy father of genteel comedy, becomes a churchwarden, a patron of charities, a capitalist, and a highly respectable member of society. the manchester man is abrupt, because his whole soul is in the money-making business of the day; the liverpool gentleman's icy manners are part of his costume. the "cordial dodge," which has superseded brummel's listless style in the really fashionable world, not having yet found its way down by the express train to the great mart of cotton-wool. 'change hours, which are twice a-day, morning and afternoon, afford a series of picturesque groups quite different to those of any other town, which should be kept in mind when visiting manchester. but perhaps the pleasantest thing in liverpool is a promenade on one of the piers, or rather quays (for they run along and do not project into the river) when the tide is coming in, the wind fair for the mersey, and fleets of merchantmen are driving up with full-bellied sails to take their anchorage ground before going into dock. an examination of the docks, with the curious dock arrangements of the railway companies, and the sailor's home, of which prince albert laid the first stone in , will take a day. the cheshire side of the mersey forms a suburb of liverpool, to which steamers are plying every ten minutes from the villages of rock ferry, tranmere, birkenhead, monk's ferry, seacombe, liskeard, egremont, and new brighton. the best idea of the extent of the liverpool docks may be obtained from the seacombe hotel, an old-fashioned tavern, with a bowling green, where turtle soup, cold punch, and claret are to be had of good quality at moderate charges. in fine weather a seat after dinner at the window of this tavern is not a bad place for considering the origin, rise, progress, and prospects of the commerce of liverpool. there is the river, with its rapidly-flowing muddy waters before you, ploughed in all directions by boats, by ships, by steamers, by river barges and flats; on the opposite side five miles of docks, wherein rise forest after forest of masts, fluttering, if it be a gala day, with the flags of every nation--russian, sardinian, greek, turkish, french, austrian, but chiefly, after our own, with the stripes and stars of the great republic. no better text for such a contemplation can be found than the following inscription, copied from the model, contributed by liverpool to the great exhibition of industry:-- progress of the commerce of liverpool. under queen elizabeth, | queen anne, | queen victoria, a.d. . | a.d. . | a.d. . | | population. | , | about , | | tonnage { } | , | , , | | number of | | , vessels | | | | dock dues. - | | , pounds | | income of | , | , pounds corporation | | | | customs dues | , | , , pounds this extraordinary progress, of which we have far from seen the limits, has been founded and supported by a position which every commercial change, every new invention relating to sea-borne coasting trade, or inland conveyance, has strengthened. the discovery of the passage around the cape of good hope, and improvements in the art of navigation, destroyed the commercial importance of venice, and extinguished a line of river ports from antwerp to cologne. in our own country, the cinque ports, harwich, great grimsby, and other havens, fell into decay when navigators no longer cared to hurry into the first harbour on coming within sight of land. but liverpool, situated on the banks of a river which, until buoyed and improved at a vast expense, was a very inferior port for safety and convenience, has profited by the changes which have rendered the american the most important of our foreign customers, and ireland as easily reached as runcorn in a sailing flat. the rise of the cotton manufacture has been as beneficial to liverpool as to those districts where the yarn is spun and woven. the canal system has fed, not rivalled or "tapped," the trade of the mersey. the steamboats on which the seafaring population of liverpool at first looked with dislike and dismay, have created for their town--first, a valuable coasting trade, independent of wind or tide, which with sailing vessels on such a coast and with such a river could never have existed; and next, a transatlantic commerce, which, through liverpool, renders new york nearer to manchester than dublin was five and twenty years ago; while, at the same time, the opposite coast of cheshire has been transformed into a suburb, to which omnibus-steamers ply every five minutes. and yet little more than five and twenty years ago there was only one river steamer on the mersey, and that a flat bottomed cattle boat, with one wheel in the centre. bristol took the lead in establishing transatlantic steamers; but liverpool, backed by manchester, transplanted to her own waters the new trade, and even the steamers that proved the problem. railways (the only great idea in this generation that liverpool has ventured to originate and execute) have not, as was promised, transferred any part of the liverpool trade to manchester; but, on the contrary, largely increased and strengthened their connection with the cotton metropolis. an hour now takes the cotton broker to his manufacturing customers twice a week, who formerly rose at five o'clock in the morning to travel by coach in four hours to manchester, and returned wearied at midnight. the electric telegraph, the next great invention of this commercial age was not less beneficial to this port by facilitating the rapid interchange of communication with the manufacturing districts, and settling the work of days in a few hours. a hundred miles apart merchants can now converse, question, propose, and bargain. by all these improvements uncertainties have been reduced to certainties, and capital has been more than doubled in value. on the expected day, well calculated beforehand, the steamer arrives from america; with the rapidity of lightning the news she brings is transmitted to manchester, to birmingham, to sheffield, to london, to glasgow; a return message charters a ship, and a single day is enough to bring down the manufactured freight. thus news can be received and transmitted, a cargo of raw material landed, manufactured goods brought down by rail from the interior of england, and put on board a vessel and despatched, in less time than it occupied a few years ago to send a letter to manchester and get an answer. and under all these changes, while commerce grows and grows, the porters and the brokers, the warehousemen and the merchants, are able to take toll on the consumption of england. even the old dangerous roadstead, and far-falling tides of the mersey, proved an advantage to liverpool; by driving the inhabitants to commence the construction of docks before any other port in the kingdom, and thus obtain a certain name and position in the mercantile world, from having set an example which cities provided with more safe and convenient natural harbours were unwilling to follow. the first dock ever constructed in england is now the site of the liverpool custom house; a large building erected at a period when our architects considered themselves bound to lodge all public institutions in grecian temples. this dock was constructed in , and twelve others have since been added, occupying the shore from north to south for several miles, including one which will accommodate steamers of the largest class. these docks are far from perfect in their landing arrangements. cargo is discharged in all but one, into open sheds. the damage and losses by pilferage of certain descriptions of goods are enormous. attempts have been repeatedly made to establish warehouses round the docks into which goods might be discharged without the risk or expense of intermediate cartage. but the influence of parties possessed of warehouse property is too great to allow the execution of so advantageous a reform. whigs and radicals are, in this instance, as determined conservators of abuses which are not time-honoured as any member for lincoln city or oxford university. in more than half the african slave trade was carried on by liverpool merchants. the canal system commenced by the duke of bridgewater next gave liverpool an improved inland communication. after arkwright's manufactures stimulated the trade of america, cotton imports into liverpool soon began to rival the sugar and tobacco imports into bristol. the irish trade was rising at the same time, and the comparatively short distance between the midland counties, where irish livestock was chiefly consumed, soon brought the irish traders to liverpool. the progress of steam navigation presently gave new openings to the coasting trade of liverpool. in the admirable canal system, which united liverpool with the coal and manufacturing districts in the kingdom, was found insufficient to accommodate the existing traffic, and the railroad was the result. by the railroad system liverpool has been brought within an hour of manchester, two hours of leeds, and four hours of london; and into equally easy, cheap, and certain communication with every part of england and scotland; while fully retaining all the advantages of being the halfway house between the woollen districts, the iron districts, and the cotton districts, and america--the intermediate broker between new orleans, charleston, new york, and manchester. six-sevenths of all the woollen imported into england comes through liverpool, besides a large trade in sugar, tobacco, tea, rice, hemp, and every kind of irish produce. thus liverpool is in a position to take toll on the general consumption of the kingdom; and this toll in the shape of dock dues, added to the increase in the value of landed property, occupied by warehouses, shops, and private residences, has enabled the municipal corporation to bestow on the inhabitants fine buildings, and greatly improve the originally narrow streets. liverpool has no manufactures of any special importance. few ships are built there in comparison with the demands of the trade, in consequence of the docks having taken up most of the space formerly occupied by the building-yards. the repairs of ships are executed in public graving docks, chiefly by workmen of a humble standing, called pitchpot masters,--a curious system, whether advantageous or not to all parties, is a matter of dispute. the environs of liverpool are particularly ugly, remarkably flat, and deficient in wood and water. there are scarcely any rides or drives of any kind. the best suburb, called toxteth park, although no park at all, lies on the southern side of the town, parallel with the mersey. in this direction the wealthiest merchants have erected their residences, some of great size and magnificence, surrounded by pleasure-grounds and fancy farms, presenting very favourable instances of the rural tastes of our countrymen in every rank of life. but there is nothing in the environs of liverpool to make a special ride necessary, unless a stranger possesses a passport to one of the mansions or cottages of gentility to be found on each side of the macadamized road behind rich plantations, where hospitality is distributed with splendour, and not without taste. the north shore of the mersey consists of flat sands, bounded on the land side by barren sand hills, where, driven by necessity, and tempted by a price something lower than land usually bears near liverpool, some persons have courageously built houses and reclaimed gardens. on this shore are the two watering-place villages of waterloo and crosby, less populous, but as pleasant as margate, with salt river instead of salt sea bathing, in shade and plenty of dust. the hard flat sands, when the tide is down, afford room for pleasant gallops. the best settlement on the opposite shore, called new brighton, has the same character, but enjoys a share of the open irish sea, with its keen breezes. it must be bracing, healthy, dreary, and dull. * * * * * birkenhead is a great town, which has risen as rapidly as an american city, and with the same fits and starts. magical prosperity is succeeded by a general insolvency among builders and land speculators; after a few years of fallow another start takes place, and so on--speculation follows speculation. birkenhead has had about four of these high tides of prosperous speculations, in which millions sterling have been gained and lost. at each ebb a certain number of the george hudsons of the place are swamped, but the town always gains a square, a street, a park, a church, a market-place, a bit of railway, or a bit of a dock. the fortunes of the men perish, but the town lives and thrives. thus piece by piece the raw materials of a large thriving community are provided, and now birkenhead is as well furnished with means for accommodating a large population as any place in england, and has been laid out on so good a plan that it will be one of the healthiest as well as one of the neatest modern towns. it has also the tools of commerce in a splendid free dock, not executed so wisely as it would have been if mr. rendel, the original engineer, (the first man of the day as a marine engineer), had not been overruled by the penny-wise pound-foolish people, but still a very fine dock. warehouses much better planned than anything in liverpool; railways giving communication with the manufacturing districts; in fact, all the tools of commerce--gas, water, a park, and sanitary regulations, have not been neglected. some people think birkenhead will be the rival of liverpool, we think not: it will be a dependency or suburb of the greater capital. "where the carcase is, there the eagles will be gathered together." birkenhead is too near to be a rival; shipping must eventually come to birkenhead, but the business will still continue to be done in liverpool or manchester, where are vested interests and established capital. an hour or two will be enough to see everything worth seeing at birkenhead. to those who enjoy the sight of the river and shipping, it is not a bad plan to stop at one of the hotels there, as boats cross every five minutes, landing at a splendid iron pontoon, or floating stage, on the liverpool side, of large dimensions, constructed with great skill by mr. w. cubitt, c.e., to avoid the nuisance of landing carriages at all times, and passengers at low tides in boats. at liskeard, a ferry on the cheshire side, mr. harold littledale--a member of one of the first firms in liverpool--has established a model dairy farm, perhaps one of the finest establishments of the kind in the kingdom. all the buildings and arrangements have been executed from the plans and directions of mr. william torr, the well known scientific farmer and short- horn breeder, of aylsby manor, lincolnshire. no expense has been spared in obtaining the best possible workmanship and implements, but there has been no waste in foolish experiments; and, consequently, there is all the difference between the farm of a rich man who spends money profusely, in order to teach himself farming, and a farm like that at liskeard, where a rich man had said to an agriculturist, at once scientific and practical, "spare no expense, and make me the best thing that money can make." the buildings, including a residence, cottages, and gardens, occupy about four acres, and the farm consists of acres of strong clay land, which has been thoroughly drained and profusely manured, with the object of getting from it the largest possible crops. fifty tons of turnips have been obtained from an acre. eighty cows are kept in the shippons, ranged in rows, facing the paths by which they are all fed at the head. they are fed on turnips, mangels, or potatoes, with cut chaff of hay and straw, everything suitable being cut and steamed, in the winter--on green clover, italian ray-grass, and a little linseed-cake, in the summer. they are curry-combed twice a day, and the dung is removed constantly as it falls. the ventilation and the drainage has been better managed than in most houses, so that the shippons have always a sweet atmosphere and even temperature. the fittings, fastenings, and arrangements of the windows, hanging from little railways, and sliding instead of closing on hinges, are all ingenious, and worth examination. mr. littledale makes use of a moveable wooden railway, carted over by a donkey in a light waggon, to draw root crops from a field of heavy land. the churn in use in the dairy makes eighty pounds of butter at a time, and is worked by the steam-engine also used for cutting and steaming the food of the cows. the milk and cream produced at this dairy is sold by retail, unadulterated, and is in great demand. a brief account of this farm appeared in the "farmer's magazine" of may, , with a ground plan; but several improvements have been made since that time. to parties who take an interest in agricultural improvement, a visit to liskeard farm will be both interesting and profitable. we believe that mr. torr also farms another estate, which he purchased, in conjunction with friends, from sir william stanley, at eastham, near hooton (a pleasant voyage of an hour up the river), and cultivates after the north lincolnshire style, in such a manner as to set an example to the cheshire farmers--not a little needed. the country about eastham is the prettiest part of the mersey. while on the subject of agricultural improvements, we may mention that mr. robert neilson, another mercantile notability, holds a farm, under lord stanley, at a short railroad ride from liverpool, which we have not yet had an opportunity of examining, but understand that it is a very remarkable instance of good farming, and consequently heavy crops, in a county (lancashire) where slovenly farming is quite the rule, and well worth a visit from competent judges, whom as we are also informed mr. neilson is happy to receive. if, as seems not improbable, it should become the fashion among our merchant princes to seek health and relaxation by applying capital and commercial principles to land, good farming will spread, by force of vaccination, over the country, and plain tenant-farmers will apply, cheaply and economically, the fruits of experience, purchased dearly, although not too dearly, by merchant farmers. a successful man may as well--nay, much better--sink money for a small return in such a wholesome and useful pursuit as agriculture, than in emulating the landed aristocracy, who laugh quietly at such efforts, or hoarding and speculating to add to what is already more than enough. if a visit be paid to mr. neilson's farm, it would be very desirable to obtain, if possible, permission to view the earl of derby's collection of rare birds and animals, one of the finest in the world. but permission is rarely granted to strangers who have not some scientific claim to the favour. lord derby has agents collecting for him in every part of the world, and has been very successful in rearing many birds from tropical and semi-tropical countries in confinement, which have baffled the efforts of zoological societies. the aviaries are arranged on a large scale, with shrubs growing in and water flowing through them. in fine weather some beautiful parrots, macaws, and other birds of a tame kind, are permitted to fly about the grounds. there is something very novel and striking in beholding brilliant macaws and cockatoos swinging on a lofty green-leaved bough, and then, at the call of the keeper, darting down to be fed where stately indian and african cranes and clumsy emus are stalking about. the late earl was celebrated as a cockfighter, and the possessor of one of the finest breeds of game fowls in the kingdom. a few only are now kept up at knowsley, as presents to the noble owner's friends. knowsley lies near prescott, about seven miles from liverpool. the family are descended from the lord stanley who was created earl of derby by the earl of lancaster and derby, afterwards henry iv., for services rendered at the battle of bosworth field. an ancestress, charlotte de la tremouille, countess of derby, is celebrated for her defence of latham house against the parliamentary forces in the great civil war, and is one of the heroines of sir walter scott's novel of "peveril of the peak." { } liverpool is particularly well placed as a starting point for excursions, in consequence of the number of railways with which it is connected, and the number of steamboats which frequent its port, where a whole dock is especially devoted to vessels of that class. by crossing over to birkenhead, chester may be reached, and thence the quietest route to ireland, by britannia bridge and holyhead; or a journey through north wales may be commenced. by the east lancashire, starting from the station behind the exchange, a direct line is opened through ormskirk to preston, the lakes of cumberland, and to scotland by the west coast line. from the same station a circuitous route through wigan and bolton, on the lancashire and yorkshire railway, opens a second road to manchester, and affords a complete communication with the manufacturing districts of lancashire and yorkshire. on the roads to london it is not now necessary to treat. the steam accommodation from liverpool has always been excellent, far superior to that afforded in the thames. no such wretched slow-sailing tubs are to be found as those which plied between london and boulogne and calais, until railway competition introduced a little improvement. the interior fittings and feeding on board liverpool boats are generally superior. the proprietors have taken the scotch and americans as models, and not the stingy people of the thames. it is very odd that while the french and scotch can contrive to give a delicious breakfast or dinner on shipboard, while the germans on the rhine are positively luxurious, and while we know that a steam-boiler offers every convenience for petits plats, the real old english steam-boats of the general steam navigation company never vary from huge joints and skinny chickens, with vegetables plain boiled. we remember, some years ago, embarking on a splendid french steamer, afterwards run down and sunk in the channel, to go to havre, and returning by boulogne to london. in the french vessel it was almost impossible to keep from eating,--soups, cutlets, plump fowls, all excellent and not dear. on board the english boat it was necessary to be very hungry, in order to attack the solid, untempting joints of roast and boiled. this is a travelling age, and both hotel keepers and steam-boat owners will find profit in allowing the spirit of free trade and interchange to extend to the kitchen. our public cooks are always spoiling the best meat and vegetables in europe. more than twenty lines of steamers ply from liverpool to the various ports of ireland; the isle of man, which is a favourite watering-place for the lancashire and cheshire people; glasgow and other parts of scotland, whitehaven and carlisle, bangor, caernarvon, and other ports of wales, beside the deep-sea steamers to new york, philadelphia, and boston; to constantinople, malta, and smyrna; and to gibraltar, genoa, leghorn, civita vecchia (for rome), naples, messina, and palermo; so that an indifferent traveller has ample choice, which is sometimes very convenient for a man who wants to go somewhere and does not care where. the amusements of liverpool include two theatres, an amphitheatre for horsemanship, and several sets of subscription concerts, for the use of which a fine hall has been erected. the race-course is situated at some miles distant from the town; races take place three times a-year, two being flat races, and the third a steeple- chase. they are well supported and attended, although not by ladies so much as in the midland and northern counties. the liverpool races are chiefly matters of business, something like the newmarket, with the addition of a mob. a large attendance comes from manchester, where more betting is carried on than in any town out of london. gambling of all kinds naturally follows in the wake of cotton speculation, which is gambling. the crashes produced in liverpool by the sacra fames auri are sometimes startling, and they come out in visible relief, because, in spite of its size, gossip flourishes as intensely as in a village. during one of the cotton manias a young gentleman, barely of age, in possession of an income of some two thousand a-year from land, and ready money to the extent of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, joined an ingenious penniless gentleman in speculating in cotton, and found himself in less than twelve months a bankrupt; thus sacrificing, without the least enjoyment, a fortune sufficient for the enjoyment of every rational pleasure, or for the support of the highest honours in the state. such instances are not uncommon, although on a less magnificent scale; indeed, it is well to be cautious in inquiring after a liverpool merchant or broker after an absence of a few years; a very few years are sufficient to render the poor rich and the rich poor, an eighth of a penny in the pound of cotton will do it. the municipal corporation of liverpool is the wealthiest in england after london, and virtually richer than london, inasmuch as the expenses are trifling, the property is improving, and the liverpool aldermen and common- councillors have no vested claims to costly entertainments. the majority is in the hands of the conservative party, the liberal party having only enjoyed the sweets of power for a brief period after the passing of the financial reform bill; but the principle of representation keeps down any inclination toward the inevitable jobberies of a close self-elected body, and pushes local legislators on, quite up to the mark of the public opinion of the locality they govern. a stranger, who has no interest in party squabbles, must confess that the funds of this wealthy estate are on the whole fairly and wisely distributed. the irish population, amounting to many thousands of the poorest and most ignorant class, who find a refuge from the miseries of their own country in the first port from dublin, and employment in the vast demand for unskilled labour caused by the perpetual movement in imports and exports, impose a heavy tax on the poor-rates and police-rates of this borough. in the education of this part of the community, the liberal corporation made provision in the extensive corporation schools, by adopting the irish government scheme of instruction, permitting the roman catholics to make use of their own translation of the bible, and to absent themselves from the religious instruction of the orthodox. on this question the municipal elections were fought. the general education party were eventually beaten. the roman catholics were withdrawn from the schools, and thrown entirely upon the priests or the streets for education, and great was the rejoicing among the party who carried a large wooden bible as their standard. but subsequent events have induced those who have given any attention to the state of the operative classes in liverpool, of whatever politics, to doubt whether it would not have been better to have been busy, for the last fifteen years, in teaching those classes something, who, knowing nothing, supply very expensive customers to the liverpool courts of law and jail. liverpool returns two members to the house of commons. the election contests were formerly wonderfully bitter and absurd, for on one occasion, just before the passing of the reform bill, nearly two hundred thousand pounds were spent by two parties, between whose politics there was scarcely a shade of difference. william roscoe represented liverpool for a short time, but was rejected at a second election, in consequence of his opposition to the slave trade. he was the son of a publican, and rose from an office boy to be an attorney in large practice, and eventually a banker. he was ruined by the stopping of his bank, which, after being for many years under the taxing harrows of the old corrupt bankrupt system, paid twenty shillings in the pound. william roscoe was a voluminous writer of political pamphlets and poetry, which are now quite forgotten; his literary reputation deservedly rests upon his lives of lorenzo de medici, published in , and of leo x; the former of which has recently been republished by mr. bohn, in his cheap series of reprints. of even more value than his literary productions, was the school, or party, which he founded in liverpool, while he was still wealthy and influential, embracing all who had a taste for literature and art. at that period liverpool was rising into wealth on a vigorous prosecution of the slave trade, of which its parliamentary representatives were the avowed supporters. at that time vulgar wealth was the only distinction, and low debauchery the almost only amusement of the principal merchants. absurd as it may now seem, when all the well-to-do world profess to be educated and temperate, roscoe and his friends rendered inestimable service by making elegant tastes and temperate habits respectable, and by raising up an opposition to the old slave trade party, whose paradise lay in turtle soup, port wine, and punch. he set an example to merchants of stocking a library as well as a cellar, which has been followed, until now it is considered a matter of course. william roscoe died in , at a very advanced age. he was a remarkably fine-looking man, with a grand aristocratic head. in addition to huskisson and george canning, liverpool once very nearly had the honour of sending to parliament henry brougham, in days when the chancellorship and the house of lords could scarcely have been expected by that versatile genius, even in a dream. at present liverpool interests are well represented in the house of commons. the borough has had the good sense to prefer a merchant townsman, sir thomas birch, and the son of a merchant, and friend and co-minister of the late sir robert peel, mr. cardwell, to a soldier, and the dreamy poetical son of a protectionist duke. a place like liverpool ought to find in its own body better men than young lords or old soldiers. but young liverpool dearly loves a lord, of any politics; and a little polite attention from a duke will produce an unconscious effect even on the trade report of a broker of "fashion." mr. william brown, at the head of the greatest american house in the world, after baring's, represents south lancashire, but on manchester influence, scarcely with the consent of liverpool. mr. brown, who is an irishman by birth, has been entirely the architect of his own fortune, and began business--on a very limited scale indeed--within the memory of persons now living. the firm has now agents in every town of any importance in the united states, and is the means of keeping in active employment hundreds of traders in all our manufacturing districts. the relations with birmingham and the hardware country are very close. another liverpool man of whom the liverpool people are justly proud, is the best debater in the house of commons, if he only knew his own mind, the right honourable william gladstone, the son of sir john gladstone, bart., of fasque, n.b., formerly a liverpool merchant. sir john gladstone is a scotchman, and in conjunction with another gentleman, also the head of a first-rate liverpool house, mr. sandbatch, went out to the west indies (demerara) as journeymen bakers, in the same way that mr. miles, the grandfather of the members for east somerset and bristol, and founder of the great bristol banking house, went out to barbadoes as a journeyman cooper. if we add to these instances that the first sir robert peel and mr. brotherton (who himself told the house, in a debate on the factory time bill, that he had commenced life as a factory operative), beside many others, too numerous to mention, it will be found that our house of commons is not so far out of the reach of industrious merit as foreigners usually imagine. in conclusion, we may note that liverpool, which gave very cold and niggard support to the great exhibition (chiefly because the project was ill received by the ducal house which patronizes the fashionables of the town), sent a contribution which very completely represented its imports, specifying the scientific and commercial name of each article, country of production, and quantity imported. this collection occupies a considerable space, but it will be found, on examination, that a few staples employ the greater part of the shipping inwards. cotton occupies by far the largest place, the air is filled with floating motes of cotton all round the business quarters of the town; timber probably stands next in the tonnage it employs; west indian produce is less important than it was formerly; a great trade is done with south america, in hides, both dry and salted; tobacco, both from the united states and cuba, arrives in large quantities. there are several great snuff and cigar manufactories in liverpool. the hemp and tallow trade is increasing, as is the foreign corn trade. the mediterranean, and especially the italian, trade, has been rendered more important by steam communication. the china trade has not increased as much as was expected. when the docks and public institutions have been examined, and the places of interest on the cheshire shore visited, liverpool presents nothing to detain the traveller who has no private claims on his attention. it must be acknowledged that the general appearance of the town and of the people is more agreeable than that of birmingham or manchester, although liverpool can claim none of the historical and antiquarian interest in which bristol and chester are rich. there are parts of the town devoted to low lodging houses, and accommodation for the poor irish and emigrants, as bad as the worst parts of st. giles's or spitalfields. indeed, the mortality is greater than that of any other town in england. liverpool is a great port for emigration to the united states and canada. on the line of packet ships the accommodation for those who can pay pounds and upwards is excellent; in the timber ships they are packed like herrings after being lodged like pigs. but what can be expected for the fare. at pounds the shipowners undertake to give a passage, and find two quarts of water and a pound of bread per day. the government emigration agents are indefatigable in their efforts, municipal and parliamentary regulations have been from time to time applied to the subject, nevertheless the frauds and cruelties inflicted on emigrants are frightful. an attempt was made some short time since to have an emigrant's home as a sort of model barrack, erected in one of the new docks, so as to form a counterpoise to the frauds of emigration lodging-house keepers, but local jealousies defeated a plan which would have been equally advantageous to the town and the emigrants. the state of poverty and crime in liverpool, fed as it is by the overflowings of many districts, is an important subject, which has excited the anxious attention of several enlightened residents, among others of the late police magistrate, mr. edward rushton, who died suddenly without being able to bring his plans to maturity. in conclusion we may say of liverpool, that it is a town which has a great and increasing population, a wealthy corporation, a thriving trade, yet less of the materials of a metropolis than many other towns of less commercial importance. for further temporary information, a traveller may advantageously consult the liverpool papers, of which there is one for every day in the week--that is to say, an albion, a times, a mail, a standard, a mercury, a journal, a chronicle--of all shades of politics, of large size, conducted with great ability, and affording, in addition to the news and politics of the day, a great deal of general information, in the shape of extracts from popular works and original articles. if we would learn why the opinions of inhabitants of towns prevail over the opinions of landowners and agriculturists, we have only to compare the active intelligence of the two as exhibited by such journals as are to be found in liverpool, manchester, and birmingham with those supported by the rural community. a single sect expends more on the support of the press than all the farmers and farmers' friends united, who are more numerous, more wealthy, not wanting in intelligence in their own pursuits, but quite without cohesion or combination. * * * * * liverpool to manchester.--there are two ways from liverpool to manchester, one by the lancashire and yorkshire railway, through bolton, which has a station behind the exchange, and one by the old route, through newton. the line by the new one has bolton upon its course, and renders the aintree racecourse half as near manchester as liverpool. for choice take a tuesday or saturday, and travel up by the early cotton brokers' express to manchester, so as to see one more phase of the english commercial character. the brokers are a jovial set and hospitable, as keen as yankees and as industrious. there is a marked difference between them and the spinners, but they are of no particular country. liverpool, like manchester, although not to the same degree, is colonised by strangers. both irishmen and scotchmen are to be found among the most respectable and successful, and a considerable number of americans are settled there as merchants and shipping agents; indeed it is half american in its character. in this year of , to describe the liverpool and manchester railway would be absurd; acres of print, in all civilized languages, and yards of picture- illustration, have been devoted to it. at newton station you see below you a race-course of great antiquity, and what was once a huge hotel, built to supply a room large enough for the mother partingtons of lancashire to meet and prepare their mops for sweeping back the atlantic tide of public opinion. there they met, and dined and drank and shouted, and unanimously agreed that it was foolish legislation which transferred the right of representation from the village of newton to the great city of manchester; after which they went home, and wisely submitted to the summons which found its speaking-trumpets at manchester. fortunately for this country, a minority knows how to submit to a majority, and the conservative hall, by a sort of accidental satire on its original uses, has been turned into a printing office. a little farther on is chat-moss, a quaking bog, which the opponents of the first railway proved, to the satisfaction of many intelligent persons, to be an impassable obstacle to the construction of any solid road. we fly across it now reading or writing, scarcely taking the trouble to look out of the window. but if we do, we may see reclamation and cultivation, in the shape of root-crops and plantations, extending over the wet waste. william roscoe was one of the first to attempt to reclaim this moss; and it is worthy of note, that it was among the literary and scientific friends of roscoe that george stephenson's idea of a railroad from liverpool to manchester, through chat-moss, found its warmest supporters, at a time when support was much needed; for the shares were hawked, and even distributed among friends who were guaranteed against loss, in order to make up a fitting parliamentary subscription to what has proved one of the most successful speculations in public works, of this century. manchester. as we roll into manchester, and mark by what successive invasions the city has been half-surrounded by railways, it is amusing to remember the fears which landowners expressed in , and really felt, lest the new flaming and smoking carriage-apparatus should damage the value of property which has been more than doubled in value by the new invention. manchester is the greatest manufactory in the world. the cradle and metropolis of a trade which employs a million and a half of souls, beside the sailors, the merchants, the planters and the slaves, who grow or carry or buy the raw material, it is the second city in the empire, and perhaps, considered in relation to the commercial influence of great britain, scarcely second. blot out the capital, the credit, the living enterprise, the manufacturing power of manchester, and we have lost a century of commercial progress. manchester is essentially a place of work and action, carried on by men recruited from every district where a mental grenadier of the manchester standard is to be found. suffolk and devonshire, norfolk and cornwall send their quota, as well as the neighbouring manufacturing schools of yorkshire, cheshire, and lancashire. scotchmen in great numbers, and some irishmen, chiefly from the north, are also at home there. we are speaking now not of operatives, but of those who rise to be manufacturers or merchants. the americans are rather constant visitors than permanent residents; but the germans are sufficiently numerous to be able to form a society of their own, the most agreeable in manchester; and the commerce of greece is represented by a great number of houses, which are increasing in number and importance. then manchester, although only an inland canal port, trades largely and directly, through liverpool chiefly, to the most parts of the world, consuming one-tenth of the whole imports of that town. the correspondence of a first-class house for one morning would alone be a lesson in geography. then again, the ceaseless enterprise and enormous powers of manufacture are supported by a constantly-improving mechanical ingenuity, which seems to those unaccustomed to such works nothing less than miraculous: as, for instance, some of the inventions of mr. whitworth and of mr. roberts. but all this is hidden from the eye of a stranger; and manchester is a dark and dingy ledger, closely clasped, unless he comes prepared to open a good account, or armed with letters of introduction of a more than ordinarily pressing nature. the gentleman who was all smiles while accepting your civilities, and energetically amusing himself on a tour of pleasure, has scarcely time to look up from his desk to greet you when enthroned in his counting-house. the fact is, that these manchester men rise early, work hard, dine at one o'clock, work again, and go home, some distance out of town, to work or to sleep,--so they have no time for unprofitable hospitality or civility. we do not say this by way of idle reproach to the people of manchester, who follow their vocation, and do work of which we as englishmen have reason to be proud, but partly by way of warning to travellers who, armed with the sort of letters that have proved passports to everything best worth seeing throughout the rest of europe, may expect to pass an agreeable day or two in the cotton metropolis; and partly by way of hint to politicians who, very fond of inveighing against the cold shade of aristocracy, would find something worth imitating in the almost universal courtesy of modern nobility, which is quite consistent with the extremest liberality of abstract opinions. dr. dalton, the celebrated natural philosopher, for many years a resident in manchester, has proved that manchester is not so damp and rainy a place as is generally imagined; that the mean annual fall of rain is less than that of lancaster, kendal, and dumfries. nevertheless, it is better to expect rain, for although the day at liverpool, halifax, or sheffield may have been brilliantly fine, the probability is that you will find the train, as it approaches the city, gradually slipping into a heavy shower or a scotch mist. the walk from any of the stations is very disheartening; tall warehouses, dingy brick houses, a ceaseless roar of carts and waggons in the main streets, and a population of which all the better dressed march at double quick time, with care-brent brows, and if pausing, only to exchange gruff monosyllables and short words. at one o'clock the factory hands are dismissed, and the masters proceed to dinner on horseback and in all sorts of vehicles at a thundering pace. the working-class population will be found less unhealthy and better looking than would be expected. the costume of the women, a cap and a short sleeved jacket fitting the waist, called a lancashire bedgown, is decidedly picturesque. for a quarter of an hour some streets are almost impassable, and the movement gives the idea of a population deserting a city. an hour's silence follows, after which the tide flows again: the footpaths are filled with the "hands;" and the "heads," with very red faces, furiously drive their hundred guinea nags back to business. now this is one of the sights of manchester. again, tuesday is the business day at the exchange, in st. ann's square. the room is one of the finest in the kingdom; the faces and the scene generally afford much curious matter for the study of the artist and physiognomist. compare it with the groups of well dressed dawdlers at leamington, cheltenham, bath, with the very different style of acute intellect displayed at a meeting of the institute of civil engineers, or with the merchants of liverpool, part of whom also attend manchester. the personal appearance of the manchester manufacturers and their customers, as seen on 'change, fully justifies the old saw, "liverpool gentlemen, manchester men, rochdale fellows (fellies), and wigan chaps." in liverpool all are equal,--merchant deals with merchant; in manchester the millowner is an autocrat, restrained by customs of the trade and occasional strikes, and he carries his rough ways into private life. but facts show that, with all its plate and varnish, liverpool is as inferior to manchester in an intellectual, as it is superior in an external point of view. in politics manchester leads, and liverpool and lancashire unwillingly follow,--in the education of the operative and middle classes,--in literary, scientific, and musical associations,--in sanitary measures,--in the formation of public parks and pleasure grounds, manchester displays an incontestable superiority; being more rapid, more energetic, and more liberal than her more fashionable neighbours. a list of a few of the institutions and public establishments will show this. the royal institution in mosley street occupies a large building, established for the encouragement of the fine arts by exhibitions of paintings and sculptures, and the delivery of lectures. the philosophical society was established in , and has numbered among its members dr. dalton, dr. henry, and dr. percival, and has had its transactions translated into french and german. the natural history society has filled a museum in peter street with objects of natural history, and opens it during holiday seasons to the public at a nominal charge, when thousands of visitors, chiefly operatives, attend. the mechanics' institution, founded in , after surviving many difficulties, has become one of the most flourishing and useful institutions of the kind in the kingdom. its chief activity is displayed in the education of the operative members in the class-rooms. the library is large, well selected, and in constant requisition. in one department the school of design is carried on, and could not be conducted in a more appropriate building. this school of design, supported by the government for the purpose of promoting design as applied to the staple manufactures, and diffusing a general feeling for art amongst the manufacturing community, was formerly accommodated within the walls of the royal institution as a tenant, paying a rent, strangely enough, for the use of a building which had ostensibly been erected for promoting art and science! it was not until , that, on the recommendation of a committee of the house of commons, active steps were taken to establish in england that class of artistic instruction applied to manufactures which had been cultivated in france ever since the time that the great colbert was the minister of louis xiv. at manchester, some of the leading men connected with the calico-printing trade and looms of art, established a school of design within the royal institution, where two rooms were lent rent-free; but, as soon as government apportioned a part of a special grant to the manchester school, the committee, who were also as nearly as possible the council of the royal institution, with that appetite for public money which seems incident to men of all nations, all classes, and all politics, voted out of the pounds per annum for rent. this school did nothing of a practical nature, and consequently did not progress in public estimation. the master was a clever artist, but not up, perhaps he would have said not down, to his work. a school of design at manchester is meant, not to breed artists in high art, but to have art applied to the trades of the city. the master was changed, and, at the request of the local committee, the council of the school of design at somerset house sent down, in , mr. george wallis, who had shown his qualifications as an assistant at somerset house and as master of the spitalfields school. at that time the manchester school had been in existence five years, and had done nothing toward its original object. in two years from the time of mr. wallis taking the charge, the funds of the school were flourishing; the interest taken in it by the public was great, and nearly half the institution was occupied by the pupils, while the applications for admission were more numerous than could be accommodated. under this management the public, who care little for abstract art, were taught the close connexion between the instruction of the school of design and their private pursuits. this is what is wanted in all our towns. it is not enough to teach boys and girls,--the manufacturers and purchasers need to be taught by the eye, if not by the hand. according to part of mr. wallis's plan, an exhibition was held of the drawings executed by the pupils for the annual prizes, which had a great influence in laying the foundation for the efforts made by manchester at the great exhibition of industry in hyde park. while matters were proceeding so satisfactorily, the somerset house authorities (who have since been tried and condemned by a committee of the house of commons), proceeded to earn their salaries by giving instructions which could not be carried out without destroying all the good that had been done. the manchester committee and mr. wallis protested against this red tapish interference. it was persisted in; mr. wallis { } resigned, to the great regret of his pupils and manufacturing friends in the managing council. the result was that the undertaking dwindled away rapidly to less than its original insignificance,--the students fell off, and a deficit of debt replaced the previously flourishing funds. out of evil comes good. the case of manchester enabled mr. milner gibson, m.p. for manchester, to get his committee and overhaul the schools of design throughout the kingdom. certain changes were effected. the school, no longer able to pay the high rent required by the royal institution, was removed to its present site in brown street, placed under the management of mr. hammersley, who had previously been a successful teacher at nottingham, and freed from the meddling of incompetent authorities. and now pupils anxiously crowd to receive instruction, and annually display practical evidence of the advantages they are enjoying. the manchester mechanics' institution was one of the pioneers in the movement which led to the great exhibition. in , was held its first polytechnic exhibition for the purpose of showing the connexion between natural productions, science, and manufactures. subsequent exhibitions were carried out with great effect as a means of instruction and education, and with such success as to pay off a heavy debt which had previously cramped the usefulness of the institution. there are also several other institutions of the same class, amongst others salford, ancoats, and miles platting auxiliary mechanics' institutes. the athenaeum constitutes a kind of literary club for the middle classes, who are provided with a good library and reading-room in a very handsome building. the manchester library contains , volumes, the manchester subscription library, established , has the most extensive collection of books in the city. a concert hall in peter street, exclusively used for the purposes indicated by its name, is supported by subscribers at five guineas each. the chetham society has been founded for the purpose of publishing ancient mss. and scarce works connected with the history of lancashire. the exchange has upwards of two thousand subscribers. by way of helping the body as well as the mind, in the inhabitants of manchester formed by subscription three public parks, called queen's park, peel's park, and philip's park, in three different parts of the suburbs. * * * * * the free grammar school was founded by hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, in the early part of the sixteenth century. it was originally founded for the purpose of furnishing simple and elementary instruction to the poor. this design is sufficiently proved by the language of the foundation deed, which describes those sought to be benefited as persons who had been long in ignorance "on account of the poverty of their parents." the present income of the school is upwards of pounds a-year, leaving a considerable income over its expenditure, notwithstanding that the operations of the school have been extended by a decree of the court of chancery. in the year the court authorised the erection of a new building to include a residence for the master. there are two schools, called the higher and lower. the instructions given embrace the greek and latin, and the french, german, and other modern languages; english literature, mathematics, the modern arts and sciences, etc. a library is attached to the school for the use of the pupils. there are twelve exhibitions, of the annual value of pounds each, for four years, in the gift of the warden and high master, who, however, respect the recommendations of the examiners. these gentlemen are three in number, being masters of arts and bachelors of law of two years' standing, two of them appointed by the professor, and one by the high master. they each receive pounds for their services. in addition to the twelve exhibitions mentioned above, there are fifteen others connected with the school, the bequest of a merchant named hulme. these are appropriated to under-graduates of brasenose college, oxford. their value is to be fixed by the patrons, but cannot exceed the sum of pounds a year. they are to be held for four years from the thirteenth term after matriculation. there are sixteen scholarships to the same college; and sixteen to st. john's, cambridge, varying in value from l to pounds, stand in rotation with the pupils of marlborough and hereford schools, and six scholarships of pounds to magdalen college, oxford, manchester pupils having the preference. the examiners have also the power of making awards of books or mathematical instruments, to the value of pounds, in any cases of great merit. the high master's salary is fixed not to exceed pounds, with house-rent and taxes free. he is also allowed to take twenty boarders. he has the assistance of an usher (salary pounds, with house and fifteen boarders); an assistant (salary pounds, with house and twelve boarders); an usher's assistant (salary pounds, with house and ten boarders). there are, in addition, a master of the lower school, a writing, and a mathematical master, a teacher of english literature, and another of foreign languages; all, with the exception of the last, having houses, and their aggregate salaries amounting to pounds. four hundred scholars attended in . manchester new college is an institution belonging to the unitarian body, on the plan of king's college, london, and was opened for the reception of students on the th october, . the curriculum of instruction embraces every department of learning and polite literature. the lancashire independent college is one of the affiliated colleges of the london university, and was established for the education of candidates for the christian ministry amongst congregational dissenters. there are three resident professors, the principal being the rev. dr. vaughan, formerly professor of history in the university of london. owen's college has recently been opened on the testamentary endowment of a mr. owen, for affording an education on the plan of university college, london. chetham's hospital, or, as it is more properly termed, "college," was founded by charter in the year , by humphrey chetham, a manchester citizen and tradesman, who had, during his lifetime, brought up, fed, and educated fourteen boys of manchester and salford. he paid a heavy fine to charles i. for persisting in his refusal of a baronetcy, and in was appointed sheriff of his county. by his will chetham directed that the number of boys he had previously provided for should be augmented by the addition of one from droylsden, two from crumpsall, four from turton, and ten from bolton; and left the sum of pounds to be devoted to their instruction and maintenance, from six to fourteen years of age, and for their apprenticeship afterwards to some trade. the funds having since increased, boys are now received, in the following proportions, from the several places mentioned in the founder's will, viz.:--manchester, ; salford, ; droylsden, ; crumpsall, ; bolton, ; turton, . they are clothed, fed, boarded, lodged, and instructed in reading, writing, grammar, and arithmetic. the boys are selected by the feoffees in annual meeting at easter, within six days before the monday in which week an application must be sent in to the governor, accompanied by a printed note of recommendation, signed by the overseers and churchwardens of the place in which the candidate resides. the college library is situated in the same old building in which accommodation is found for the college, and is a fine collection of upwards of , volumes. the germ of this library consisted of the books bequeathed by humphrey chetham, many of them of great scarcity and value. the collection contains comparatively few volumes of modern date. the library is open to the use of the public without charge or restriction, and a small, but convenient, reading-room is provided for their accommodation. books are not allowed to be removed from the premises, and every reader is obliged to make an entry of each volume he wishes to obtain. notwithstanding the immense population of manchester and salford, this valuable institution is comparatively little used, the number of readers averaging less than twenty per day. swinton school.--in connexion with the workhouse an industrial house and school has been erected at swinton, five miles from the city, which affords so admirable an example for imitation by all manufacturing or crowded communities, that we are glad to be able to extract the main facts concerning it from a graphic description in the first volume of dickens's household words:-- "swinton school cost sixty thousand pounds, and is a handsome building in the tudor style of architecture, with a frontage of feet, containing more than windows. pleasure grounds and play grounds surround it, and it resembles more a nobleman's palace than the home of pauper children. the inmates consist of children, of whom are orphans, and deserted by their parents, under charge of a chaplain, a head master, a medical officer, a roman catholic priest, a governor, a matron, six schoolmasters, and four school-mistresses, with a numerous staff of officials, nurses, and teachers of trades, receiving salaries and wages amounting to , pounds a-year, besides board. some in the institution are as young as one year and a half. all are educated, and those who are old enough are taught trades and domestic employments. when they leave they are furnished with two suits of clothes. the character of the institution stands so high, that the public are eager for the girls as domestic servants. if it has not already been done, we hope that the cultivation of land on the system of market gardens will be added to the trades, as affording a more certain, and, in some respects, more generally useful employment. educated agricultural labourers are rare, much prized, and soon promoted to be overseers and bailiffs. the education at swinton is conducted on the modern plan, which prevails in the best schools under government inspection. the children are taught to love and look upon their masters and mistresses as friends, to be consulted and applied to as they would to kind parents. for instance take this bit, familiar to visitors of infant schools, but still new to many:-- the children under six years of age, summoned by the sound of a whistle from the play ground, trooped in glad groups to an anteroom, and girls and boys intermixed, at a signal from the master marched into the schoolroom singing a tune. then followed such viva voce instruction as too many better endowed children do not get for want of competent teachers. indeed a better education is now given in workhouses than can be obtained for children under twelve years of age at any paid school that we know of. for instance:-- "what day is this?" "monday." "what sort of a day is it?" "very fine." "why is it fine?" "because the sun shines, and it does not rain." "is rain a bad thing, then?" "no." "what is it useful for?" "to make the flowers and the fruit grow." "who sends rain and sunshine?" "god." "what ought we to do in return for his goodness?" "praise him." "let us praise him, then," added the master. and the children altogether repeated, and then sang, a part of the th psalm." now all this is very fine, and a wonderful improvement on the old dog-eared redinmadeasy, but better follows. after a time the children grew tired and sleepy, one fell asleep. did the master slap them all round and pull the ears of the poor little fat somnus? no. he marched them all out singing and beating time to play for a quarter of an hour. we commend swinton to the consideration of the credulous disciples of the firebrand school of economists, who believe that manchester men devour little children daily, without stint or mercy for their poor little bodies or souls. manchester obtained a municipal corporation under the provisions of the general act for that purpose, passed in the reign of his late majesty william iv. gas works, established in , are the property of the town, and produce a surplus income amounting to between three and four thousand pounds a year, which are devoted to public improvements. the corporation have recently obtained power to establish water works, and to purchase up the plant of an existing company. the guardians of the workhouses of manchester have a most difficult task to perform, especially in times of commercial depression, as thousands are thrown upon their hands at once. among the most troublesome customers are the irish, who flock to manchester through liverpool in search of work, and form a population herding together, very ignorant, very poor, and very uncleanly. manchester manufactures. it is quite impossible to give the same sort of sketch of the manufactures of this city as we gave of birmingham, because they are on so much larger and more complicated a scale. one may understand how a gun-barrel or a steel-pen is made at one inspection; but in a visit to a textile mill, a sight of whizzing machinery, under the charge of some hundred men, women, boys, and girls, only produces an indefinable feeling of confusion to a person who has not previously made himself acquainted with the elements of the subject. to attempt to explain how a piece of calico is made without the aid of woodcuts, would be very unsatisfactory. premising, then, that the cotton in various forms is the staple manufacture of manchester, and that silk, mixed fabrics of cotton and silk, cotton and wool, etc., are also made extensively, we advise the traveller to prepare himself by reading the work of dr. ure or the articles on textiles in the penny cyclopaedia. a visit to the workshops of the celebrated machinists messrs. sharpe, roberts, & co. would probably afford a view of some parts of the most improved textile machinery in a state of rest, as well as a very excellent idea of the rapid progress of mechanical arts. improvements in manufacturing machines are so constant and rapid, that it is almost a proverb--"that before a foreigner can get the most improved machinery which he has purchased in england home and at work, something better will be invented." a manchester manufacturer, on the approach of a busy season, will sometimes stop his factories to put in new machines, at a cost of twenty thousand pounds. of equal interest with messrs. sharpe, roberts, & co., are the works of messrs. whitworth, the manufacturers of exquisite tools, more powerful than any elephant, more delicately-fitted than any watch for executing the metalwork of steam-engines, of philosophical instruments, and everything requiring either great power or mathematical nicety. some of these tools for planing, boring, rivetting, welding, cutting iron and other metals, are to be found in great iron manufactories. indeed, mr. roberts and mr. whitworth are of a class of men who have proved that the execution of almost all imitations of natural mechanics are merely a question of comparative expense. if you choose to pay for it, you may have the moving fingers of a man, or the prehensile trunk of an elephant, perfectly executed. from the manufacture of machines, the next step lies naturally to some branch of cotton manufactures. cotton.--the rise of this manufacture has been wonderfully rapid. in the time of henry viii., the spinning wheel came into use in england, superseding the spindle and distaff, which may still be seen in the south of france and italy, and in india, where no other tools are used. in the same reign manchester became distinguished for its manufactures. in the seventeenth century, humphrey chetham, whose name has already been mentioned as the founder of a splendid charity, was among the eminent tradesmen. the barbarities of the duke of alva on the protestants of the netherlands, and the revocation of the edict of nantes, by which the persecutions of the french protestants was renewed, supplied all our manufacturing districts with skilful artisans and mechanics in silk and woollen. in , the importation of raw cotton only amounted to nineteen million pounds weight, obtained from the west indies, the french, spanish, and dutch colonies, and from turkey and smyrna. two years previously an american ship which imported eight bags was seized, on the ground that so much cotton could not be the produce of the united states! so early as , one charles wyatt, of birmingham, took out a patent for spinning yarn by machinery, which he tried at northampton, but reaped no profits from the invention, which was discontinued and forgotten. in , james hargreaves, an illiterate weaver residing near church, in lancashire, who seven years previously had invented a carding machine, much like that in use at the present day, invented the spinning jenny,--by which eighty spindles were set to work instead of the one of the spinning wheel. hargreaves derived no benefit from his invention; twice a mob of spinners on the old principle rose and destroyed all the machinery made on his plan, and chased him away. in , richard arkwright took out his first patent (having mr. need of nottingham and mr. strutt of derby as partners,) for spinning with rollers. arkwright was born in the humblest class of life at preston in lancashire. at "proud preston" he first followed the business of a barber, then became a dealer in hair, travelling the country to collect it, and selling it prepared to the wigmakers. having accumulated a little money, he set about endeavouring to invent perpetual motion, and, in the search, invented, or sufficiently adapted and improved, a cotton spinning apparatus to induce two practical men like the messrs. need and strutt to join him. his claim to original invention has been disputed. that he was not the first inventor is clear, and it is equally clear that he must have been a man of very considerable and original mechanical genius. with arkwright's patent, the rise of the cotton trade began. in , mr. samuel crompton's invention came into use, called the mule jenny, because partaking of the movements of both hargreaves' and arkwright's inventions, by which, for the first time, yarn fine enough for muslins could be spun. crompton did not, probably could not, afford to take out a patent, but worked his mule jenny with his own hands in an attic at bolton, where he carried on a small spinning and weaving business. already, in , there were between four and five million spindles on this principle, but the inventor continued poor and almost unknown. mr. kennedy (author of a brief memoir of crompton), and mr. lee, raised pounds for him by subscription, and he afterwards received a grant of pounds from parliament, which his sons lost in business. mr. kennedy again exerted himself and raised an annuity of pounds, which the unfortunate inventor only lived two years to enjoy. the spinning machines threatened to out-travel the weaving powers of the country, when, in , dr. cartwright, a clergyman of kent, with no previous knowledge of weaving, after an expenditure of , pounds, invented the power-loom, for which he afterwards received a grant of , pounds from parliament. to supply our cotton manufactures, there were imported in , , bales of lbs. each. of this quantity, , , bales came from the united states. the manchester manufacturers have lately raised a small fund by subscription, and sent out mr. mackay, a barrister, author of the western world, to examine and report on the prospects of obtaining cotton from india; and the son of the late mr. john fielden, a great manufacturer, has embarked a considerable sum at natal in the cultivation of cotton. the dependence on the united states for such a staple has begun to render our manchester men uncomfortable. they have not, however, displayed the spirit and energy that might have been expected either from their usual political vigour or from the tone of their advice to the farmers in distress. the successive improvements in weaving by machinery we shall not attempt to trace. to use the phrase of a nottingham mechanic, "there are machines now that will weave anything, from a piece of sacking to a spider's web." but fine muslins and fancy goods are chiefly woven by hand. the power-loom has recently been adapted, under bright's patent, to weaving carpets, which are afterwards printed. with respect to spinning; fine yarns which cost twenty guineas a pound have been reduced to four shillings by improved machinery, and in the great exhibition of industry messrs. houldsworth exhibited as a curiosity, a pound of cotton spun , miles in length. arkwright, among the early improvers, was the only one who realized a large fortune, which his patience, his energy, his skill, his judgment, his perseverance well deserved, whether he was an original inventor or not. the large supplies of cheap coals by canal soon made lancashire the principal seat of the manufacture. among the many who realized great wealth by the new manufacture, was the first sir robert peel, who began life near bolton as a labouring man, by frugality accumulated enough money to commence first with a donkey a small coal trade, and then to enter on a cotton mill, which eventually placed him in a position to become a member of parliament and a baronet, and to give his son that starting place in education and society of which he availed himself so wisely and so patriotically, to his own honour and the permanent benefit of his country. there are several mills and factories in manchester in which the most perfect productions of mechanical skill may be seen in operation; but it is a trade which will be seen under much more favourable circumstances in some of those valleys near manchester, where the masters of the mill provide the cottages of their "hands," or where the cottages are held in freehold by the more frugal workmen themselves, with little gardens attached, in pure air in open situations. there are many cotton lords, and the number is increasing, who take the warmest interest in the condition of the people in their employ, and who do all they can to promote their health, their education, and their amusements. a visit to one of these establishments, will convince those who have taken their ideas of a manufacturing population from the rabid novelettes and yet more rabid railings of the ferrand school, that there is nothing in the factory system itself, properly conducted, opposed to the permanent welfare of the working classes. on the contrary, in average times, the wages are sufficient to enable the operatives to live in great comfort, and to lay by more than in other trades; while between the comfort of their position and that of the agricultural labourer there is no comparison, so infinitely are the advantages on the side of the factory hand. there have also been a series of legislative and other changes during the last twenty years, all tending to raise the condition of this class. at the same time, it is impossible not to observe that, quite irrespective of political opinions, there is a wide gulf between the great mass of the employers and the employed. there is dislike--there is undefined distrust. those who doubt this will do well to investigate working-class opinions for themselves, not at election time, and in such a familiar manner as to get at the truth without compliments. probably in times of prosperity this feeling is not increasing--we are strongly inclined to think it is diminishing; but it is a question not to be neglected. manchester men, of the class who run at the aristocracy, the army, and the navy just as a bull runs at a red rag, will perhaps be very angry at our saying this; but we speak as we have found mobs at fires, and chatty fustian jackets in third class trains on the lancashire and yorkshire line; and, although a friend protests against the opinion, we still think that the ordinary manchester millhand looks on his employer with about the same feelings that mr. john bright regards a colonel in the guards. we hope we may live to see them all more amiable, and better friends. manchester during the last seventy years, has been peopled more rapidly than the "black country" which we have described, with a crowd of immigrants of the most ignorant class, from the agricultural counties of england, from ireland, and from scotland. these people have been crowded together under very demoralising circumstances. but we do not dwell or enter further into this important part of the condition of manchester, because, unlike birmingham, the corn law discussions have, to the enormous advantage of the city, drawn hundreds of jealous eyes upon the domestic life of the poor; and because men of all parties, church and dissent, radicals and conservatives, are trying hard and as cordially as their mutual prejudices will allow them, to work out a plan of education for raising the moral condition of a class, who, if neglected in their dirt and ignorance, will become, in the strongest sense of the french term, dangereuse! but to return to the manchester of to-day; it has become rather the mercantile than the manufacturing centre of the cotton manufacture. there are firms in manchester which hold an interest in woollen, silk, and linen manufactures in all parts of the kingdom and even of the continent. from a pamphlet published last year by the rev. mr. baker, it appears that there are five hundred and fifty cotton manufactories of one kind or other in the cotton district of lancashire and cheshire. of these, in ashton-under- lyne, dukinfield, and mosley, there are fifty-three mills, blackburn fifty- seven, bolton forty-two, burnley twenty-five spinning manufactories, at heywood twenty-eight mills, oldham one hundred and fifty-eight, preston thirty-eight, staley bridge twenty, stockport forty-seven mills, warrington only four, manchester seventy-eight. the following is a brief outline of the stages of cotton manufacture which may be useful to those who consider the question for the first time. when cotton has reached manchester from the united states, which supplies per cent. of the raw material; from egypt, which supplies a good article in limited quantity; from india, which sends us an inferior, uncertain, but increasing, quantity, but which with railroads will send us an improved increasing quantity; or from any of the other miscellaneous countries which contribute a trifling quota--it is stowed in warehouses, arranged according to the countries from which it has come. it is then "passed through the willow, the scuthing machine, and the spreading machine, in order to be opened, cleaned, and evenly spread. by the carding engine the fibres are combed out, and laid parallel to each other, and the fleece is compressed into sliver. the sliver is repeatedly drawn and doubled in the drawing frame, more perfectly to strengthen the fibres and to equalize the grist. the roving frame, by rollers and spindles, produces a coarse loose thread, which the mule or throstle spins into yarn. to make the warp, the twist is transferred from cops to bobbins by the winding machine, and from the bobbins at the warping machine to a cylindrical beam. this being taken to the dressing machine, the warp is sized, dressed, and wound upon the weaving beam. the weaving beam is then placed in the power loom, by which machine, the shuttle being provided with cops with weft, the cloth is woven." sometimes the yarn only is exported, in other cases the cloth is bleached, or dyed, or printed, all of which operations can be carried on in manchester or the surrounding auxiliary towns. the best mode of obtaining a general idea of the trade carried on in manchester will be to visit two or three of the leading warehouses in which buyers from all parts of the world supply their respective wants. for instance, messrs. j. n. phillips and co., of church street; messrs. bannermans and sons, york street; messrs. j. and j. watts and co., of spring gardens; and messrs. wood and westhead, of piccadilly. next, to go over one of the leading cotton mills, say briley's or houldsworth's; then messrs. lockett's establishment for engraving the plates used in calico-printing, and messrs. thomas hoyle and son's print works. this work completed, the traveller will have some idea of manchester, not without. * * * * * silk.--the silk trade of manchester and of macclesfield, which for that purpose is a suburb of manchester, arose in the restrictions imposed upon spitalfields, at the request of the weavers, by successive acts of parliament, for the purpose of regulating employment in that district. in there were not jacquard looms in manchester and its neighbourhood, whilst at the present time there are probably , employed either on silk or some branch of figure weaving. the most convenient silk manufactory for the visit of the stranger is that of messrs. james houldsworth of portland street, near the royal infirmary. this firm was established by a german gentleman, the late mr. louis schwabe, an intelligent german, who introduced the higher class of silk manufacture with such success as to enable him to compete with even the very first class of lyons silks for furniture damasks. in addition to the extensive application of the jacquard loom, mr. schwabe introduced, and mr. henry houldsworth improved and perfected, the embroidering machines invented by mr. heilmann of mulhausen. the improvements are so great that the original inventor cannot compete with them. rows of needles elaborate the most tasteful designs with a degree of accuracy to which hand labour cannot approach. messrs. winkworth and proctor are also producers of high class silks for ladies' dresses and gentlemen's waistcoats. manchester is particularly celebrated for plain silk goods of a superior quality at a moderate price. there are also manufactories of small wares, which include parasols and umbrellas. a parasol begins at . d. wholesale. in manchester the tastes and costumes of every country are consulted and suited. the brown cloak of the spaniard, the poncho of the chilean, the bright red or yellow robe of the chinese, the green turban of the pilgrim from mecca, the black blanket of the caffre, and the red blanket of the american indian may all be found in bales in one manchester warehouse. in passing through the streets, the sign "fents" is to be seen on shops in cellars. these are the odd pieces, of a yard or two in length, cut off the goods in the manufactories to make up a certain even quantity; and considerable trade is driven in them. selections are sometimes bought up as small ventures by sea captains and emigrants. paper-making is carried on extensively in the neighbourhood of manchester from cotton waste. this was formerly thrown away; scavengers were even paid to cart it away. after a time, as its value became quietly known among paper-makers, parties were found willing to take on themselves the expense of removing it. by degrees the waste became a regular article of sale; and now, wherever possible, a paper-mill in this part of the country is placed near, or worked in conjunction with, a cotton-mill. the introduction of cotton waste has materially reduced the price of paper. no doubt, when the excise is abolished, many other articles will be employed for the same purpose. to describe the railroads, which are every hour departing for every point of the compass, would take up too much space. but the railway stations, several of which have been united by works as costly, and almost as extensive, as the pyramids of egypt, are not among the least interesting sights. at these stations barrels of flour will be found, literally filling acres of warehouse room, and cucumbers arrive in season by the ton. * * * * * the canals must be mentioned, and remind us that at worsley, near manchester, the duke of bridgwater, "the father of inland navigation," aided by the genius of brindley (another of the great men, who, like arkwright and stephenson, rose from the ranks of labour, and directly contributed to the rise of this city) commenced the first navigable canal constructed for commercial purposes in great britain. at the present day the construction of a canal is a very commonplace affair, but it is impossible to doubt the high qualities of the mind of the duke of bridgwater, when we consider the education and prejudices of a man of his rank at that period, and observe the boldness with which he accepted, the tenacity with which he adhered to, the energy and self-sacrifice with which he prosecuted the plans of an obscure man like brindley. a disappointment in love is said to have first driven the duke into retirement, and rendered him shy and eccentric, with an especial objection to the society of ladies, although he had once been a gay, if not dissipated, young gentleman, fond of the turf. he rode a race at trentham hall, the seat of his brother-in-law, the marquis of stafford. when he retired from the pleasures of the fashionable world, his attention was directed to a rich bed of coal on his estate at worsley, the value of which was almost nominal in consequence of the expense of carriage. he determined to have a canal, and, if possible, a perfect canal, and who to carry out this object he selected brindley, who had been born in the station of an agricultural labourer, and was entirely self-educated. to the last he conducted those engineering calculations, which are usually worked out on paper and by rule, by a sort of mental arithmetic. brindley must have been about forty years of age when he joined the duke. he died at fifty-six, having laid the foundation of that admirable system of internal commerce which is better described in baron charles dupin's force commerciale de la grande bretagne than in any english work. one often-told anecdote well illustrates the characters of the nobleman and his engineer, if we remember that no such works had ever been erected in england at that time. "when brindley proposed to carry the canal over the mersey and irwell navigation, by an aqueduct feet above the surface of the water, he desired, for the satisfaction of his employer, to have another engineer consulted. that individual, on being taken to the place where the intended aqueduct was to be constructed, said, that 'he had often heard of castles in the air, but never was shown before where any of them were to be erected.'" but the duke had faith in brindley, persevered and triumphed, although, before the completion of all his undertakings, he was more than once reduced to great pecuniary difficulties. the canal property of the duke of bridgwater, with the lancashire estates, are now vested in the earl of ellesmere, a nobleman who well knows, and conscientiously works out, the axiom, "that property has its duties as well as its rights." a visit to worsley will prove what an enlightened and benevolent landowner can do for a population of colliers and bargemen. the educational and other arrangements of a far-sighted character show that there are advantages in even such large accumulations of property as have fallen to the share of the present representative of the duke of bridgwater. those who desire to pursue closely the state of the operative population in manchester, will find ample materials in the annual reports of factory inspectors, and school inspectors, under the committee of the council of education, and of the municipal officers of health. * * * * * fires.--dreadful fires occur occasionally in manchester. if such a catastrophe should take place during the stay of a visitor, he should immediately pull on an overcoat, even although it be midnight, and join in the crowd. an excellent police of officers and men renders the streets quite safe at all hours; and a fire of an old cotton factory, where the floors are saturated with oil and grease, is indeed a fearfully imposing sight. it also affords an opportunity of some familiar conversation with the factory hands. * * * * * in taking leave of manchester, which is indeed the great heart of our manufacturing system, we may truly say that it is a city to be visited with the deepest interest, and quitted without the slightest regret. on our political railroad we are under deepest obligations to the manchester stokers; but heaven forbid that we should be compelled to make them our sole engineers. the road to yorkshire. middleton.--and now, before taking a glance at the woollens and hardware of yorkshire, we suggest, by way of change from the perpetual hum of busy multitudes and the whizzing and roaring of machinery, that the traveller take a holiday, and spend it in wandering over an agricultural oasis encircled by hills, and so far uninvaded by the stalks of steam-engines, where the air is comparatively pure and the grass green, although forest trees do not flourish. the visit requires no distant journey. it is a bare six miles from the heart of manchester to middleton. nine times a-day omnibuses ply there. these original, if not primitive vehicles, are constructed to carry forty-five passengers, and on crowded market-days may sometimes be seen loaded with seventy specimens of a note-worthy class. middleton, lately a dirty straggling town, of , inhabitants, a number at which it has remained stationary for ten years, built without plan, without drains, without pavement, without arrangements for common decency, stands on the borders, and was the manorial village, of the middleton and thornham estates, which had been in the family of the late lord suffield for many hundred years. in the village, land was grudgingly leased for building, and no steam-engine manufactories were permitted. the agricultural portion of some acres of good land for pasturage and root crops, celebrated for its fine supplies of water and for its (unused) water-power, was divided into little farms of from twenty to seventy acres, very few exceeding fifty acres, inhabited by a race of farmer-weavers, who, from generation to generation, farmed badly and wove cleanly in the pure atmosphere of middleton. they were, most of them, bound to keep a hound at walk for the lord of the manor. now the old lords of the manor and owners of the estate of middleton (the harbords, afterwards barons suffield), were proud men and wealthy, who despised manufactures and resisted any encroachment of trade on the green bounds within which their old manor house had stood for ages. so when the inventions of crompton, hargreaves, arkwright, and cartwright began to coin gold like any philosopher's stone, for well-managing cotton manufacturers, speculators cast their eyes upon the pleasant waters of middleton and thornham, proposing to erect machinery and spin the yarn or thread, and otherwise to use the abundant water-power. but the lords of middleton would have none of such profits, (and if they could afford to reject them, we will not say that up to a certain point they were not wise), and so they gave short answers to the applicants, who went away and found, half-a-mile off, on the borders of yorkshire, similar conveniences and more accessible ground- landlords in the byrons, lords of the manor of rochdale. and when, some time afterwards, a like application met with a like answer, other manufacturers went away to another corner, and built oldham. so the middleton farms continued very pretty picturesque farms; middleton village grew into a miserable town, and was passed over in , when every population was putting forth its claims to a share in making the laws of the united kingdom; while oldham, with , inhabitants, was allotted two members, (an honour which cost the life of one of them, our best describer of english rural scenery, in racy saxon english, william cobbett); rochdale, with , , obtained one, and eventually made itself loudly heard in the house, in the person of john bright, a gentleman of pluck not without eloquence, who has done a good deal, considering the disadvantages he has laboured under, in not having been brought to his level in a public school, and in having been brought up in the atmosphere of adulation, to which the wealthy and clever of a small sect are as much exposed as the scions of a "proud aristocracy." a few years ago, the late lord, who had occasionally lived on the estate, died. his successor pulled down the manor house, became an absentee, always in want of ready money, and introduced the irish system into the management of his estate. that is to say, good farming became a sure mode of inviting an increase of rent--for indispensable repairs no ready money was forthcoming, so tenants who had an indisputable claim to such allowances, received a reduction of rent instead; they generally accepted the reduction, and did no more of the repairs than would just make shift. the land in the town suitable for building was let at chief rents to the highest bidder, with no consideration for the mutual convenience of neighbours, or the welfare of future residents. thus mismanaged and dilapidated, the estates were brought into the market, and purchased for messrs. peto & betts, by their land agent, mr. francis fuller, for less than , pounds; and the lands of the aristocracy of blood passed into the possession of the aristocracy of trade. here was a subject for a doleful ballad from "a young englander," commencing-- "ye tenants old of middleton ye cannot need but sigh, departed are the traces of your own nobility, the locomotivocracy have gone and done the trick, and england's aristocracy's obliged to cut its stick." a visit to middleton, however, will show that on this occasion the tenantry have no reason either to sigh or weep, and the visit is worth making, independently of the pleasantness of a change from town to country, because it affords an opportunity of seeing what can be done with a neglected domain when it passes into the hands of men of large capital, liberal views, and a thorough determination that whatever they take in hand shall be done in the best possible manner. messrs. peto & betts are managing this estate on the same principles that they have conducted the undertaking by which, in a very few years, they have acquired a large fortune and an influential position. not by avariciously grasping, and meritlessly grinding all the subordinates whose services they required; not by squeezing men like oranges, and throwing them away when squeezed; but by choosing suitable assistants for every task they undertook, and making those assistants, or advisers, feel that their interests were the same, that they were prepared to pay liberally for services strenuously rendered. by this system servants and sub-contractors worked for them with all the zeal of friends, and by this system the tenantry of middleton will attain a degree of comfort and prosperity hitherto unknown, while the estate they occupy will be largely increased in value. it is most fortunate that, at a time when so much landed property is passing into the hands of men of the class of which these gentlemen may be considered the intellectual leaders, an example has been set, by them, of liberal and judicious management. for this reason we do not think these rough notes on middleton will be considered a useless digression. * * * * * drains and repairs.--instead of the ordinary system of bit-by-bit repairs and instead of arrangements for the tenants to execute drains, as the first step after the change of proprietorship, a complete survey was made of the defects and of the value of all the holdings. on this survey the rents were fixed, with the understanding that while no increase of rent would be imposed on a good tenant, lazy slovenly farming would be forthwith taxed with an additional ten per cent. the landlords have themselves undertaken to execute a complete deep drainage of the whole property at a cost of , pounds. for this they charge the tenants five per cent. on the outlay per acre occupied. farm buildings and farm houses are being put in thorough repair, and tenants are expected so to keep them. in the course of these repairs farm houses were found in which the windows were fixtures, not intended to open! while as to the farming, it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more barbarous. it is not a corn-growing district, and what corn is grown these weaver farmers, indifferent apparently to loss of time, first lash against a board to get part of the grain out, and then thrash the rest out of the straw! market garden cultivation, stall feeding, and root crops would answer well, but at the time of the survey only two gardens were cultivated for the sale of produce in the unlimited markets of oldham, rochdale, and manchester; and little feeding except of pigs. orchard trees are now supplied by the landlords, free of cost, to all willing to take charge of them. it will be very difficult to induce these people to change their old slovenly style of farming, for their chief pride is in their weaving, which is excellent, and many of them are in possession of properties held for two and three generations without change. but the system of encouraging the good, and getting rid of the lazy, will work a reformation in time, especially as there are some very good examples on the estate. for instance, benjamin johnson, who, paying the highest rent per acre, has creditably brought up ten children on nine acres of land, without other employment. middleton is a district especially suited for small farms, so much so that it has been determined to divide one or two of the larger ones. altogether it is a very primitive curious place, with several originals among the tenantry, and some beautiful natural scenery, among whom a morning may be spent with profit and pleasure. with the town and building land an equally comprehensive system has been adopted. the defects of the existing buildings are to be cured as soon as, and in the best manner, that circumstances will admit; while all new houses are to be built and drained on a fixed plan, and all roadside cottages to have at least a quarter of an acre of ground for a garden. it will take some years to work out complete results; it is, however, gratifying to see a landowner placing himself in the hands of competent advisers, planning not for the profits of the hour, but for the future, for the permanent health, happiness, and prosperity of all dwelling on his property. the pecuniary results promise to be highly satisfactory; it is already evident that increased rents will be accompanied by increased prosperity, and it is thought in the neighbourhood that in the next ten years, the property will, from the judicious expenditure of , pounds, be worth at least , pounds. so much for employing a scientific and practical agriculturist as land agent, instead of a fashionable london attorney. { } yorkshire. from manchester to leeds is a journey of forty-five miles, and about two hours. we should like to describe yorkshire, one of the few counties to which men are proud to belong. we never hear any one say, with conscious pride, "i am a hampshireman or an essex man, or even a lancashireman," while there are some counties of which the natives are positively ashamed. but we have neither time nor space to say anything about those things of which a yorkshireman has reason to be proud--of the hills, the woods, the dales, the romantic streams,--above all, of the lovely wharfe, of the fat plains, the great woods, the miles of black coal mines, where we have heard the little boys driving their horses and singing hymns, sounding like angels in the infernal regions, the rare good sheep, the teeswater cattle, that gave us short-horns, of horses, well known wherever the best are valued, be it racer, hunter, or proud-prancing carriage horse; hounds that it takes a yorkshire horse to live with; and huntsmen, whom to hear tally-away and see ride out of cover makes the heart of man leap as at the sound of a trumpet; foxes stanch and wily, worthy of the hounds; and then of those famous dalesmen farmers, tall, broad-shouldered, with bullet heads, and keen grey eyes, rosy bloom, high cheek bones, foxy whiskers, full white-teethed, laughing mouths, hard riders, hard drinkers, keen bargainers, capital fellows; and besides those the slips, grafts, and thinnings from the farms, who in factories, counting-houses, and shops, show something of the powerful yorkshire stamp. everything is great in yorkshire, even their rogues are on a large scale; in spain, men of the same calibre would be prime ministers and grandees of the first class; in france, under a monarchy, a portfolio, and the use of the telegraph, with no end of ribands, would have been the least reward. here the honours stop short between two dukes, as supporters arm in arm; but still we are obliged to own that no one but a yorkshireman could have so bent all the wild beasts of belgravia and mayfair, from the countess gazelle to the ducal elephant, to his purpose, as an ex-king did. our task will be confined on the present occasion to a sketch of huddersfield and leeds, centres of the woollen manufacture, which forms the third great staple of english manufactures, and of sheffield, famed for keen blades. * * * * * huddersfield, twenty-six miles from manchester, is the first important town, on a road studded with stations, from which busy weavers and spinners are continually passing and repassing. it is situated in a naturally barren district, where previously to the inhabitants chiefly lived on oaten cake, and has been raised to a high degree of prosperity by the extension of the manufactures, a position on the high road between manchester and leeds, intersected by a canal, uniting the east and west, or inland navigation, and more recently by railroads, which connect it with all the manufacturing towns of the north. an ample supply of water-power, with coal and building stone, have contributed to this prosperity, of which advantage has been taken to improve the streets, thoroughfares, and public buildings. the use of a light yellow building stone for the houses has a very pleasant appearance after the bricks of manchester and liverpool. the huddersfield canal, which connects the humber and mersey, is a very extraordinary piece of work. it is carried through and over a backbone of hills by stairs of more than thirty locks in nine miles, and a tunnel three miles in length. at one place it is yards below the surface, and at another . feet above the level of the sea. when we examine such works, so profitable to the community, so unprofitable to the projectors, how can we doubt the capability of our country to hold its own in any commercial race? men make a country, not accidents of soil or climate, mines or forests. for centuries california and central america have been in the hands of an iberian race, fallow. a few months of anglo-saxon rule, and land and sea are boiling with fervid elements of cultivation, commerce, and civilization. with time the dregs will disappear, and churches and schools, cornfields and fulling-mills, will supersede grizzly bears and wandering indians. all the land in huddersfield belongs to the ramsden family, by whom the cloth hall was erected. six hundred manufacturers attend this hall every tuesday. the principal manufactures are of broad and narrow cloths, serges, kerseymeres, cords, and fancy goods of shawls and waistcoatings, composed of mixed cotton, silk, and wool. the neighbourhood of huddersfield was the centre of the luddite outbreak, when a large number of persons engaged in the cloth manufacture, conceiving that they were injured by the use of certain inventions for dressing cloth, banded together, traversed the country at night, searching for and carrying off fire-arms, and attacking and destroying the manufactories of persons supposed to use the obnoxious machines. great alarm was excited, some expected nothing less than a general insurrection; at length the rioters were attacked, dispersed, a large number arrested, tried, and seventeen hanged. since that period not one but scores of mechanical improvements have been introduced into the woollen manufacture without occasioning disturbance, and with benefit in increased employment to the working classes. the case of the luddites was one of the few on which lord byron spoke in the upper house, and horace smith sang for fitzgerald . . . "what makes the price of beer and luddites rise? what fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?" the population is about , , and returns one member to the house of commons. about half a mile from the town is lockwood spa, of strongly sulphurous waters, for which a set of handsome buildings have been provided. leeds. leeds, seventeen miles from huddersfield, is the centre of five railways, by which it has direct connection with hull, liverpool, manchester, newcastle, on the east, and carlisle on the west coast, sheffield, nottingham, derby, and birmingham, in the midland counties, possesses one of the finest central railway stations in the kingdom, and has also the advantage of being in the centre of inland navigation (a great advantage for the transport of heavy goods), as it communicates with the eastern seas by the aire and calder navigation to the humber, and westward by the leeds and liverpool to the mersey. the town stands on a hill, which rises from the banks of the river aire. leeds has claims to antiquity, but few remains. when domesday book was compiled it appears to have been an agricultural district. wakefield was formerly the more important town. lord clarendon, in , speaks of leeds, halifax, and bradford, "as three very rich and populous towns, depending wholly upon clothing." the first charter was granted to leeds by charles i., and the second by charles ii., on petition of the clothworkers, merchants, and others, "to protect them from the great abuses, defects and deceits, discovered and practised by fraudulent persons in the making, selling, and dyeing of woollen cloths." the principal manufacture of leeds is woollen cloth. formerly the trade was carried on by five or six thousand small master clothiers, who employed their own families, and some thirty or forty thousand servants, and also carried on small farms. but the extension of the factory system has somewhat diminished their numbers. there are still, however, in connection with leeds, several small clothing villages, in which the first stages of the operation are carried on, in spinning, weaving, and fulling. large quantities of worsted goods are brought to leeds to be finished and dyed, which have been purchased, in an undyed state, at bradford and halifax. the dye-houses and dressing-shops of leeds are very extensive. goods purchased in a rough state in the cloth halls and piece halls are taken there to be finished. there are also extensive mills for spinning flax for linen, canvas-sailing, thread, and manufactures of glass and earthenware. in connection with messrs. marshall's flax factory, the same firm are carrying on extensive experiments near hull in growing flax. cloth halls.--previous to , the cloth market was held in the open street. in , the present halls were erected, and in them the merchants purchase the half manufactured article from the country manufacturers. the coloured cloth hall is a quadrangular building, . yards long, and broad, divided into six departments called streets. each street contains two rows of stands, and each stand measures inches in front, and is inscribed with the name of the clothier to whom it belongs. the original cost was pounds s. this price advanced to pounds at the beginning of the present century; but it has now fallen below its original value--not owing to a decrease in the quantity of manufactured goods, but owing to the prevalence of the factory system--in which the whole operation is performed, from sorting the piece to packing the cloth fit for the tailor's shelves--over the domestic system of manufacturing. an additional story, erected on the north side of the coloured cloth hall, is used chiefly for the sale of ladies' cloths in their undyed state. the white cloth hall is nearly as large as the coloured cloth hall, and on the same plan. the markets are held on tuesdays and saturdays, on which days alone the merchants are permitted to buy in the halls. the time of the sale is in the forenoon, and commences by the ringing of a bell, when each manufacturer is at his stand, the merchants go in, and the sales commence. at the end of an hour the bell warns the buyers and sellers that the market is about to close, and in another quarter of an hour the bell rings a third time, and the business of the day is terminated. the white cloth hall opens immediately after the other is closed, and the transactions are carried on in a similar manner. the public buildings of leeds are not externally imposing, and it is, without exception, one of the most disagreeable-looking towns in england--worse than manchester; it has also the reputation of being very unhealthy to certain constitutions from the prevalence of dye-works. the wealthy and employing classes in leeds (we know no better term) have a reputation for charity, and good management of charitable institutions. howard the philanthropist visited the workhouse, and praised the management, at a period when to deserve such praise was rare. the subscriptions to public charities are large, and there is an ancient fund for pious uses, said to amount to upwards of pounds a-year, managed by a close self-elected corporation, about the distribution of which they do not consider themselves bound to give any detailed information. dr. hook, the vicar of leeds, has organized a system of house-to-house visitation, for the purpose of affording aid, in poverty and sickness, to the deserving and religious, and educational instruction to all, which has effected a great deal of good, and would have done more, had not well known circumstances shaken the confidence of the leeds public in the honesty of some of the teachers. all parties agree, however differing in opinions, that dr. hook himself is a most excellent, charitable, self-sacrificing man. a new grammar school--first founded in by the rev. sir william sheafield, and since endowed by several other persons--is lodged in a building of ample size, with residence for the head master, and enjoys an income of pounds a-year; and there are four exhibitions of pounds a-year to magdalen college, cambridge, tenable till degree of m.a. has been taken; one exhibition of pounds a-year, tenable for five years, at queen's college, oxford, open to a candidate from leeds school; and four of pounds each, at oxford or cambridge, for four years. there were scholars in . it is open to the sons of all residents in leeds, without any fee to the masters, who are liberally paid. the elements of mathematics are taught. the charity commissioners reported it to be satisfactorily and ably conducted. the leeds philosophical and literary society, the leeds literary institution, and the leeds mechanics institute, are all respectable in their class. the mechanics institute forms the centre of a union of yorkshire associations of the same kind. three newspapers are published in leeds, of large circulation, representing three shades of political opinion. the leeds mercury--which has, we believe, the largest circulation of any provincial paper--was founded, and carried on for a long life, by the late mr. edward baines, who represented his native town in the first reformed parliament, and for some years afterwards--a very extraordinary man, who, from a humble station, by his own talents made his way to wealth and influence. he was the author of the standard work on the cotton trade, as well as several valuable local histories. the mercury is still carried on by his family. one son is the proprietor of a liverpool paper, and another, the right honourable matthew talbot baines, represents hull, and is president of the poor-law board. among the celebrated natives of leeds, were sir thomas denison, whose life began like whittington's; john smeaton, the engineer of eddystone lighthouse, the first who placed civil engineering in the rank of a science; the two reverend milners (joseph, and isaac, dean of carlisle), great polemical giants in their day, authors of "the history of the church of christ;" dr. priestly, inventor of the pneumatic apparatus still used by chemists, and discoverer of oxygen and several other gases; david hartley, the metaphysician whom coleridge so much admired that he called his son after him; and edward fairfax, the translator of tasso. nor must we forget ralph thoresby, author of "ducatus leodiensis, or the topography of the town and parish of leeds"--a valuable and curious book, published in ; and of "vicaria leodiensis, a history of the church of leeds," published in . wool growing, and woollen manufactures.--yorkshire is the ancient seat of a great woollen manufacture, founded on the coarse wools of its native hills; but coal and cheap conveyance, with the stimulus mechanical inventions have applied in the neighbouring counties to cotton, have given yorkshire such advantages over many ancient seats of manufacture, that it has transplanted and increased a considerable portion of the fine cloth trade formerly carried on in the west of england alone, besides engrafting and erecting a variety of other and new kinds of textiles, in which wool or hair have some very slight part. it is quite certain that woollen garments were among the first manufactured among barbarous tribes. we have seen this year, in the exhibition in hyde park, specimens of white felted cloth from india, equal, if not superior, to anything that we can manufacture for strength and durability, which must have been made with the rude tools, of the form which has been in use for probably at least two thousand years. english coarse wools have been celebrated, and in demand among foreign nations, from the earliest periods of our history. in the time of william the conqueror, an inundation in the netherlands drove many clothiers over, and william of malmesbury tells us that the king welcomed them, and placed them first in carlisle, where there are still manufactories, and then in the western counties, where they could find what was indispensable for their trade--streams for washing and plenty of wood for boiling their vats. very early the manufacturers applied to restrain the exportation of english wool. in the time of edward i., we find a duty of twenty shillings to forty shillings per bag on importation. edward iii. prohibited the export of wool, at the same time he took his taxes and subsidies in wool, which became a favourite medium of taxation with our monarchs, and sent his wool abroad for sale. under his reign, flemish weavers were encouraged to settle here and improve the manufacture, which became spread all over england thus--norfolk fustians, suffolk baize, essex serges and says, kent broadcloth, devon kerseys, gloucestershire cloth, worcestershire cloth, wales friezes, westmoreland cloth, yorkshire cloth, somersetshire serges, hampshire, berkshire, and sussex cloth: districts from a great number of which woollen manufactures have now disappeared. we have parliamentary records of the mutual absurdities by which the woollen manufacturers, on the one hand, sought to obtain a monopoly of british wool, and the wool growers endeavoured to secure the exclusive right to supply the raw material. act after act was laid upon everything connected with wool, so that it is only extraordinary that, under such restrictive trammeling, the trade survived at all. "odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke! were the last words that poor narcissa spoke." in , when, the price of wool being low, the lincolnshire woolgrowers met under the chairmanship of their great landowners, and resolved on petitions praying "that british might be exported and that irish wool might be excluded from england;" thereupon the yorkshire manufacturers met and resolved that "the exportation of wool would be ruinous to the trade and manufactures of england," that the manufacturers would be obliged to leave the kingdom for want of employment, and that the importation of irish woollen yarn ought to be interdicted. the manufacturers were under the impression that no other country than england could produce the long wools suitable for the manufacture of worsted. some time afterwards the woollen manufacturers thought themselves likely to be ruined by the introduction of cotton cloth, "to the ruin of the staple trade of the kingdom," and succeeded in placing an excise duty upon the new fabric. the contention between sheepowners and manufacturers continued until, in , when the influence of mr. huskisson's opinions on trade were beginning to be felt in parliament, and to the disgust of both parties, a compromise was effected by a reduction of all wool duties to a uniform duty of ld. per lb. on the export of british and importation of foreign wool. the last step was a total repeal of all duties. english wools may be divided into long and short staples. the long is used for worsted, which is finished when it leaves the loom; the short for cloth, which is compacted together, increased in bulk and diminished in breadth, by fulling; that is, so beating as to take advantage of the serrated edges of the wool which lead it to felt together. foreign wool, known as merino, has been used from an early period. in the time of the stuarts, an attempt was made to monopolize all the spanish wool exported. wars and bad government in spain have destroyed the export trade in merino wool, but the breed, transplanted into germany, has multiplied and even improved. our finest wool is obtained from silesia, and the breed is cultivated with more or less success in many parts of the european continent. in england, all attempts to cultivate the merino with profit have failed. next to germany in quality, and exceeding that country in quantity, we obtain our greatest supply of fine wool from australia, where, in the course of twenty-five years, the merino sheep has multiplied to the extent of twelve or thirteen million head, and is still increasing; thus doubling our supply of a fine article, not equal to german, but, at the low price at which it can be furnished, helping to create entirely new manufactures by intermixing with our own coarse wools, which it renders more available and valuable. we also obtain wool from the cape of good hope, from india, from egypt, and from south america. besides pure wool, our manufacturers use large quantities of goat's hair, called mohair, from the mediterranean, of camel hair, of thibet goat's hair, of the long grey and black hair of the tame south american llama and alpaca, and of the short soft red hair of the vicuna, a wild animal of the same species. indeed, almost every year since the repeal of all restrictions on trade, has introduced some new raw material in wool or hair to our manufacturers. the alpaca and vicuna, now an important article of trade and manufacture, although well known to the native peruvians at the time of the conquest by the spaniards, has only come into notice within the last twenty years. the first article of the kind that excited any attention was a dress made for her majesty from a flock of llamas belonging to her majesty, under the superintendence of mr. thomas southey, the eminent wool broker. the stock from the small flock of merinos taken out by colonel macarthur to what was then only known as botany bay, now supports , souls in prosperity in australia, and supplies exports to the amount of upwards of a million and a half sterling per annum. the great exhibition afforded an excellent display of the variety and progress of yorkshire woollen manufactures, proving the immense advantage they derived from choice and mixture of various qualities and materials. in several examples the body was of stout english wool, with a face of finest australia,--in some cases, of mohair,--and, in one instance, a most beautiful article was produced by putting a face of vicuna on british wool. as at present conducted, the process of a woollen factory up to certain stages of machinery is the same as that of a cotton factory. but it will be seen that a great deal depends on an ample supply of water of good quality. cloth manufacture.--( .) the first operation is that of sorting the wool. each fleece contains several qualities,--the division and arrangement requires judgment; the best in a silesian fleece may be worth s. a pound, and the rest not worth half the money. after sorting, wools are mixed in certain proportions. ( .) the mixture is first soaked in a hot ley of stale urine and soap, rinsed in cold water, and pressed between rollers to dry it. ( .) if the cloth is to be dyed in that operation, next succeeds the scouring. supposing it dyed, ( ) wyllying follows, by which it is subject to the operation of the spikes of revolving wheels, for the purpose of opening the fibres and sending it out in a light cloud-like appearance, to where a stream of air driven through it, clears away all impurities by a sort of winnowing process, and sends it out in a smooth sheet. ( .) if any impurities remain, it is hand picked. ( .) it is laid on the floor, sprinkled with olive oil, and well beaten with staves. ( .) the operation of the scribbling machine follows, by which it is reduced to a fleecy sheet and wound on rollers. ( .) the carding machine next reduces it to hollow loose short pipes. these are joined ( ) in the slubbing machine into a weak thread, and here we see the use of the young hands, boys and girls, who piece one of these pipes as they are drawn through the machine by a slow clockwork motion, bending one knee every time as they curtsey sideways toward the machine. they earn very good wages and look healthy; but, where the wool is dyed, what with the dye and what with the oil, the piecers are all ready toileted to sing to a banjo; and sometimes, with rubbing their faces with their dirty hands, they get sore eyes. ( .) spinning hardens the thread. ( .) weaving is done by hand or by power-loom. the power-looms are becoming more common. after weaving, it is washed in soap-water and clean water by machinery,--then stretched on tenterhooks and allowed to dry in a smooth extended state: (l ) then examined for all hair and impurities to be picked off by "burlers." after this follows ( ) fulling, or felting, which gives woollen goods that substance which distinguishes them. every hair of wool is saw-edged, and this by beating will mass together. superfine cloth with a thick solution of soap spread between each layer, and, folded into many piles, is exposed to the long continued action of revolving wooden hammers on wheels, three separate times, for four hours each time. this process diminishes both breadth and length nearly one half. after "fulling" cloth is woolly and rough; to improve the appearance it is first ( ) teazled--that is, raked with cylinders covered with the round prickly heads of the teazle plant. many attempts have been made to invent wire and other brushes for the same purpose, but hitherto nothing has been found more effective and economical than the teazle. to apply them the cloth is stretched on cloth beams, and made to move in one direction, while the teazle cylinders turn in another. when the ends of the fibres have been thus raised, they are ( ) sheared or clipped, in order to produce the same effect as clipping the rough coat of a horse. formerly this operation was performed by hand. the introduction of machinery created formidable riots in the west of england. at present the operation is performed with great perfection and rapidity, by more than one process. when the cloth has been raised and sheared once, it is in the best possible condition for wear; but in order to give superfine cloth beauty, it is sheared several times, then exposed to the action of steam, and at the same time brushed with cylinder brushes. other operations, of minor importance, are carried on for the purpose of giving smoothness and gloss. it may be observed that a brilliant appearance does not always, in modern manufactures, betoken the best cloth. an eminent woollen manufacturer having been asked what cloth he would recommend for wear and warmth to a backwoodsman, answered quickly, "nothing can wear like a good blanket." the small manufacturers generally dispose of their cloth in the rough state. the progress of machinery has called into existence a great number of factories, especially in worsted and mixed stuffs, has given value to many descriptions of wool formerly valueless, and, coupled with the repeal of the duty, brought into the market many kinds unknown a few years ago. "properties once prized," mr. southey remarks in his essay on wools, "have given way to some other property upon which machinery can better operate, and yield more desirable results. spanish wool, once deemed indispensable, is now little sought after. it is supplanted by our colonial wool, which is steadily advancing in quality and quantity, while angora goat, and alpaca wools are forcing their way into and enhancing the value of our stuff trade." . . . "machinery has marshalled before its tremendous power the wool of every country, selected and adopted the special qualities of each. nothing, in fact, is now rejected. even the burr, existing in myriads in south america and some other descriptions of wool, at one time so perplexing to our manufacturers, can now, through the aid of machinery, be extracted, without very material injury to the fibre." . . . "in no description of manufacture connected with the woollen trade has machinery been more fertile in improvements than in what may be termed the worsted stuff trade." "the power-looms employed, in the west riding of yorkshire, in the worsted stuff trade, increased from , in , to , in (and are probably not far from , at the present time). worsted goods formerly consisted chiefly of bombazets, shalloons, calamancoes, lastings for ladies' boots, and taminies. now the articles in the fancy trade may be said to be numberless, and to display great artistic beauty. these articles, made with alpaca, saxony, fine english and colonial wools, and of goats' hair for weft, with fine cotton for warp, consist of merinoes, orleans, plain and figured parisians, paramattas, and alpaca figures, checks, etc." the machines for combing and carding, of the most improved make, will work wool of one and a half inch in the staple, while for the old process of hand- combing four inches was the minimum. but we must not enter further into these details, as it is our purpose rather to indicate the interest and importance of certain manufactures than to describe the process minutely. the yorkshire woollen manufacture is distributed over an area of nearly forty miles by twenty, occupied by clothing towns and villages. leeds, bradford, halifax, huddersfield, dewsbury, and wakefield, are the great manufacturing centres. mixed or coloured cloths are made principally in villages west of leeds and wakefield; white or undyed cloths are made chiefly in the villages occupying a belt of country extending from near wakefield to shipley. these two districts are tolerably distinct, but at the margins of the two both kinds of cloth are manufactured. flannels and baizes are the principal woollen articles made in and near halifax, together with cloth for the use of the army. blankets are made in the line between leeds and huddersfield. bradford provides very largely the spun worsted required for the various manufactures. stuffs are made at bradford, halifax, and leeds, and narrow cloths at huddersfield. saddleworth furnishes broadcloth and kerseymeres. as a specimen of the variety of articles produced in one factory, take the following list, exhibited in the crystal palace by a huddersfield manufacturer:--"summer shawls; summer coatings; winter woollen shawls; vestings; cloakings; table covers; patent woollen cloth for gloves; do. alpaca do.; do. rabbits' down do.; trowserings; stockingnett do." we may observe, that there is no more pleasant mode of investigating the processes of the woollen manufacture, for those resident in the south of england, than a visit to the beautiful valley of the stroud, in gloucestershire, where the finest cloths, and certain shawls and fancy goods, are manufactured in perfection in the midst of the loveliest scenery. white- walled factories, with their resounding water-wheels, stand not unpicturesque among green-wooded gorges, by the side of flowing streams, affording comfortable well-paid employment to some thousand working hands of men and women, boys and girls. through lincolnshire to sheffield. on leaving leeds there is ample choice of routes. it is equally easy to make for the lake districts of cumberland and westmoreland, or to proceed to york, and on by newcastle to scotland, or to take the road to the east coast, and compare hull with liverpool--a comparison which will not be attended with any advantage to the municipal authorities of hull. the aldermen of hull are of the ancient kind--"slow," in the most emphatic sense of the term. for proof,--we have only need to examine their docks, piers, and landing-places; the last of which are being improved, very much against the will of the authorities, by a lincolnshire railway company. from hull there is a very convenient and swift railway road open to london through lincolnshire, which, branching in several directions, renders easy a visit either to the wolds, where gorse-covered moors have been turned, within the last century, into famous turnip-land, farmed by the finest tenantry in the world; or to the fens, where the science of engineers learned in drainage, greatly aided by the pumping steam-engine, has reclaimed a whole county from eels and wild ducks. lincolnshire is not a picturesque county; both the wet half and the dry half, both the fen district and the wold district, are treeless; and the wolds are only a line of molehills, of great utility, but no special beauty. but it is the greatest producing county in england, and the produce, purely agricultural, is the result of the industry and intellect of the men who till the soil. in devonshire and somersetshire we are charmed by the scenery, and amazed by the rich fertility of the soil, while we are amazed by the stolidity of the farmers and their labourers--nay, sometimes of the landlords--whose two ideas are comprised in doing what their forefathers did, and in hating every innovation. there fences, guano, pair-horse ploughs, threshing machines, and steam-engines, are almost as much disliked as cheap bread and manchester politics. but on the wolds of lincolnshire a race of agriculturists are to be found who do not need to be coddled and coaxed into experiments and improvements by the dinners and discourses of dilettanti peers; but who unite the quick intelligence of the manufacturer with the hearty hospitality for which the english used to be famous. among the lincolnshire farmers rural life is to be seen in its most agreeable aspect. the labourers are as superior to the southern peasantry as their employers to the southern tenantry. books, newspapers, and music may be found in the farm-houses, as well as old ale and sound port wine. at aylsby, six miles from great grimsby, mr. william torr has a fine herd of short horns and a flock of pure leicester sheep, well worth a visit. the celebrated wold farmers are about ten miles distant. any one of them is worth six baden barons. after crossing from hull, if a visit to these wold farms be intended, grimsby is the best resting-place, a miserable town of great antiquity, which, after slumbering, or rather mouldering, for centuries on the profits of parliamentary privileges and a small coasting trade, has been touched by the steam-enchanter's wand, and presented with docks, warehouses, railways, and the tools of commerce. these, aided by its happy situation, will soon render it a great steam-port, and obliterate, it is to be hoped, the remains of the squalid borough, which traces back its foundation to the times of saxon sea- kings. we must record, for the credit of great grimsby, that it evinced its improved vitality by subscribing a larger sum to the exhibition of industry than many towns of ten times its population and more than ten times its wealth. the execution of the railway and dock works, which will render great grimsby even more important than birkenhead, has been mainly due to the exertions of the greatest landowner in the county, the earl of yarborough, who has wisely comprehended the value of a close connexion between a purely agricultural and manufacturing district. his patriotic views have been ably seconded by mr. john fowler, the engineer of the manchester and lincolnshire railways, and mr. james j. m. rendel, the engineer of these docks as well as of those at birkenhead. the grimsby docks occupy thirty-seven acres, cut off from the sea. the work was courageously undertaken, in the midst of the depression which followed the railway panic, by messrs. thomas, hutchins, & co., contractors, and has been carried through in an admirable manner, in the face of every kind of difficulty, without an hour's delay. they will open in march next. the first stone was laid by prince albert in may , when he electrified the audience at dinner by one of those bursts of eloquence with which the events of the great exhibition have made us familiar. it was on the occasion of his ride to brocklesby that lord yarborough's tenantry rode out to meet the prince, and exhibited the finest farmers' cavalcade for men and horses in england. lord yarborough has done for lincolnshire what the duke of bridgwater did for lancashire; and, like the duke, he has been fortunate in having for engineering advisers gentlemen capable of appreciating the national importance of the task they undertook. it is not a mere dock or railway that messrs. fowler and rendel have laid out--it is the foundation of a maritime colony, destined not only to attract, but to develop new sources of wealth for lincolnshire and for england, as any one may see who consults a map, and observes the relative situation of great grimsby, the baltic ports, and the manufacturing districts of yorkshire, lancashire, and cheshire. for the sake of the future it may be well worth while to visit these great works. it may be a pleasant recollection for the man who, in some ten or twenty years, beholds the docks crowded with steamers and coasters, and the railway busy in conveying seaborne cargoes, to recall the fact that he saw the infancy, if not the birth, of that teeming trade; for it is not to every man that it is given to behold the commencement of such a future as seems promised to gloomy, swampy great grimsby. at great grimsby we are in a position to take a large choice of routes. we may go back to london by louth, famous for its church, spire, and comical coat of arms; { } by boston and peterborough; or take our way through the ancient city of lincoln to nottingham and the midland counties, where the famous forest of robin hood and the dukeries invite us to study woodland scenery and light-land farming; but on this occasion we shall make our way to sheffield, over a line which calls for no especial remark--the most noticeable station being east retford, for the franchise of which birmingham long and vainly strove. what delay might have taken place in our political changes if the m.p.'s of east retford had been transferred to birmingham in , it is curious to consider. sheffield. the approach to sheffield from lincolnshire is through a defile, and over a long lofty viaduct, which affords a full view of the beautiful amphitheatre of hills by which it is surrounded. the town is situated in a valley, on five small streams--one the "sheaf," giving the name of sheffield, in the southern part of the west riding of yorkshire, only six miles from derbyshire. the town is very ugly and gloomy; it is scarcely possible to say that there is a single good street, or an imposing or interesting public building,--shops, warehouses and factories, and mean houses run zigzagging up and down the slopes of the tongues of land, or peninsulas, that extend into the rivers, or rather streamlets, of the porter, the riveling, the loxley, the sheaf, and the don. almost all the merchants and manufacturers reside in the suburbs, in villas built of white stone on terraces commanding a lovely prospect. the picturesqueness, the wild solitude of the immediate neighbourhood of sheffield, amply compensates for the grimy gloom in which the useful and disagreeable hardware trade is carried on. all around, except where the don opens a road to doncaster, great hills girdle it in, some of which at their summit spread out into heath-covered moorlands, where the blackcock used lately to crow. almost in sight of the columns of factory smoke, others of the surrounding ridge are wood-crowned, and others saddlebacked and turfed; so that a short walk transports you from the din of the workshop to the solitude of "the eternal hills." we do not remember any manufacturing town so fortunately placed in this respect as sheffield. for an excellent and truthful description of this scenery, we may turn to the poems of ebenezer elliott, who painted from nature and knew how to paint in deep glowing colours. "hallamshire, which is supposed by antiquarians to include the parish of sheffield, forms a district or liberty, the importance of which may be traced back to even british times; but sheffield makes its first appearance as a town some time after the conquest. in the domesday book the manor of sheffield appears as the land of roger de busk, the greater part held by him of the countess judith, widow of waltheof the saxon. in the early part of the reign of henry i. it is found in the possession of the de levetot family, and the site of their baronial residence. they founded an hospital, called st. leonard's (suppressed in the reign of henry viii.), upon an eminence still called spital hill, established a corn mill, and erected a bridge there, still called the lady's bridge, from the chapel of the blessed lady of the bridge, which had previously stood near the spot; and their exertions and protection fixed here the nucleus of a town. the male line of the levetots became extinct by the death of william de levetot, leaving an infant daughter, maud, the ward of henry ii. his successor, richard, gave her in marriage to gerard de furnival, a young norman knight, who by that alliance acquired the lordship of sheffield. there is a tradition that king john, when in arms against his barons, visited gerard de furnival (who espoused his cause), and remained for some time at his castle of sheffield. "on the th of november, , edward i. granted to lord furnival a charter to hold a market in sheffield on tuesday in every week, and a fair every year about the period of trinity sunday. this fair is still held on tuesday and wednesday after trinity sunday, and another on the th of november. the same lord furnival granted a charter to the town, the provisions of which were of great liberality and importance at that period, viz., that a fixed annual payment should be substituted for the base, uncertain services by which they had previously held their lands and tenements, that courts baron should be held every three weeks for the administration of justice, and that the inhabitants of sheffield should be free from the exaction of toll throughout the entire district of hallamshire, whether they were vendors or purchasers." about this time sheffield began to be famous for the manufacture of falchion heads, arrows, files, and whittles. chaucer tells us of the miller that "a sheffield thwytle bare he in his hose, round was his face, and camysed was his nose." the ample water-power, the supply of iron ore close at hand, and in after times, when its value for smelting was discovered, the fields of coal--all helped sheffield. "another only daughter, and another maud, transferred by her marriage the lordship of sheffield to the more noble family of talbot, earl of shrewsbury. william lord furnival died th april , in his house in holborn, where now stands furnival's inn, leaving an only daughter, who married sir thomas nevil, and he in died, leaving an only daughter, maud, who married john talbot, earl of shrewsbury. george, fourth earl of shrewsbury, built the lodge, called sheffield manor, on an eminence a little distance from the town, and there he received cardinal wolsey into his custody soon after his apprehension. it was on his journey from sheffield manor up to london, in order to attend his trial, that the cardinal died at leicester abbey. in the reign of queen elizabeth, mary queen of scots, who had been committed to the custody of george, sixth earl of shrewsbury, after being confined in tutbury castle, was removed in first to sheffield castle, and then to sheffield manor house, where she spent fourteen years. it was for the alleged intention of moving her hence that thomas duke of norfolk, an ancestor of the ducal family, still closely connected with sheffield, suffered on the scaffold. the grandson of this duke of norfolk, at whose trial the earl of shrewsbury presided as high steward, afterwards married the granddaughter of the earl, and thereby became possessed of this castle and estate." and now, in , another son of norfolk is about to acquire a large fortune by a talbot. during the reign of elizabeth, the duke of alva, whose persecutions did more for extending and improving the manufactures of this country than any amount of parchment protection, drove over, in addition to the weavers of linen and fullers of cloth, artizans in iron and steel. these, according to the wise rule of settling all one craft in one spot, were by the advice of the queen's chamberlain, the earl of shrewsbury, settled on his own estate at sheffield, and the neighbourhood thenceforward became known for the manufacture of shears, sickles, knives of every kind, and scissors. about this time ( ), according to a survey, sheffield contained about inhabitants, of whom the most wealthy were " householders, which relieve the others, but are poore artificers, not one of whom can keep a team on his own land, and above ten have grounds of their own, which will keep a cow." in , an act of the incorporation of cutlers was passed, entituled "an act for the good order and government of the makers of sickles, shears, scissors, and other cutlery wares in hallamshire and parts near adjoining." gilbert, seventh earl of shrewsbury, the last of the male line of the house of talbot, who inherited the hallamshire estates, died on the th may , leaving three daughters, co-heiresses. the lady alethea talbot, the youngest, married the earl of arundel, and the other two, dying without issue in , the whole estates descended to her grandson, thomas howard, earl of arundel, who was restored to the title of duke of norfolk by charles ii., on his restoration, and in that family a considerable property in sheffield remains to this day--not without narrow escapes of extinction. charles james fox's friend, jockey of norfolk, was one of a family which seems to afford every contrast of character in possession of the title. in the great civil wars, sheffield was the scene of more than one contest. in , on the st august, after the battle of marston moor, the castle was besieged by twelve thousand infantry dispatched by the earl of manchester, compelled to surrender in a few days, and demolished by order of parliament. the manor was dismantled in by order of thomas duke of norfolk, and the splendid park, shaven of its great trees, was converted into building land, or accommodation land, part of which is still known by the name of the park. during the eighteenth century the sheffield trade was entirely confined to the home market, and chiefly conducted by pack horses. in a step toward extension was made by the completion of works, which rendered the don navigable up to tinsley. in the sheffield and tinsley canal was completed; and now manchester, leeds, hull, and liverpool, are all within a morning's ride. the art of silver-plating was invented at sheffield by thomas bolsover, an ingenious mechanic, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, and extensively applied by mr. joseph hancock. this trade has been seriously affected by the invention of electro-plating, which has transferred much of the sheffield trade to birmingham. the invention of britannia metal speedily followed that of plating. in a direct trade to the continent was opened by mr. thomas broadbent. the example was soon followed. the first stage-coach to london, started in , and the first bank was opened in . at present the population can be little short of , . the passing of the reform bill gave to sheffield two representatives. the constituency is one of the most independent in the kingdom. no "man in the moon" has any room for the exercise of his seductive faculties in sheffield. what is still more strange, until after the enactment of the municipal corporation bill, sheffield had no local authorities. the petty sessions business was discharged by county magistrates, and the master cutler acted as a sort of master of the ceremonies on occasions of festivity, without any real power. that honorary office is still retained, although sheffield has now its aldermen and common councillors. there is a "royal free grammar school" founded in , with an income from endowments of about pounds a-year. free to thirty boys, as regards classics, subject to a charge of four guineas per annum for instruction in the commercial department. in there were eighty-one scholars. manufactures.--sheffield, through every change, has deservedly retained its reputation for the manufacture of razors, surgical instruments, and the highest class of cutlery, and a considerable number of carpenters' and other steel tools. in the coarser steel articles birmingham does a considerable and increasing business, and sheffield workmen settling in germany and in the united states have, from time to time, alarmed their native town by the rivalry of their pupils; nevertheless, it may confidently be asserted, that with its present advantages sheffield can never lose her pre-eminence in cutlery if her sons are only true to her and themselves. the steel consumed in england is manufactured chiefly from iron imported from sweden and russia. it has not been exactly ascertained whence arises the superiority of this iron for that purpose. but all foreign iron converted into steel is composed of magnetic iron ore, smelted with charcoal. this kind of ore is found in several countries, particularly in spain. in new zealand, at new plymouth it is said to be found in great quantities; but from the two countries first mentioned we obtain a supply of from , to , tons, of which about come from sweden. the celebrated mines of danemora produce the finest swedish iron, and only a limited quantity is allowed to be produced each year. all the steel-iron used in england is imported into hull. bar-steel is manufactured by heating the iron, divided into lumps, in pots, with layers of charcoal, closely covered over with sand and clay, for several days. by this means the iron is carbonized and converted into what is commonly called blistered steel. the heat is kept up a longer or shorter time according to the hardness required. bar-steel, as it comes from the furnace, is divided and sorted, and the pieces free from flaws and blisters are rolled out and converted into files, knives, coach-springs, razors, and common implements, according to quality. it will be seen that there is a good deal of science and judgment required to manufacture the best steel. sheer steel is made from bar-steel by repeated heating, hammering, and welding. cast steel, a very valuable invention, which has in a great degree superseded sheer steel for many purposes, was first made in by mr. hunstman, at allercliff, near sheffield. it is made by subjecting bar-steel, of a certain degree of hardness, to an intense heat, for two or three hours, in a crucible, and then casting it in ingots. the indian wootz steel, of which such fine specimens were exhibited in the exhibition, and from which extraordinary sabres have been made, is cast steel, but, from the rudeness of the process, rarely obtained perfect in any quantity. whenever we have the good fortune to intersect india with railroads, steel-iron will be among the number of our enlarged imports. the hard and elastic qualities of steel, known as "temper," are obtained by heating and then cooling rapidly. for this purpose baths of mercury and of boiling oil are used. some waters are supposed to have peculiar virtues for tempering steel. case-hardening, a process much used for tools and plough-shares, consists in superficially hardening cast iron or wrought iron by heating it in a charcoal crucible, and so converting it into steel. the successful operations for converting steel into various kinds of instruments, depends very much upon manual skill. the mechanics are united in trades' unions of great power, and have exercised an influence over the manufacturers of the town of a very injurious nature. at one period, the razor-grinders and superior mechanics in several branches, were able to earn as much as five and six, and even ten, pounds a-week. at that period, when they had almost a monopoly of the cutlery trade, on a very trifling excuse they would decide on taking a holiday, or, as it is termed, "playing." strikes for higher wages generally took place whenever any good orders from foreign markets were known to have reached the town. by these arbitrary proceedings, arising from an ignorance of the common principles of political economy, which it is to be hoped that the spread of education will remove, the sheffield cutlery trade has been seriously injured. a few years ago large numbers of the cutlers emigrated. further depression was produced by the rivalry of birmingham in the electrotype process, which has, to a considerable degree, superseded the sheffield plate and other trades, the latter town being better placed for the foreign trade, while the workmen are less turbulent. beside cutlery and sheffield plate, britannia metal, and other similar ornamental and domestic articles, a good deal of heavy ironware is made in sheffield. we may notice the fire-grates, stoves, and fenders, of which all the best, wherever sold and whatever name and address they bear, come from sheffield. in this branch of manufacture a great deal of artistic taste has been introduced, and many scientific improvements for distributing and economizing heat. the firm of stuart and smith, roscoe place, distinguished themselves at the great exhibition, by producing a series of beautiful grates, at prices between two pounds and one hundred guineas. there are some establishments for the manufactory of machinery. within the last year or two sheffield has enjoyed a revival of prosperity, especially in the article of edge tools. the mechanics of sheffield are a very remarkable and interesting set of people, with a more distinct character than the mechanics of those towns which are recruited from various parts of the country. they are "sheffielders." a public meeting at sheffield is a very remarkable scene. the rules of public business are perfectly understood and observed; unless in periods of very great excitement, the most unpopular speaker will receive a fair hearing. a fair hearing does not express it. the silence of a sheffield audience, the manner in which they drink in every word of a stranger, carefully watching for the least symptom of humbug, and unreduced by the most tempting claptrap, is something quite awful. a man with a good coat on his back must dismiss all attempts at compliments, all roundabout phrases, and plunge into the middle of the business with the closest arguments he can muster, to produce any effect on the sheffield blades. although they look on all gentlemen with the greatest distrust, and have a most comical fear of imaginary emissaries from government wandering to and fro to seduce them, they thoroughly understand and practise fair play. the sterling qualities of these men inspire one with respect, and regret that they should be imposed upon by such "blageurs" as feargus o'connor and his troop. perhaps they are wiser now. the sheffielders, by way of relaxation, are fond of gardening, cricket, dog fighting, and formerly of hunting. they are very skilful gardeners,--their celery is famous. a few years ago, one of the trades hired land to employ their unemployed members. many possess freehold cottages. cricket and similar amusements have been encouraged by the circumstance that, in summer droughts, the water-power on which the grindstones depend often falls short, and then there is a fair reason for turning out to play or to garden, as the case may be, according to taste. sheffield bulldogs used to be very famous, and there are still famous ones to be found; but dog fighting, with drinking, is going out of fashion. but, although other towns play at cricket, and love good gardening and good dogs, we presume that the sheffielders are the only set of mechanics in europe who ever kept their own pack of hounds. such was the case a few years ago, when we had the pleasure of seeing them; and, if they are still in existence, they are worth going a hundred miles to see. the hounds, which were old english harriers, slow and deep-mouthed, were quartered at various cottages in the suburbs. on hunting mornings, when the men had a holiday, the huntsman, who was paid by a general subscription, took his stand on a particular hill top and blew his horn. in a few minutes, from all quarters the hounds began to canter up to him, and he blew and blew again until a full complement, some ten or twelve couples, had arrived. the subscribers came up in twos and threes on the hacks of the well known "shanks," armed with stout sticks; and then off they set, as gay and much more in earnest than many dozen who sport pink and leathers outside on hundred guinea nags. music is a good deal cultivated among all classes in sheffield. there are two scientific associations, but of no particular mark. sheffield has produced two poets of very different metal, james montgomery and ebenezer elliott, both genuine; and a sculptor, chantrey, who was apprenticed there to a wheelwright. the railway communications of sheffield were long imperfect,--they are now excellent. the clothing districts of yorkshire are united by two lines. the north midland connects it with derbyshire, and affords a short road by derby and through leicestershire to london on one side, and by burton to birmingham on the other. the lincolnshire line has shortened the distance to hull, whence the steel-iron comes, and fat cattle; the manchester line carries away the bars converted into cutlery, and all the plated ware and hardware, by liverpool, to customers in america, north or south. we must not forget that there are coal-pits close to the town, of extensive workings, which are extremely well suited for the visit of an amateur. even a courageous lady might, without inconvenience, travel underground along the tramways in the trucks, if she did not mind the jolting. the miners are not at all like our staffordshire friends, but are very decent fellows. there are a good many wesleyan methodists among them, and hymns may be heard sometimes resounding along the vaulted galleries, and rising from behind the air-doors, where children sit all day on duty,--dull work, but not hard or cold. a well managed coal mine is a very fine sight. derbyshire. from either sheffield or manchester a most delightful journey is open through derbyshire to a good pedestrian, or to a party of friends travelling in a carriage with their own horses. for the latter purpose an irish outside car, fitted either with a pole or outrigger for a pair of horses, is one of the best conveyances we know. the front seat holds the driver; two ladies and two gentlemen fill up the two sides. the well contains ample space for the luggage of sensible people; umbrellas and waterproof capes can be strapped on the intermediate cushion, and then, if the horses are provided with military halters and nosebags, you are prepared for every eventuality. to other impedimenta it is not amiss to add a couple of light saddles, so that, if necessary, some of the party may ride to any particular spot. this mode of travelling is particularly well suited for derbyshire, wales, devonshire, and all counties where there are beautiful spots worth visiting to which there are no regular conveyances, and which, indeed, are often only accidentally discovered. by this mode of travelling you are rendered perfectly independent of time and taverns, so long as you reach an inn in time to go to bed; for you can carry all needful provant for both man and beast with you. derbyshire is in every respect one of the most beautiful counties in england, and deserves a closer investigation than can be obtained from the outside of a coach, much less from the windows of a flying train, whenever the promised railway line, which we propose to traverse, shall be completed. derbyshire possesses two kinds of scenery totally distinct in character, but both remarkably picturesque, several natural curiosities of a very striking character, two very pleasant bath towns,--buxton and matlock; beside the antiquarian glories of hardwicke and haddon, and the palatial magnificence of chatsworth, with its porticoes, its fountains, its pleasure grounds, its victoria regia, and the house of glass that has been the means of making joseph paxton famous all over the civilized world. while the country round the peak is wild, bare, and rugged, the line of valleys and dales on which lies the road from matlock to burton and manchester, presents the most charming series of pictures of undulating woodland scenery, adorned by mansions and cottages, that it is possible to imagine. the high road continually runs along the steep side of valleys,--on one side are thick coverts climbing the rocky hill-sides, all variegated with wild flowers, briars, and brushwood; on the other side, sometimes on a level with the road, sometimes far below, a river winds and foams and brawls along; if lost for a short distance, again coming in sight of the road, enlivening and refreshing the scene. in the main avenue of the crystal palace, mr. carrington exhibited a model which represented with extraordinary accuracy all this country, and which gave a very exact picture of derbyshire, with all the undulations of its hills and rivers worked to a scale. those who have never been in the county should endeavour to see it, as it will teach them that we have a switzerland in england of which they knew not. one charm of this part of derbyshire is the intermixture of cultivation and wild nature, or woods so planted as to well emulate nature. on bits of level space you meet a cottage neatly built of stone, all covered with roses and woodbines, which flourish wonderfully on the loose soil in the showery atmosphere. the cottages of derbyshire are so pretty that you are at first inclined to imagine that they are for show,--mere fancy buildings. but no; the cheapness of good building stone, the suitability of the soil for flowering shrubs, and perhaps something in the force of example, create cottage after cottage fit for the dwellings of arcadian lovers. and every now and then the landscape opens on a villa or mansion so placed that there is nothing left for the landscape gardener to do. the farm buildings, and corn mills, and silk mills, are equally picturesque: game abounds. early in the morning and in the evening you may often see the pheasants feeding close to the roadside, and, in the middle of the day, the sudden sharp noise of a detonating ball will set them crowing in the woods all around. we cannot say that the streams now swarm with trout and grayling as they did when honest isaac walton sung their praises in quaint poetical prose, although they still twine and foam along their rocky beds all overhung with willows and tufted shrubs; but, where the waters are preserved, there good sport is to be had. the roadside inns are not bad. the half-mining, half-farming people are quaint and amusing. the caverns of the peak and the lead mines, afford something strange and new. altogether we can warmly commend a trip through derbyshire, as one affording great variety of hill and dale, wood and stream, barren moors, and rich cultivation, fine parks and mansions, and beautiful hamlets, cottages, and roadside gardens, where english peasant life is to be seen under most favourable aspects. * * * * * hardwicke.--supposing that we proceed from sheffield, we would take the railway to chesterfield, which is not a place of any interest. thence make our way to hardwicke, on the road to mansfield. hardwicke hall is a good specimen of the style of domestic architecture in the time of queen elizabeth, which has remained unaltered since that period. mary queen of scots was imprisoned here, and some remains of tapestry worked by her are exhibited, as well as furniture more ancient than the house itself. it belongs to the duke of devonshire. from hardwicke we proceed to matlock, which may be reached by an unfinished railway, intended to traverse the vales, and thence run into manchester. the village and baths are in the centre of a dale through which the river derwent flows, along between overhanging trees, except where, in some parts, its course lies through the narrow gut of perpendicular rocks. on either side rise hills, for the most part adorned with wood, to the height of three hundred feet. the waters, which are supplied to several small and one large swimming bath, have a temperature of from to degrees of fahrenheit. they are not now much in fashion, therefore the village has continued a village, and is extremely quiet or dull according to the tastes of the visitor. at the same time, there are a number of delightful expeditions to be made in the neighbourhood, on foot or horseback, and on donkeys,--hills to be ascended and caves to be explored. by permission of sir richard arkwright of willersley castle, close to matlock and several other river preserves, good fishing may be obtained. from matlock, the next halt should be at bakewell, where there is an excellent inn, which is a good encampment for visiting both chatsworth and haddon hall. chatsworth is three miles from bakewell. the present building occupies the site of that which was long occupied by mary queen of scots during her captivity, and which was taken down to make room for the present structure at the close of the seventeenth century. the park is ten miles in circumference, and is intersected by the river derwent, which flows in front of the mansion. this place has long been celebrated for its natural and artificial beauties, but within the last few years the duke of devonshire has largely added to its attractions, by alterations carried on at an immense expense, under the direction of mr. joseph paxton, which, among other things, include the largest greenhouse in the world--the house where the victoria regia was first made to flower, and a fountain of extraordinary height and beauty. these grounds, with the house, containing some fine pictures, are open to the visits of all well-behaved persons. indeed, from the arrangements made for the convenience of visitors, it would seem as if the duke of devonshire has as much pleasure in displaying, as visitors can have in examining, his most beautiful domains, which is saying a great deal. haddon hall, one of the most perfect specimens of a mansion of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, is situated on the left bank of the wye, at a short distance from bakewell. the "interiors" of mr. joseph nash have rendered the beauties of the architecture of haddon hall well known, but it also enjoys the advantage of a very fine situation, backed by old trees. it is the property of the duke of rutland, uninhabited, but perfectly preserved. good fishing is to be obtained near bakewell, through the landlord of the hotel. buxton may be the next halt, the leamington of manchester, but although more picturesquely situated, it has not enjoyed anything like the tide of prosperity which has flowed for the warwickshire watering place. the thermal waters of buxton have been celebrated from the time of the romans. the town is situated in a deep basin, surrounded by bleak hills and barren moors, in strong contrast to the verdant valley in which the village of matlock lies. the only entrance to and exit from this basin is by a narrow ravine, through which the river wye flows on its way to join the derwent toward bakewell. the highest mountains in derbyshire are close at hand, one of which is one thousand feet above the valley in which buxton stands, and two thousand one hundred feet higher than the town of derby. from this mountain four rivers rise, the wye, the dove, the goyt, and the dean. buxton consists of a new and old town. in the old town is a hall, in which mary queen of scots lodged whilst visiting the buxton waters for her health, as a prisoner under charge of the earl of shrewsbury. a latin distich, a farewell to buxton, scratched on the window of one of the rooms, is attributed to the hand of that unhappy princess. the new part of the town commences with the crescent, which contains two houses, a library, an assembly-room, a news-room, baths, and other buildings, and is one of the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom. the stables, on a magnificent scale, contain a covered ride, a hundred and sixty feet long. this immense pile was built by the late duke of devonshire in , and cost , pounds. the public baths are very numerous and elegant; and indeed every comfort and luxury is to be obtained there by invalids and semi-invalids, except that perpetual atmosphere of amusement, without form, or fuss, or much expense, which forms the great charm of german watering places. we cannot understand why at the present moderate price of all kinds of provisions in england, a tariff of prices, and a set of customs of expense are kept up, which send all persons of moderate fortune to continental watering places, or compel them to depart at the end of a fortnight, instead of staying a month. why do we english,--after dining at a table d'hote, all the way from baden- baden to boulogne, for something not exceeding half-a-crown a-head, without drinking wine, unless we like,--find ourselves bound, the moment we set our foot in england, to have a private or stereotyped dinner at five or six shillings a-head, and no amusement. in london, for gentlemen only, there are three or four public dinners at a moderate figure. when will some of our bell-wethers of fashion, to whom economy is of more consequence than even the middle classes, set the example at leamington, tunbridge wells, buxton, and cheltenham, of dining with their wives and daughters at the public table? how long are we to be slaves of salt soup, fried soles, and fiery sherry? the decayed watering places, ruined by the competition of the continent, should try the experiment of commercial prices, as an invitation to idlers and half-invalids to stay at home. another great help to our watering places and farmers, would be the repeal of the post-horse tax. it brings in a mere trifle. the repeal would be an immense boon to places where the chief attraction depends on rides and drives. it would largely increase the number of horses and vehicles for hire, and be a real aid to the distressed agricultural interest, by the increased demand it would make for corn, hay, and straw. besides, near a small place like matlock, or ilfracombe, in devonshire, farmers would work horses through the winter, and hire them out in summer. it is a great tax to pay four shillings and sixpence as a minimum for going a mile in any country place where flies and cabs have not been planted. the environs of buxton afford ample room for rides, drives, picnics, and geological and botanical explorations. beautifully romantic scenes are to be found among the high crags on the bakewell road, overhanging the river wye. among the natural curiosities is a cave called poole's hole, five hundred and sixty yards in length, with a ceiling in one part very lofty, and adorned with stalactites, which have a beautiful appearance when lighted up by roman candles or other fireworks. as buxton is only twenty-two miles from manchester, travellers who have the time to spare should on no account omit to visit one of the most romantic and remarkable scenes of england. * * * * * macclesfield.--from buxton it will not be a bad plan to proceed to macclesfield, and again in cheshire, on the borders of derbyshire, take advantage of the rail. the turnpike road to that improving seat of the silk manufacture is across one of the highest hills in the district, from the summit of which an extensive view into the "vale royal" of cheshire is had. the hills and valleys in the vicinity of whaley and chapel-en-le-frith are equally delightful. macclesfield has one matter of attraction--its important silk manufactories. in other respects it is externally perfectly uninteresting. the earl of chester, son of henry iii., made macclesfield a free borough, consisting of a hundred and twenty burgesses, and various privileges were conferred by edward iii., richard ii., edward iv., elizabeth, and charles ii. one of the churches, st. michael's, was founded by eleanor, queen of edward i., in . it has been partly rebuilt, but there are two chapels, one the property of the marquis of cholmondeley, which was built by thomas savage, archbishop of york, whose heart was buried there in . the other belongs to the leghs of lyme. a brass plate shows that the estate of lyme was bestowed upon an ancestor for recovering a standard at the battle of cressy. he was afterwards beheaded at chester as a supporter of richard ii. another ancestor, sir piers legh, fell fighting at the battle of agincourt. we do not know what manner of men the leghs of lyme of the present generation are, but certainly pride is pardonable in a family with an ancestry which took part in deeds not only recorded by history, but immortalized by shakspeare. there is a grammar school, of the foundation of edward vi., with an income of pounds a-year, free to all residents, with two exhibitions of pounds per annum, tenable for four years. but there must be some mismanagement, as it appears from parker's useful educational register, that in only twenty-two scholars availed themselves of these privileges; yet macclesfield has a population exceeding thirty thousand. the education of the working classes is above average, and music is much cultivated. we abstain from giving the figures in this as in several other instances, because the census, which will shortly be published, will afford exact information on all these points. the establishment of silk factories on the river bollen brought macclesfield into notice in the beginning of this century. unhampered by the restrictions which weighed upon the spitalfields manufacturers, and nurtured by the monopoly accorded to english silks, the silk weaving trade gradually attained great prosperity between and . at that period the commencement of the fiscal changes, which have rendered the silk trade quite open to foreign competition, produced a serious effect on the prosperity of macclesfield. in the number of mills at work had diminished nearly one-half, and the number of hands by two-thirds. since that period, after various vicissitudes, the silk trade has acquired a more healthy tone, and we presume that the inhabitants do not now consider the alterations commenced by huskisson, and completed by peel, injurious to their interests; since, at the last election, they returned one free-trader, a london shopkeeper, in conjunction with a local banker and manufacturer. macclesfield has now to contend with home as well as foreign competition, for silk manufactories have been spread over the kingdom in many directions. we may expect to see in a few years, as the result of the universal extension of railway communication, a great distribution and transplantation of manufacturing establishments to towns where cheap labour and provisions, or good water or water-power, or cheap fuel, offer any advantages, there is something very curious to be noted in the manner in which certain of our principal manufactures have remained constant, while others have been transplanted from place to place, and in which ports have risen and fallen. the glory of the cinque ports seems departed for ever, unless as harbours of refuge, while folkestone, by the help of a railway, has acquired a considerable trade at the expense of dover. the same power which has rendered southampton great has reduced falmouth and harwich to a miserably low ebb. the sea-borne trade of chester is gone for ever, but birkenhead hopes to rise by the power of steam. no changes can seriously injure hull, although railways will give great grimsby a large share of the overflowings of the new kind of trade created by large steam boats and the repeal of duties on timber; and so we might run through a long list of commercial changes, past, present, and to come. macclesfield has shared largely in these influences. having acquired its commercial importance as one of the glasshouses in which, at great expense, we raised an artificial silk trade, when it lay at a distance of at least three hours from manchester for all heavy goods, and at least three days from london; it has now communication with london in five hours, and with the port of liverpool, through manchester, in two hours if needful. thus it enjoys the best possible means of obtaining the raw material and sending off the manufactured article. in the time of queen charlotte, the wife of george iii., it was contrary to the laws of the palace for any servant to wear a silk gown; but extended commerce and improved machinery have rendered it almost a matter of course for the respectable cook of a respectable lawyer or surgeon, to afford herself a black silk gown without extravagance or impertinence,--which is so much the better for the weavers and sailors. we shall not attempt to describe the silk manufacture, which is on the same principles as all other textiles, except that less work can be done by machinery. but it is one of the most pleasant and picturesque of all our manufacturing operations. the long light rooms in which the weaving is conducted are scrupulously clean and of a pleasant temperature,--no dust, no motes are flying about. the girls in short sleeves, in the course of their work are, as it were, obliged to assume a series of graceful attitudes. the delicacy of their work, and the upward position in which they hold them, render their hands white and delicate, and the atmosphere has something of the same effect on their complexion. many of the greatest beauties of belgravia might envy the white hands and taper fingers to be found in a silk mill. unfortunately this trade, which in factory work is healthy and well paid, is, more than any other, subject to the vicissitudes of fashion. the plain qualities suffer from such changes less than the rich brocades and fancy patterns. it must be remarked that, although the repeal of protective duties to eighteen per cent. produced a temporary depressing effect on the trade of macclesfield, the general silk trade has largely increased ever since , and has spread over a number of counties where it was before unknown, and has become an important article of export even to france. an example of the readiness with which, in these railroad days, a manufacture can be transplanted, was exhibited at tewkesbury four years ago. the once- fashionable theatre of that decayed town was being sold by auction; it hung on the auctioneer's hammer at so trifling a sum that one of the new made m.p.'s of the borough bought it. having bought it, for want of some other use he determined to turn it into a silk mill. in a very short space of time the needful machinery was obtained from macclesfield, with an overseer. while the machinery was being erected, a bevy of girls were acquiring the art of silk weaving, and, in less than twelve months, five or six hundred hands were as regularly engaged in this novel process, as if they had been so engaged all their lives. without railroads, such an undertaking would have been the work of years, if possible at all. raw silk is obtained from italy, from france in small quantities, as the exportation of the finest silk is forbidden, from china, from india in increasing quantities, and from brusa in asia minor through constantinople. the raw silk, imported in the state in which it is wound from the cocoons, has to be twisted into thread, after being dyed, so as to approach the stage of yarn in the cotton manufacture. this twisting is technically called throwing, and is one of the departments in which the greatest improvements have been introduced, as shown by silk throwers from macclesfield in the machine department of the great exhibition; and, by the improvements, the cost of throwing, or twisting, has been reduced from s. per lb. to s. it takes about twelve pounds of cocoons to make one pound of reeled silk, and that pound will produce from fourteen to sixteen yards of gros de naples. many attempts have been made to naturalize the silk-worm in this country, but, after rather large sums have been expended on it, it is now quite clear that, although it be possible to obtain large quantities of silk of a certain quality, the undertaking cannot be made to pay: the climate is an obstacle. for centuries the silk-worm was only known to the chinese,--the greeks and romans used the substance without knowing from what it was produced or whence it came. in the sixth century, in the reign of justinian, the eggs of the silk-worm were brought secretly to constantinople from china by the nestorian monks in a hollow cane, hatched, and successfully propagated. for six centuries the breeding of silk-worms was confined to the greeks of the lower empire. in the twelfth century the art was transferred to sicily, and thence successively to italy, spain, and france. great efforts were made in the reign of james i. to promote the rearing of silk-worms in england, and mulberry trees were distributed to persons of influence through many counties. the scheme failed. but in a company was incorporated, with a like purpose, and planted trees, and erected buildings in chelsea park. this scheme also failed. great efforts were made to plant the growth of silk in the american colonies, and the brilliant prospects of establishing a new staple of export formed a prominent feature in the schemes for american colonization, of which so many were launched in the beginning of the eighteenth century. but up to the present time no progress has been made in it in that country, although silk-worms are found in a natural state in the forests of the union. indeed, it seems a pursuit which needs cheap attentive labour as well as suitable climate. some attempts have been made in australia, but there again the latter question presents an insurmountable obstacle. if the mulberry would thrive in natal, where native labour is cheap, it would be worth trying there, although we cannot do better than develop the resources of the silk-growing districts of india, where the culture has been successfully carried on for centuries. at the great exhibition an extremely handsome banner was exhibited, manufactured from british silk, cultivated by the late mrs. whitby of newlands, near southampton, who spent a large income, and many years in the pursuit, solely from philanthropic motives, and carried on an extensive correspondence with parties inclined to assist her views; but, although to the last she was sanguine of success in making silk one of the raw staples of england, and a profitable source of employment for women and children, we have seen no commercial evidence of any more real progress than that of gardeners in growing grapes and melons without glass-houses. almost every country in europe has made the same attempts, but with very moderate success. russia has its mulberry plantations, so has belgium, austria proper, hungary, bavaria, and even sweden; but lombardy and cevennes in france bear away the palm for excellence, and there is an annual increase in the quantity and quality of silk from british india. but no matter where it grows, we can buy it and bring it to our own doors nearly as cheap as the natives of the country, often cheaper. in macclesfield every kind of silk article is produced, including ribbons, narrow and richly-ornamented satin, velvet, silk embroidered for waistcoats and gown pieces. from cheshire to north staffordshire. on leaving macclesfield we are, as usual, embarrassed by a choice of routes, due to the perseverance of mr. ricardo, one of the members for the potteries, who has endowed his constituents with a set of railways, which cut through their district in all manner of ways. these north staffordshire lines, tria juncta in uno, form an engineering continuation of the trent valley, and are invaluable to the manufacturers of porcelain and pottery in that district. to the shareholders they have proved rather a disappointment. the ten per cent. secured to the trent valley company, by the fears of the london and north- western, has not yet rewarded the patriotism of the north staffordshire shareholders. but to our route, we may either make our way by leek, cheadle, alton, and uttoxeter to burton, famous for the ale of bass and game of cricket nourished on it, and through burton to derby. (the learned and lively author of the "cricket field" remarks, that the game of cricket follows malt and hops--no ale, no bowlers or batsmen. it began at farnham hops, and has never rolled further north than edinburgh ale.) or by congleton, burslem, hanley, and stoke upon trent (the very heart of the potteries), then either pushing on to uttoxeter to the north, or keeping the south arm past trentham to norton bridge, which will convey you to the trent valley line, the shortest way to london. * * * * * congleton is an ancient borough of cheshire, on the borders of staffordshire, containing a number of those black and white oak frame and plaster houses, which are peculiar to that county, and well worth examining. it is situated in a deep romantic valley on the banks of the river dane, and enjoys a greater reputation for health than commercial progress. the population does not appear to have increased between the two last census. the municipal corporation dates from a remote period. it appears from the corporation books that the mayor and aldermen patronised every kind of sport--plays, cock fights, bear baiting, morris dancing. so fond were they of bear baiting, that in , by a unanimous vote, they transferred the money intended for a bible to the purchase of a bear. times are changed; every inhabitant of congleton can now have his own bible for tenpence. bear baiting and cock fighting have been discontinued; but we hope the inhabitants have grown wiser than they were some fifteen years ago, when they allowed themselves, for the sake of petty political disputes, to be continually drawn through the courts of law and chancery--a process quite as cruel for the suitors, and more expensive and less amusing than bear-baiting. at the town hall is to be seen a "bridle" for a scold, which the ladies of the present generation are too well behaved ever to deserve. president bradshaw, the regicide, was a cheshireman, born and christened at stockport. he practised as barrister, and served the office of mayor in , at congleton, of which he afterwards became high steward. at macclesfield, according to tradition, he wrote, when a boy, on a tombstone, these prophetic lines:-- "my brother henry must heir the land, my brother frank must be at his command, whilst i, poor jack! will do that, that all the world shall wonder at." bradshaw became chief justice of the county palatine of chester under the commonwealth, was dismissed by cromwell for his republican opinions, died in , was magnificently buried in westminster abbey, and disinterred and gibbeted with cromwell and ireton at the restoration. a piece of vengeance on poor dead bones that remained unimitated until one of the mobs of the first french revolution scattered the bones of the french kings buried in the vaults of st. denis. the lakes. some of our readers may feel disposed to visit the charming scenery with which cumberland and westmoreland abound; and that they may be assisted in their route thereto, and in their rambles through that beautiful district, we will furnish a few notes descriptive of the most convenient and pleasant routes. from congleton an easy diversion may be made, by railway, to crewe, and from thence the journey, along the north-western line, passing northwich (cheshire) and warrington (lancashire), via parkside, to preston, garstang, and lancaster, is rapid and agreeable. the approach to preston is remarkably pleasing, the railway being carried across a magnificent vale, through which the river lune, a fine, wide stream, equalling in beauty the far-famed dee, runs towards the irish channel. * * * * * preston is a populous manufacturing town, in which cotton-spinning is carried on to a very large extent, and is surrounded by a rich agricultural district, which furnishes in abundance every kind of farming produce. the borough returns two members to parliament, is a corporate town, and has acquired a distinction by its guilds, which are conducted with great spirit every twenty years. the market, which is held on the saturday, is well supplied with fruits, vegetables, and fish, salmon included, taken from the river lune. * * * * * lancaster, twenty miles northward, is also a borough town, returning two members to parliament, and is governed by a mayor and town council. it is one of the ancient ports of lancashire, and, being the county town, the assizes for north lancashire are held there. some years ago the assizes for the whole of lancashire were regularly holden at lancaster, and in those palmy days, as the judicial sittings generally extended to sixteen or twenty days, a rich harvest was reaped, not only by "the gentlemen of the long robe," but also by the numerous innkeepers in the place. the assize business for south lancashire was at length removed to liverpool, as the most convenient site for the large number of suitors from that part of the county; and since that period the town of lancaster has lost much of its importance. there are many objects of especial interest within the town and in the immediate district. the ancient castle (now the county gaol), once the residence of john of gaunt, duke of lancaster; the nisi prius court, an elegant and spacious building from a design by the late mr. harrison of chester; and the old parish church, are worthy of close inspection; whilst from the castle terrace and churchyard delightful views of the river, morecambe bay, and the distant hills of cumberland and westmoreland, are commanded. the village of hornby, a few miles northward, situated on the banks of the lune, is one of the most picturesque and retired spots in the kingdom. the river, for several miles from lancaster, is studded with enchanting scenery, and is much frequented by the lovers of the rod and line. from lancaster the tourist may proceed easily, via the lancaster and carlisle railway, into the very midst of the lake district. kendal is about twenty miles from lancaster, and from the former pretty town a branch line runs direct to windermere, whence parties may proceed to bowness, ambleside, keswick, and other delightful and time-honoured places in westmoreland and cumberland. from kendal also sedburgh, orton, kirkby stephen, shap, brough, and the high and low lands circumjacent, may be visited. ulverston, ravenglass, whitehaven, cockermouth, all nearly equally accessible from the kendal railway station, will furnish another interesting route to the traveller. the midland part of cumberland consists principally of hills, valleys, and ridges of elevated ground. to the tourist the mountainous district in the south-west is the most interesting and attractive. this part comprises saddleback, skiddaw, and helvellyn, with the lakes of ulleswater, thirlmere, derwent-water, and bassenthwaite. besides these lakes there are several of smaller size, equally celebrated for their diversified and striking scenery. buttermere, whose charms are sweetly sung by many of our poets, crummock- water, loweswater, ennerdale, wast-water, and devock-lake, are frequented by hosts of travellers, and retain no small number of admirers. the most remarkable phenomena connected with the lakes are the floating island and bottom-wind, both of which are occasionally seen at derwent-water, and neither of which has yet received a satisfactory explanation. most of the lakes abound in fish, especially char, trout, and perch; so that anglers are sure of plenty of sport in their visits to these fine sheets of water. in cumberland there are several waterfalls, namely, scale force and sour milk force, near buttermere; barrow cascade and lowdore cascade, near keswick; airey force, gowbarrow park; and nunnery cascade, croglin. the highest mountains in the same county are,--scaw fell (eskdale), feet, highest point; helvellyn (keswick), ; and skiddaw (keswick), . the climate of cumberland is various; the high land cold and piercing; the lower parts mild and temperate. the district is generally considered to be healthy, and many remarkable instances of longevity are noted by the local historians. the oldest inhabitants on record are john taylor, of garrigall, who died in , aged years, and mr. r. bowman, of irthington, who died june , , aged years. the oldest oak tree in cumberland of which there is any record--a tree which had stood for years in wragmire moss, inglewood forest--fell from natural decay on the day of mr. bowman's demise. cumberland is wholly in the diocese of carlisle, with the exception of the wood of allerdale-above-derwent, in the diocese of chester, and the parish of alston, in that of durham. it contains parishes. it is comprehended in the province of york, and in the northern circuit. the assizes are held at carlisle twice a-year. the principal coach roads in westmoreland are the old mail road from lancaster to carlisle and glasgow; and the road (formerly a mail road) through stamford, newark, doncaster, and greta bridge, to carlisle and glasgow. there is a second road from lancaster to kendal, through milnthorp. roads lead from kendal south-westward to ulverston and dalton-in- furness; westward to bowness, and across windermere by the ferry to hawkshead, and coniston water in furness, and to egremont and whitehaven in cumberland; north-westward by ambleside to keswick, cockermouth, and workington, in cumberland; north-eastward by orton to appleby, with a branch road to kirkby stephen to brough; eastward to sedbergh, and onwards to yorkshire. the railways in the district are, the preston and carlisle, the kendal and windermere, the cockermouth and workington, the furness (between fleetwood, furness abbey, ulverston, broughton, and the lakes), the maryport and carlisle, whitehaven junction, and whitehaven and furness junction (between whitehaven, ravenglass, bootle, and broughton). wordsworth, whose soul, as well as body, was identified with this district, says of the mountains of westmoreland, that "in magnitude and grandeur they are individually inferior to the most celebrated of those in some other parts of the island; but in the combinations which they make, towering above each other, or lifting themselves in ridges like the waves of a tumultuous sea, and in the beauty and variety of their surfaces and colours, they are surpassed by none." the lakes are numerous, beautiful, and extensive in size. ulleswater is embosomed in the centre of mountains, of which helvellyn forms part. the upper part of it belongs wholly to westmoreland, while its lower part, on the border of cumberland and westmoreland, is about seven miles long, with an average breadth of half a mile. the higher portion of the lake is in patterdale. haweswater is formed by the expansion of the mardale-beck; and all the larger affluents of the eden, which join it on the left bank, rise on the northern slope of the cumbrian ridge. the river leven, which flows out of windermere, belongs to lancashire; but the rothay, or raise-beck, which drains the valley of grasmere, the streams which drain the valleys of great and little langdale, and the trout-beck, which all flow into windermere, and may be regarded as the upper waters of the leven, belong to westmoreland. elterwater, grasmere, and rydal water, are connected with the streams which flow into windermere. this last-named lake has been described as situated in lancashire; whilst in a county survey, and in the court rolls at lowther castle, it is included in westmoreland. all the lakes, large and small, have some distinguishing feature of beauty. their boundary lines are either gracefully or boldly indented; in some parts rugged steeps, admitting of no cultivation, descend into the water; in others, gently sloping lawns and rich woods, or flat and fertile meadows, stretch between the margin of the lake and the mountains. tarns, or small lakes, are generally difficult of access, and naked, desolate, or gloomy, yet impressive from these very characteristics. loughrigg tarn, near the junction of the valleys of great and little langdale, is one of the most beautiful. the county of westmoreland is divided between the dioceses of carlisle and chester. the parishes are only thirty-two in number. the population in was , . of monumental remains there are but few in the county. "arthur's round table," near eamont bridge, is worthy of a visit, as well as other fragments, supposed to be druidical, in the same district. there are several ancient castles which will attract the attention of the antiquary, if he should be near, in his journeyings, to the site of any of them. the most conspicuous remnant of other days in cumberland is the druidical temple near kirkoswald, consisting of a circle of sixty-seven unhewn stones, called long meg and her daughters. a brief description of the leading towns within the lake district will be useful. * * * * * kendal, as we have already stated, is about twenty miles by railway from lancaster. it is a market-town, pleasantly situated on the slope of a hill rising from the river kent; contains two churches, and several dissenting places of worship; the ruins of the old castle of the barons of kendal; and a town-hall, the town being governed by a corporation under the municipal reform act. the kendal and windermere railway runs no farther than birthwaite, which is nine miles from kendal, two from bowness, and five from ambleside. from the railway terminus coaches and omnibuses meet all the trains in the summer, and convey passengers onwards to bowness, ambleside, and other places. * * * * * bowness is a picturesque village placed on the banks of windermere, and contains an ancient church, with square tower, dedicated to st. martin. in the churchyard are deposited the remains of the celebrated bishop watson, author of "the apology for the bible," he having resided at calgarth park, in the neighbourhood, for several years. in the vicinity are the residences of professor wilson (elleray), the earl of bradford (st. catherine's), and the rev. thomas staniforth (storrs hall, formerly the residence of colonel bolton, of liverpool, the intimate friend of the late mr. canning). from the school-house, which stands on an eminence, delightful views of windermere, and other parts of the district, are seen to great advantage, belle isle, on the lake, appearing to be part of the mainland. this island is more than a mile in circumference, and comprises about thirty acres. we may add, that storrs hall, whilst occupied by colonel bolton, was frequently the retreat of many "choice spirits," canning, wordsworth, southey, and wilson, of the number. mr. bolton was a princely merchant of liverpool, and colonel of a volunteer regiment whilst england was in dread of french invasion. he was one of mr. canning's warmest political friends, and always took an active part in the electioneering contests for liverpool in which canning was engaged. lockhart, referring to one of these "gatherings," says:--"a large company had been assembled at mr. bolton's seat in honour of the minister; it included mr. wordsworth and mr. southey. there was high discourse, intermingled with as gay flashings of courtly wit as ever canning displayed. there were beautiful and accomplished women to adorn and enjoy this circle. the weather was as elysian as the scenery. there were brilliant cavalcades through the woods in the mornings, and delicious boatings on the lake by moonlight; and the last day professor wilson ('the admiral of the lake,' as canning called him) presided over one of the most splendid regattas that ever enlivened windermere. the three bards of the lakes led the cheers that hailed scott and canning." looking back on that bright scene, of which nothing now remains but a melancholy remembrance, wilson remarks, "windermere glittered with all her sails in honour of the great northern minstrel, and of him the eloquent, whose lips are now mute in dust. methinks we see his smile benign--that we hear his voice--silver sweet." * * * * * windermere has been termed, not inaptly, the english zurich. before its diversified beauties were "married to immortal verse," it was the favourite resort of thousands who admired external nature. but the "lake poets," as wordsworth, southey, coleridge and others were once derisively termed, have linked the lake district with the language of the nation. windermere lake is eleven miles in length, and one mile in breadth. numerous islands diversify its surface, one of which (belle isle) we have already referred to. its depth in some parts is about feet. "the prevailing character of the scenery around windermere is soft and graceful beauty. it shrinks from approaching that wildness and sublimity which characterise some of the other lakes." it abounds with fish, especially char (salmo alpinus), one of the epicurean dainties. * * * * * ambleside, fourteen miles north-west of kendal, is partly in windermere, but chiefly in grasmere parish. this is one of the favourite resorts of travellers in quest of pleasure. it has been compared to a delightful swiss village, the town reposing in a beautiful valley, near the upper end of windermere lake; "no two houses being alike either in form or magnitude," and the entire place laid out in a rambling irregular manner, adding to its peculiarity and beauty. the pretty little chapel which ornaments the place was erected in , on the site of an older structure. the neighbourhood is studded with attractive villas; but the most interesting of the residences is that of the lamented poet wordsworth, at rydal mount. * * * * * rydal village is one mile and a quarter from ambleside, and is planted within a narrow gorge, formed by the advance of loughrigg fell and rydal knab. rydal hall, the seat of lady le fleming, stands in the midst of a finely-wooded park, in which are two beautiful waterfalls, shown on application at the lodge. rydal mount, wordsworth's residence for many years, stands a little above the chapel erected by lady le fleming. mrs. hemans describes it as "a lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and ivy." "from a grassy mound in front, commanding a view always so rich, and sometimes so brightly solemn, that one can well imagine its influence traceable in many of the poet's writings, you catch a gleam of windermere over the grove tops." "a footpath," mr. phillips says, "strikes off from the top of the rydal mount road, and, passing at a considerable height on the hill side under nab scar, commands charming views of the vale, and rejoins the high road at white moss quarry. the commanding and varied prospect obtained from the summit of nab scar, richly repays the labour of the ascent. from the summit, which is indicated by a pile of large stones, eight different sheets of water are seen, viz., windermere, rydal, grasmere, and coniston lakes, and loughrigg, easdale, elterwater, and blelham tarns. the solway firth is also distinctly visible." knab, a delightful residence formerly occupied by de quincy, "the english opium eater," and by hartley coleridge, eldest son of samuel taylor coleridge, is situated close by. in the walk from ambleside to rydal, should the tourist pursue his course along the banks of the rothay, he will, having crossed the bridge, pass the house built and inhabited by the late dr. arnold, master of rugby school. grasmere village is a short walk from rydal, and only four miles from ambleside. wordsworth lived here for eight years, at a small house at town end; here he wrote many of his never-dying poems; to this spot be brought his newly-wedded wife in ; and in the burial ground of the parish church are interred his mortal remains. wordsworth quitted this sublunary scene, for a brighter and a better, on april , . gray once visited grasmere water, and described its beauties in a rapturous spirit. mrs. hemans, in one of her sonnets, says of it:-- "--------------------- fair scene, most loved by evening and her dewy star! oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar the perfect music of the charm serene! still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear, smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer." a comfortable hotel has recently been opened, from which, as it stands on an eminence, a fine view is obtained; and at the red lion and swan inns every necessary accommodation for tourists may be had. in the neighbourhood there is some delightful panoramic scenery. from butterlip how and red bank the lake and vale are seen to great advantage. "the wishing gate," about a mile from grasmere, should be visited. it has been so called from a belief that wishes indulged there will have a favourable issue. helm crag, a singularly-shaped hill, about two miles from the inn, commands an extensive and delightful prospect; helvellyn and saddleback, wansfell pike, the upper end of windermere, esthwaite water, with the coniston range, and langdale pikes, are all distinctly visible. the glen of esdaile, marked by highly-picturesque features, lies in a recess between helm crag and silver how, and the ascent commands fine retrospective views. throughout this district the hills and dales are remarkably interesting, and offer numerous attractions to the tourist. delightful excursions may be made from grasmere into langdale and patterdale, and the ascent from grasmere to the top of helvellyn, to langdale pikes, and to dunmail raise will be events not easily to be forgotten. a heap of stones on the summit of dunmail raise marks the site of a conflict in between dunmail, king of cumberland, and edmund, the saxon king. in descending this hill thirlmere comes into view. thirlmere lies in the vale of legberthwaite, and the precipices around it are objects of special admiration. the ascent of helvellyn is sometimes begun at the foot of thirlmere. * * * * * keswick is a market town, in the county of cumberland, and parish of crosthwaite, and is situated on the south bank of the greta, in a large and fertile vale, about a mile from derwent water. coleridge, describing the scene, says:--"this vale is about as large a basin as loch lomond; the latter is covered with water; but in the former instance we have two lakes (derwent water and bassenthwaite mere), with a charming river to connect them, and lovely villages at the foot of the mountain, and other habitations, which give an air of life and cheerfulness to the whole place." the town consists only of one street, and comprises upwards of two thousand inhabitants. some manufactures are carried on, including linsey-woolsey stuffs and edge tools. black-lead pencils made here have acquired a national repute: the plumbago of which they are manufactured is extracted from "the bowels of the earth," at a mine in borrowdale. the parish church, dedicated to st. kentigern, is an ancient structure standing alone, about three-quarters of a mile distant, midway between the mountain and the lake. within this place of worship the remains of robert southey, the poet and philosopher, lie buried. a marble monument to his memory has recently been erected, representing him in a recumbent position, and bearing an inscription from the pen of wordsworth, his more than literary friend for many years, and his successor to the poet- laureate-ship. a new and beautiful church, erected at the eastern part of the town by the late john marshall, esq., adds much to the quiet repose of the scene. mr. marshall became lord of the manor by purchasing the forfeited estates of ratcliffe, earl of derwentwater, from the commissioners of greenwich hospital, to whom they were granted by the crown. the town contains a well-stocked public library, purchased from funds left for that purpose by mr. marshall; two museums, containing numerous specimens illustrating natural history and mineralogy; and a model of the lake district, made by mr. flintoff, and the labour of many years. the residence of the poet southey (greta hall) is, however, perhaps the most interesting object in the neighbourhood to visitors. the house is situated on an eminence near the town. charles lamb, describing it many years since, says:--"upon a small hill by the side of skiddaw, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a nest of mountains" dwells robert southey. the poet himself, who delighted in his beautiful and calm mountain-home, and in the charming scenery by which he was surrounded, remarks:--"here i possess the gathered treasures of time, the harvest of so many generations, laid up in my garners, and when i go to the window there is the lake, and the circle of mountains, and the illimitable sky." on another occasion, when dallying with the muse, he says, in his finely-descriptive verse:-- "'twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding, and from surrounding things the hues wherewith the day has adorned them fade like the hopes of youth till the beauty of youth is departed: pensive, though not in thought, i stood at the window beholding mountain, and lake, and vale, the valley disrobed of its verdure; derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection, where his expanded breast, then smooth and still as a mirror, under the woods reposed; the hills that calm and majestic lifted their heads into the silent sky, from far glaramara, bleacrag and maidenmawr to grisedale and westernmost wythop; dark and distant they rose. the clouds had gather'd above them, high in the middle air huge purple pillowy masses, while in the west beyond was the last pale tint of the twilight. green as the stream in the glen, whose pure and chrysolite waters flow o'er a schistous bed, and serene as the age of the righteous. earth was hush'd and still; all motion and sound were suspended; neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming of insect. only the voice of the greta, heard only when all is stillness." the scenery in the neighbourhood of keswick is replete with beauty, and the numerous walks and rides possess brilliant attractions. villas and prettily- built cottages add grace and quietness to the landscape. gray, on leaving keswick, was so charmed with the wonders which surrounded him, that he felt great reluctance in quitting the spot, and said, "that he had almost a mind to go back again." from the eminence near keswick on which the druidical circle stands a magnificent view is obtained of derwentwater, latrigg, skiddaw, helvellyn, dunmail raise, with the vale of st. john and the borrowdale mountains. * * * * * buttermere stands near the foot of the lake, and by seatoller is fourteen miles from keswick. taking the vale of newlands by the way, the distance is much less. in the vicinity of seatoller is the celebrated mine of plumbago, or black lead. "it has been worked at intervals for upwards of two centuries; but, being now less productive, the ore has been excavated for several years consecutively. this is the only mine of the kind in england, and there are one or two places in scotland where plumbago has been discovered, but the lead obtained there is of an inferior quality. the best ore produced at the borrowdale mine sells for thirty shillings a pound. all the ore extracted from the mine is sent direct to london before a particle is sold." buttermere is a mere hamlet, comprising a small episcopal chapel, only a few farm-houses, with the victoria and another inn for the accommodation of visitors. de quincy, who has long been a resident of the lake district, and a fervent admirer of its many beauties, describes this secluded spot as follows:--"the margin of the lake, which is overhung by some of the loftiest and steepest of the cumbrian mountains, exhibits on either side few traces of human neighbourhood; the level area, where the hills recede enough to allow of any, is of a wild, pastoral character, or almost savage. the waters of the lake are deep and sullen, and the barren mountains, by excluding the sun in much of his daily course, strengthen the gloomy impressions. at the foot of this lake lie a few unornamented fields, through which rolls a little brook, connecting it with the larger lake of crummock, and at the edge of this miniature domain, upon the road-side, stands a cluster of cottages, so small and few, that in the richer tracts of the island they would scarcely be complimented with the name of hamlet." the well-known story of mary, the beauty of buttermere, with the beautiful poem describing her woes, entitled, "mary, the maid of the inn," has given to the village a more than common interest. as the melancholy tale is told, mary possessed great personal beauty, and, being the daughter of the innkeeper, she fulfilled the duty of attendant upon visitors to the house. among these was a dashing young man who assumed the aristocratic title of the honourable colonel hope, brother of lord hopeton, but whose real name was hatfield, and who had taken refuge from the arm of the law in the secluded hamlet of buttermere. attracted by mary's charms, he vowed love and fidelity to her, and she, in the guilelessness of her youth, responded to his overtures, and became his wife. soon after her marriage her husband was apprehended on a charge of forgery--a capital crime in those days; he was convicted at carlisle of the offence, and forfeited his life on the scaffold. mary, some years afterwards, took to herself a second husband, a respectable farmer in the neighbourhood, with whom she lived happily throughout the remainder of her days. she died a few years ago amidst her native hills. while in this district the tourist will derive pleasure from visiting crummock water, lowes water, and wast water. a coach travels daily between birthwaite (the terminus of the kendal and windermere railway,) and cockermouth, connecting the whitehaven and maryport line with the former railway. by this or other conveyances cockermouth may easily be visited, as well as whitehaven, maryport, etc. * * * * * cockermouth is a neat market-town, and sends two members to parliament. the ancient castle was a fortress of great strength, but since the civil wars it has lain in ruins. traces of a roman castrum, with other antique remains, are to be seen in the neighbourhood. wordsworth was a native of cockermouth, and tickell, the poet, and addison's friend, was born at bridekirk, two miles distant. inns:--the globe and sun. maryport is seven miles from the town, workington eight miles, keswick (by whinlatter) twelve miles, by bassenthwaite water thirteen and a half miles, whitehaven fourteen miles, wigton sixteen miles, and carlisle twenty-seven miles. * * * * * whitehaven, a market-town and seaport, in cumberland, near the cliffs called scilly bank, in the parish of st. bees, contains about , inhabitants. the lowther family have large estates around the town, with many valuable coal-mines. coarse linens are manufactured in the place; and a large maritime and coal trade is carried on there. there is a spacious harbour, giving excellent accommodation to vessels within it. "the bay and harbour are defended by batteries, formerly consisting of upwards of a hundred pieces, but lately suffered to fall into decay. these batteries received extensive additions after the alarm caused by the descent of the notorious paul jones in . this desperado, who was a native of galloway, and had served his apprenticeship in whitehaven, landed here with thirty armed men, the crew of an american privateer which had been equipped at nantes for this expedition. the success of the enterprise was, however, frustrated by one of the company, through whom the inhabitants were placed on the alert. the only damage they succeeded in doing was the setting fire to three ships, one of which was burnt. they were obliged to make a precipitate retreat, and, having spiked the guns of the battery, they escaped unhurt to the coast of scotland, where they plundered the house of the earl of selkirk." among the principal residences in the neighbourhood of whitehaven are, whitehaven castle, the seat of the earl of lonsdale, and moresby hall, built after a design by inigo jones. inns.--black lion and golden lion. * * * * * st. bees, in which parish whitehaven is situated, is four miles to the south of whitehaven. the church, dedicated to st. bega, is an ancient structure, and is still in tolerable preservation. until the chancel was unroofed, but in that year it was repaired, and is now occupied as a college, for the reception of young men intended for the church, but not designed to finish their studies at oxford or cambridge. the grammar-school adjacent was founded by archbishop grindal. ennerdale lake is nine miles to the east of whitehaven, from which town it is easily reached. * * * * * maryport is a modern seaport on the river ellen. the town is advancing in prosperity, and the population rapidly increasing: an excellent maritime trade is carried on between maryport, liverpool, dublin, and other places. the village of ellenborough, from which the late lord chief justice law derived his title, is in the vicinity of the town. * * * * * workington stands on the south bank of the derwent. workington hall afforded an asylum to mary queen of scots when she visited the town. * * * * * penrith, an ancient market town, containing about inhabitants, is on the line of the preston and carlisle railway. the ruins of the castle, supposed to have been erected by neville, earl of westmoreland, overlook the town from the west. it is built of the red stone of the district, and has suffered much from the action of the weather. the court is now used as a farm-yard. the parish church, dedicated to st. andrew, is a plain structure of red stone. there are several ancient monuments within the church; and in the south windows are portraits of richard, duke of york, and cicely neville, his wife, the parents of edward iv. and richard iii. in the churchyard is a monument called the "giant's grave," said to be the burial-place of owen caesarius, who was "sole king of rocky cumberland" in the time of ida. not far distant is another memorial, called the "giant's thumb." sir walter scott, on all occasions when he visited penrith, repaired to the churchyard to view these remains. the new church, recently built at the foot of the beacon hill, is in the gothic perpendicular style of architecture. "the beacon," a square stone building, is erected on the heights to the north of the town. "the hill upon which the beacon-tower stands," we are informed by mr. phillips, "is one of those whereon fires were lighted in former times, when animosities ran high between the english and the scotch, to give warning of the approach of an enemy. a fiery chain of communication extended from the border, northwards as far as edinburgh, and southwards into lancashire. an act of the scottish parliament was passed, in , to direct that one bale should signify the approach of the english in any manner; two bales that they were coming indeed; and four bales that they were unusually strong. sir walter scott, in his "lay of the last minstrel," has given a vivid description of the beacons blazing through the gloom like ominous comets, and startling the night:-- "a score of fires from height and hill and cliff were seen; each with warlike tidings fraught, each from each the signal caught, each after each they glanced to sight as stars arise upon the night." the antiquities in the neighbourhood are numerous and interesting; and the prospects from the heights are extensive and picturesque. ulleswater, helvellyn, skiddaw, saddleback, some of the yorkshire hills, and carlisle cathedral can be distinctly seen on a clear day. brougham castle is situated one mile and three-quarters from penrith. it was one of the strongholds of the great barons of the borders in the feudal times. at present it is in a very decayed state, but still is majestic in its ruins. its earliest owner was john de veteripont, from whose family it passed by marriage into the hands of the cliffords and tuftons successively, and it is now the property of sir john tufton. tradition records, but on what authority we know not, that sir philip sidney wrote part of his "arcadia" at this baronial mansion. wordsworth's "song at the feast of brougham castle" is one of his noblest lyrical effusions. "the countess's pillar," a short distance beyond the castle, was erected in by lady anne clifford, as "a memorial of her last parting at that place with her good and pious mother, margaret, countess dowager of cumberland, the nd of april, , in memory whereof she has left the annuity of pounds, to be distributed to the poor, within the parish of brougham, every nd day of april for ever, upon a stone hereby. laus deo." this was the lady anne clifford of whom it was said by the facetious dr. donne, that she could "discourse of all things, from predestination to slea silk." her well-known answer, returned to a ministerial application as to the representation of appleby, shows the spirit and decision of the woman:--"i have been bullied by an usurper (the protector cromwell), i have been neglected by a court, but i'll not be dictated to by a subject--your man shan't stand!" about two miles from penrith is the curious antique relic called arthur's round table, already referred to. it is a circular area above twenty yards in diameter, surrounded by a fosse and mound. six miles north-east of penrith are the ancient remains, long meg and her daughters. dacre castle is situated five miles west-south-west of penrith. brougham hall, the seat of henry, lord brougham and vaux, stands on an eminence near the river lowther, a short distance from the ruins of brougham castle. it has been termed, from its elevated position and the prospects it commands, "the windsor of the north." the mansion and grounds are exceedingly beautiful, and will repay the tourist for his visit thereto. lowther castle, the residence of the earl of lonsdale, is in the same district, and is one of the most princely halls in the kingdom, erected in a park of acres. hackthorpe hall, a farm- house, is contiguous, and was the birth-place of john, first viscount lonsdale. shap (anciently heppe), a long straggling village in the vicinity, and near which is a station on the preston and carlisle railway, has derived some note from the elevated moors close by, known by the name of shap fells. shap spa, in the midst of the moors, attracts crowds of visitors during the summer season. the spring is said to yield medicinal waters similar to those of leamington. inns.--greyhound, and king's arms. in closing this rapid sketch of the lake district we may add, that the leading mountains in cumberland and westmoreland are thirty-five in number; the passes, five; the lakes, eighteen; and the waterfalls, twelve. "wanderings among the lakes," a companion volume to this, now in preparation, will form a useful illustrated guide to their most remarkable features. home. following that plan of contrasts which travellers generally find most agreeable, we should advise that tourists, taking their route southward, will avail themselves of the north staffordshire lines to visit two of the most beautiful mansions, if they were foreign we should say palaces, in england--alton towers, the seat of the earl of shrewsbury, and trentham hall, the seat of the duke of sutherland, and conclude by investigating the porcelain manufactories, which, founded by wedgwood, are carried on with excellent spirit and taste by a number of potters, among whom alderman copeland and mr. herbert minton are pre-eminent. alton towers stand near cheadle, on the churnet valley line; trentham hall not far from stoke. a day may be pleasantly spent in examining the elaborate gardens of alton, which are a magnificent specimen of the artificial style of landscape gardening. mr. loudon gives a very elaborate description of them in his large work on the subject of gardens to great houses. at cheadle the earl of shrewsbury has erected at his own expense, mr. pugin being his architect, a small roman catholic church, which is a magnificent specimen of that gentleman's taste in the "decorated" style. "heraldic emblazonments, and religious emblems, painting and gilding, stained glass, and curiously-wrought metal work, imageries and inscriptions, rood loft and reredos, stone altar and sedilia, metal screenwork, encaustic paving, make up the gorgeous spectacle." the doors of the principal entrance are painted red, and have gilt hinges fashioned in the shape of rampant lions spreading over nearly their entire surface. in one of the canopied niches is a figure, representing the present earl of shrewsbury kneeling, with a model of the church in his hand as the founder, with his "patron," st. john the baptist, standing behind him. this cheadle church, in which mr. pugin has had full scope on a small scale for the indulgence of his gorgeous faith and fancies, reminds us that at oscot college, within sight of the smoke of birmingham and wolverhampton, towns where the best locks, clasps, hasps, bolts, and hinges can be made; the doors and windows, in deference to mr. pugin's mediaeval predilections, are of the awkward clumsy construction with which our ancestors were obliged to be content for want of better. on the same principle the floors ought to have been strewed with rushes, the meat salt, the bread black rye, and manuscript should supersede print. but it is not so, there is no school in the kingdom where the youth are better fed, or made more comfortable than at oscot. trentham has a delicious situation on the trent, which forms a lake in the park, inhabited by swans and monstrous pike. the hall used to be one of the hideous brick erections of the time of pigtails and laced waistcoats,--the footman style of dress and architecture. but the genius of barry (that great architect whom the people on the twopenny steamboats seem to appreciate more than some grumbling members of the house of commons) has transformed, without destroying it, into a charming italian villa, with gardens, in which the italian style has been happily adapted to our climate; for instance, round- headed laurels, grown for the purpose, taking the place of orange trees. this trentham hall used to be one of the magical pictures of the coach road, of which the railway robbed us. for miles before reaching it, we used to look out for the wooded park, with its herds of mottled deer, and the great lake, where the sight of the swans always brought up that story of the big pike, choked like a boa, with a swan's neck. a story that seems to belong to every swan-haunted lake. but what one railway took from us another has restored much improved. so we say to all friends, at either end of the lines, take advantage of an excursion, or express train, according to your means, and go and see what we cannot at this time describe, and what exceeds all description. for the hour, you may enjoy trentham hall as much as if it were your own, with all the bridgwater estates, mines, canals, and railways to boot. and that is the spirit in which to enjoy travelling. admiration without envy, and pity without contempt. from trentham you may proceed through the potteries. you will find there a church built, and we believe endowed, by a manufacturer, mr. herbert minton. and then you may have a choice of routes. but to london the most direct will be by tamworth and lichfield, on the trent valley line. to those who look below the surface, who care to know something about the workman as well as the work, such a tour as we have traced could not fail to be of the deepest interest. it embraces the whole course of the emigration from low wages to higher that is constantly flowing in this country. new sources of employment daily arising in mines, in ports, in factories, demand labour; to supply that labour recruits are constantly marching from the country lane to the paved city. the agricultural districts of staffordshire have a population of under two hundred souls per square mile. the pottery and iron districts of the same county of over seven hundred. these swarms of men are not had where they labour, they are immigrants. take another instance, in kent and devonshire, the wages of farm labourers are eight to nine shillings a-week. in north cheshire they are fifteen. the cost of living to the labourer in both places is about the same; fuel is cheap in cheshire. what makes the difference in the demand for labour in cheshire but the steam-engines? towns must be prepared to lodge decently, and educate carefully, children of rural immigrants, or woe betide us all. it is education that has saved the united states from the consequences of the tide of ignorant misery daily disembarking on the atlantic shores. sometimes we hear fears for the condition of farmers under manufacturer landlords. those who express these fears must have travelled with their ears shut. more than seventy per cent. of the great landowners in the great travelling counties are manufacturers, or merchants, or lawyers, by one or two descents. in lancashire, cheshire, yorkshire, or warwickshire, examine closely, and you will find it so. as a general rule, a rich pawnbroker retired will make a better landlord than a poor baronet. but in this country two generations will make one of the baronet's sons a successful shopkeeper, and the pawnbroker's a baronet, or even a peer. "i tell you what, sir," said a talkative stud groom once, in charge of race horses for russia, and travelling first class, "i've been in petersburg, in vienna, and in berlin, and i lived ten years with the earl of ----. for all the points of blood our aristocracy will beat any of these foreign princes, counts, and dukes, either for figure or for going; but it won't do to look into their pedigree, for the crosses that would ruin a race of horses, are the making of the breed of english noblemen." here our irregular imperfect guidance ceases. perhaps, although deficient in minuteness of detail, this pot pourri of gossip, history, description, anecdote, suggestion, and opinion, may not only amuse the traveller by railway, but assist him in choosing routes leading to those scenes or those pursuits in which he feels an interest. notes. { } the operation of this personal influence on the individual boys with whom he was brought into contact, was much assisted by the system which about this time began to prevail at public schools, of giving each boy a small room called "a study" of his own, in which he might keep his books, and where he could enjoy privacy. the writer, who was at a public school both when all the boys lived in one great school-room in which privacy was impossible and after the separate studies were introduced, would wish to record his earnest conviction of the advantage of the present plan of separate studies,--of the vital influence it has on the formation of character, no less than of habits of study in the young. he can well remember how every better impression or graver thought was effaced, often never to return, as the boy came out from the master's room or from reading a letter from home, and was again immersed in the crowd and confusion of the one common school-room of such a school as winchester. he would here venture to suggest that the plan of separate sleeping-rooms, like those in the model lodging-houses, would present equal advantage with that of separate studies, and might be introduced at little expense in public schools. it has already been introduced in the roman catholic college at oscot. { } he appeared, in religious feeling, to approach the evangelical party at more points than any other; pungently describing them, nevertheless, when he said--"a good christian, with a low understanding, a bad education, and ignorance of the world, becomes an evangelical." he appears to have died before he came to the application of the rules of german criticism (in which he followed niebuhr in history) to theological subjects. it is curious to speculate on what the result would have been in the mind of this ardent anglo-protestant and lover of truth. { } these letters, full of information and suggestion, are attributed to charles mackay, esq., ll.d., the well-known poet and prose writer. { } we were happy to find, while these sheets were passing through the press, that the birmingham corporation have introduced a bill for absorbing the petty commissionership of the suburbs, which, once distant villages, now form part of the borough; and that they seek for power to compel efficient drainage and ample supply of water. to do all this will be expensive, but not extravagant; nothing is so dear to a town as dirt, with its satellites, disease, drunkenness, and crime. we sincerely trust that the corporation will succeed in obtaining such ample powers as will render thorough drainage compulsory, and cause clean water to be no longer a luxury. some of the opposition call themselves conservatives. in this instance it means of dirt, fees, and bills of costs. { a} eliz., c. . { b} edited by the rev. montgomery maherne. { } "touchinge an anvyle wch he did sett for a yere. the bargayne is witnessed by two persons, viz., john wallis clerke, minister of porlocke, and john bearde of selworthye, who sayeth that about our lady-day last past, r. h. did sell to heire the said anvyle to the said thomas sulley at a rent of iii.s. iiii.d. for the yere." { } showing that the manufactory of muskets had then commenced in england, contrary to hutton's statement, see p. ante. { } the best way to wednesbury is by an iron canal boat, drawn by horses, at ten miles an hour. the inn is the royal oak, kept by a droll character. the event of his life is having seen the duke of wellington driving over westminster bridge in a curricle. to obtain a good view, as the horses went slowly up the ascent, he caught hold of a trace and hopped backwards for twenty yards with his mouth open. { } see cathrall's wanderings in north wales. { } see heberts on railroads, p. . { } we may add that, in , about , emigrants embarked from the port chiefly for the united states, employing large vessels of , tons. { } the earl of derby has died while these sheets were passing through the press. { } at the great exhibition of industry of , mr. g. wallis, at the suggestion of the board of trade, had the management and arrangement of the department of manufactures. { } mr. francis fuller, whose plan of management on this estate affords a model for both english and irish landowners, is the gentleman, who, after taking most active and vigorous means, in co-operation with mr. scott russell and mr. henry cole, for bringing before the public prince albert's plan of a great exhibition of industry of all nations, alone saved the whole scheme from being abandoned before it was made public, by finding contractors in messrs. mundays to advance the , pounds, and who did actually advance , pounds, without which the president of the board of trade refused to issue the royal commission, on which the whole success of the scheme rested. until the scheme was safely launched, mr. fuller, as a member of the executive committee, devoted his time, and freely expended his money, for the purpose of supporting this great undertaking. when it was fairly launched the care of his important business, of which middleton forms a very small part, occupied the greater part of his time, and hence his name has appeared less in conjunction with that splendid triumph of industry than those of other gentlemen. { } a little boy undergoing the operation of being flogged, in the manner that mother hubbard performed the deed before sending the children to bed. the cassowary [illustration: "i have been narrow," said the minister] the cassowary what chanced in the cleft mountains by stanley waterloo author of "the story of ab," "the seekers," "the wolf's long howl," "the story of a strange career," etc., etc. publishers monarch book company chicago copyright by monarch book company chicago contents chapter i. what chanced in the cleft mountains ii. a man iii. john lipsky's sign iv. a special providence v. the "far away lady" vi. the life line vii. a toad and a song viii. alan macgregor's brown leg ix. the huge hound's mood x. the siren xi. the porter's story xii. the purple stocking xiii. hesitant xiv. a test of attitude xv. a samoan idyl xvi. a woman and sheep xvii. the enchanted cow xviii. love and a zulu xix. at bay softly xx. love will find the way xxi. a literary love affair xxii. abercrombie's wooing xxiii. evan cummings' courtship xxiv. the swiss family robertson xxv. the lowry-turck love entanglement xxvi. the pale peacock and the purple herring xxvii. the release xxviii. love's insolence xxix. at last illustrations "the storekeeper!" he exclaimed "i have been narrow," said the minister they plunged into the whiteness the great snake began its work of deglutition the big body relaxed and straightened out the mayor had been getting interested the award could but go to una loa the children carried away armfuls of flowers sir gladys escorted the lady floretta home he was unconscious as a child a dozen or more nests were found "we shall meet at breakfast" the cassowary chapter i what chanced in the cleft mountains the blizzard snorted and raged at midnight up the narrow pass west of pike's peak, at the bottom of which lay the railroad track, and with this tumult of the elements the snow was falling in masses which were caught up and tossed about in the gale until the air was but a white, swirling, yeasty mass through which nothing could be seen a yard away. the canyon was filling rapidly and the awful storm showed no sign of abatement. the passage was not of the narrowest at the place to which this description refers. the railroad builders had done good work in what had been little more than a gorge. they had blasted and carried away after the manner of man who, if resolute enough, must find the way. he may sweat for it; he may freeze for it, but he attains his end, as he did in forcing a passage through the vainglorious labyrinths of the rockies. so, he had made a road between the towering heights of the cleft mountains. he had done well, but he had left a way so indefensible that indecent nature, seeking reprisals, might do almost anything there in winter. just now, with the accompanying war-whoop of the roaring blast, she was building up an enormous buttress across the king's highway. the canyon was filled to the depth of many feet, and the buttress was growing higher every moment. and, plunging forward from the west toward this buttress of snow, now came tearing ahead boisterously the trans-continental train from san francisco. its crew had hoped to get through the pass while yet the thing was possible. on it came at full speed, the big train, with all its great weight and tremendous force of impact, and plunged, like a bull with lowered horns, into the uplifting mountain of snow. it tore its way forward, resistlessly at first, then more slowly, and slower still, until, at last, it stopped quiveringly. but it was not beaten yet. back it went hundreds of yards and hurled itself a second time into the growing drift. it made a slight advance, and that was all. again and again it charged, but it was useless. nature had won! paralyzed and inefficient, the train lay still. then to the wild clamor of the storm was added another note. the whistle screamed like a woman. why it should be sounded at all none but the engineer could tell--perhaps it was the instinct of a railroad man to sound the whistle anywhere in an emergency. speaking the voice of the train, its cry seemed to be, at first, one of alarm and protest, then, as the hand on the throttle wavered, one of pleading, until, finally, beaten and discouraged, it sank sobbingly into silence, awaiting that first aid for the wounded in the case of railroad trains--the telegraph. upon the trains which must adventure the passes of the rocky mountains in winter are carried all the means for wire-tapping, that communication may be had with the outside world on any occasion of disaster at a distance from a station, the climbing spikes, the cutters, tweezers and leather gloves, and all the kit of a professional line repairer. ordinarily, too, some one of the train crew, or a professional telegrapher, in times of special apprehension is prepared to do the work of the emergency. this particular train had all the necessary kit, but, to the alarm of the conductor and engineer and all the train crew, it was discovered, after they had met in hurried consultation, that while they had the means, they lacked the man. what was to be done? they must reach the outside world somehow; they must reach belden, whence must come the relief train headed by the huge snow-plow which would eventually release them. the conductor was a man of action: "it may be," he said, "it may be that there is some one on the train who can do the job. it's a mighty doubtful thing, but i'll find out." he was a big, red-faced, heavy-moustached man, with a big voice, and he started promptly on his way, bellowing through each car: "is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?" the strident call aroused everybody as he passed along, but response was lacking. he became discouraged. as he reached the drawing-room car he was tempted to abandon the idea. he hesitated, unwilling to disturb the sleepers in--or rather the occupants of the berths, for the general tumult outside had awakened them--but pulled himself together and kept on. he entered the car roaringly as he had the others: "is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?" the curtains of one of the berths were drawn apart, and a head appeared, the head of a man of about forty years of age with clean-cut features, distinctly those of a gentleman. there was force in the aquiline nose and the strong jaw, but the voice was gentle enough when he spoke: "i might do it, possibly. what's the matter? stalled?" the conductor was astounded. the drawing-room car was the last place from which he had expected or hoped assistance, but he answered promptly: "yes, sir," he said, "we are in a bad way, half buried in a snow mountain. we've got to reach belden by wire, but we've no one to make the connection and send the message. if you can help us it will be a great thing. i hate to ask you. it's going to be an awful job." "have you got the tools?" "yes, sir." "well, i'll try it." john stafford dressed hurriedly. he emerged, a straight, broad-shouldered man, possessed apparently of exceptional strength and vigor, qualities soon to be tested to the utmost. he went forward with the conductor to the car at the front, in which the trainmen were assembled. he equipped himself for the work, then, lamp in hand, he stepped out upon the platform and looked about him. he could see nothing. he was enclosed between walls of white, the substance of which was revolving, curling and twisting uncannily. what seemed almost the impenetrable was beside him. all vision was cut off. there was but the mystery of the filled canyon. and he must venture out into that sinister, invisible space, find a telegraph pole and climb it and cut the wire and talk with belden! the thing was appalling. but a resolute and courageous man was john stafford, civil engineer, and he had been building railroads in siberia. he gave swift directions to the trainmen: "get together and light all the lamps you have and bring them here," he ordered; "set some of them in this window and hang some of them against it. i want the brightest beacon i can have. keep the glass of the window clean and clear, inside and outside." then, with a coil of wire about him, and lamp in hand, he stepped out into that wicked vastness. he plunged into snow up to his neck. he realized now more than ever what was the task he had undertaken. he stamped to clear as well as he could a little space about him and took his bearings. practical railroad man, he had reasoned out his course. he had with him a pocket compass and upon this alone he relied. he knew the distance from the track to the telegraph line and knew that by going just so many yards north and then going directly east or west he would reach a pole. but the distance he could only estimate, and who could accomplish that feat with any degree of accuracy under such conditions? then began a fight which must remain a desperate memory with the man forever. straight north he began his way, plowing, digging, almost burrowing. it was fearful work, body-distressing, soul-trying. to acquire an added yard in his progress was a task. cold as it was, he was perspiring violently in no time. the snow had begun to pack, and in the slight depressions, where it was deepest, he had even to heave his chest against it to force his way. his feet became clogged and heavy. but he floundered on. he became angry over it all. he would not be beaten! at last, as he estimated, he reached a point which must lie somewhere in the line between poles, but he was not sure. he could not judge of distance, in such a struggle. he lay down in the snow and drew long breaths and rested until the cold, checking the welling perspiration, warned him that, if he would live, he must work again. straight east by the compass he started, and there was renewed the same fierce, exhausting struggle, but this time maintained much longer. he kept it up until he knew he must have compassed more than half the distance--all that was required--between two poles, but he could not find one. the situation was becoming desperate. the lamp gave light for only a yard ahead, no more, because of the wall of falling snow. back and forth he went, almost exhausted now, his heart thumping, his breath exhausted. and then, just as he was about to lie down again to a rest which would have been more than dangerous, he stumbled upon a telegraph pole. it was but fortune. stafford's strength returned with the finding of the pole. he would at least accomplish what he sought to do! he rested long against the pole and then began the ascent. everything was easy now. the work in hand was nothing compared with the battle in the drift. he cut in on the wire, made the connection, talked with belden and got assurance of instant gathering of every force at command there for the rescue. the relief train would start at once. there is sympathy and understanding and swift aid where they have learned to know the perils of the passes. stafford came down the pole at ease. everything was all right now. all he had to do was to go back to the train and rest. he would follow his back track. he looked for it, but there was no back track! the densely falling snow had obliterated it completely. he fell back upon the compass again, and all the desperate work was but repeated. he was becoming faint and thoroughly exhausted now. he looked for the beacon light in the window but he might as well have tried to look through a stone wall. he feared his case was hopeless, but he did not flinch nor lose his courage. he sat down in the snow, unable for the moment to go further, and shouted with all the force of which his strained lungs were capable, but, at first, with no result. at last he thought he heard an answering call, and later he was assured of it. that revived him. he got upon his feet again and stumbled forward, following the direction of the sound. two forms appeared beside him suddenly. they were those of the conductor and engineer. he was taken by each arm, and, staggering between the two, was lifted into the car. he was approaching a state of entire collapse, but brandy stimulated him into ability to tell of what he had accomplished. the trainmen were more than grateful. they removed his outer clothing, and, half-carrying him to his berth, left him there enveloped in a warm blanket. he was oblivious to all things in a moment, sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. chapter ii a man weary of fighting off thoughts, tired with the insistent intrusions of memory, john stafford, who had awakened refreshed and himself again, leaned back in his seat and gave himself up to the bitter-sweet of the home-coming after long absence. landing from the steamer in san francisco, stafford had still felt himself to be in a strange country, though the people proclaimed themselves americans of the americans in every look and turn and voice. but the blue sky and the blue bay, the mountains and the outdoor life of the people, gave stafford still the feeling that he was yet in a foreign land, as he had been for five years or more. he had not counted the time from the first six weeks after his departure from america. across mountains, deserts, prairies, plains and rolling hills with peopled cities in their sheltering folds, stafford held his way toward the east. he hardly knew his destination. to new york, or to stop to the central whirlpool of life in america where goes most of what is from the west toward the outer edges of the roaring market place of the indian name, built where the sluggish river flows, juggled by the hand of man out of the great inland sea of michigan into the mississippi valley, where it originally belonged. to one of the two cities he was indifferently bound. now, with eyes closed, and lips firmly and perhaps grimly set, stafford looked the past in the face, and speculated as to the future. to him it was all undetermined. he could give it no continuous thought, for the past kept haunting him, as it had, more and more, with every mile on the way from the pacific coast. his had been one of the tragedies of life and love. a strong man, upright, conscientious, brilliant and familiar with social risks, he had yet fallen in love with a married woman, the wife of a brute, an animal unsuited to her in every way, but still the wife. it had been a love as wonderful as it was blameless. the two had met, and had involuntarily, by the mere force of a natural gravitation, been drawn toward each other, and, since they fitted, the inevitable had taken place. the very fibres of their souls had intertwined. it was the story, old as time, of love barred by the law which men have made for good, a story the material for which exists in all lands and among all races, in all climates and under all conditions, whether it be where gather the softest of the lazy mists which float beneath the palms of the equator or as near the north pole as the musk ox browses. the woman unrighteously married and the man unmarried--or the reverse--will come together. like wire of gold through armorer's bronze, a perfect cloisonné, will come, sometimes, the close relationship. and, where is the fault of loving involuntarily, helplessly, but sinning not at all? nature is god's and has her paths, and love is but the index finger of the two. but john stafford and mary eversham were not of the sort to violate the conscience by yielding to fond desire. the right was first with this splendid man and woman. one sweet privilege they allowed themselves, that of a full confession to each other of all that was in their hearts, and then they separated, he to seek in russia such forgetfulness as strenuous work might bring, she to bear patiently the weight of a barren life. now he had fought his fight in the frigid northern orient, and had returned, a winning american, but objectless and restless. the man musing there gloomily at last aroused himself: "i'll think no more," he muttered; "i'll exhibit a little common sense;" and he devoted his attention to what was going on about him. the storm had passed. as morning neared, it lessened somewhat in its force, and when daylight came, opaque and dim, it ended suddenly. the blizzard groaned and then dropped into nothingness. it was a curious and impressive sight which was afforded those on the train as they streamed out and massed themselves upon the platforms--for those in the sleepers dressed hurriedly and came out only a little later than the occupants of the other cars, who had slight dressing to do--and it was a sight in no degree encouraging. about them was but an endless reach of dead, unenlivened dreary white, the dull white of a tombstone, and they knew that they were the helpless prisoners of this solitude. they were appalled. it affected them all, though differently, according to their character. food for days they had, certainly, and heat for the present. this was on the credit side. on the other side were a variety of threatening possibilities. weak people have died in snowbound trains. should they be imprisoned for long there would be no heat, and the cold in the mountains is something that seeks the very marrow. such cold they might have to endure. some one spoke shudderingly of a singular death caused by this bitter enemy in a train stalled years before not far from the place where they were now almost entombed, for the canyons in the rear were filled by this time and by no possibility could the train be moved in one direction or another. the story was that of the death of a wonderful little personage who, though nearly thirty years of age, was only thirty inches in height, most famous of dwarfs, the mexican woman, lucia zerete. wrap her warmly as they would, they could not save her. the frost permeated her slight body and she died upon the unheated train. the allusion brought a shudder. that awful frost in the air seeks all humanity within its limits, and then, for the more fragile, the world may no longer be going round. the sky lightened gradually, and toward noon the clouds broke so that the sun shone for a brief space, but there came no real brightness. the sun did his best, but it was little. he was trying to send his rays to the depths of the canyon, but was not succeeding very well. he is admirable at straight work, this luminary who gives us heat and light and life--but when it comes to giving quality to rays which have to be again reflected, he is only moderately efficient. the sides of the canyon laughed at him. "you may lighten and heat our enclosed depths somewhat," they said, "but you cannot give to the canyon the real sunshine. you may be lord of our solar system, but we upheaving rocks of this particular region of this particular planet can temper your force beyond all reason!" incidents enough were occurring in stafford's car. the porter, apparently a white man, and a blonde, was just ushering in a forlorn company of wayside travelers, and gave them seats in the vacant places, of which there were not a few, for travel was light on the line, these short february days of the year when the "great storm" burst, not here alone, but, later, upon the atlantic states, and played with men and all their work for a day and a night, giving to the human pigmy a terrifying lesson of his own insignificance when the forces of nature take hold in earnest to shake and tumble into fragments the cherished works of her ordinarily spoiled darling, man. "this car has the best accommodations, and so they are bringing the way passengers in here," the porter explained, as he strove to make comfortable a tearful woman, whose whole being seemed to be absorbed in the effort to make the world know that she had left her two children alone at home, while she made the five-mile journey by rail to the nearest town, and back, to buy some family stores, the nature, price and quantity of which she was by no means loth to describe in detail. "i meant to take the 'commodation," she repeated to whomsoever listened to her, "but the 'commodation didn't come, and they put me on the express, and i thought it was fine to ride on the through passenger, that never stops at our station, but i've got enough of the express, stuck all this time in the snow, and there are my poor children locked up at home." the men fidgeted in their seats, and the women, one or two of them, went to the wayside passenger and gave her the aid, comfort and support of listening to her, as the one form of consolation possible. by no means alone was the woman in her murmurings. there were others quite as querulous and restless, particularly one man, a stormy mountain character, who was a storekeeper in the town where the complaining woman lived, and who announced that he must get home somehow and at once. the day passed miserably. the prisoners had not yet settled down into a patient acquiescence with what was. chapter iii john lipsky's sign after supper, stafford, feeling clamorously the need of a cigar, strolled back into the smoking compartment. it was already well filled, among the occupants being a colonel livingstone, a genial character with whom stafford had already become acquainted. he was greeted warmly and seated himself to engage idly in the desultory conversation which was going on. "i wonder what breed of indians once inhabited this region?" queried one of the smokers. "they must have had poor picking." "i don't know," said the colonel, "apaches, i imagine." a drawling voice broke in, the owner of which was a young man, a person of such self-confidence, nerve and general up-to-dateness, that stafford whimsically christened him "the gallus youth." "i know an indian story which is true," said the gallus youth. "do you want me to tell it?" there was a general assent, the smokers subsided comfortably in their seats, and from clouds of smoke the voice proceeded, the whole group listening, or at least, if not listening, keeping silence: john lipsky's sign probably nothing more strange and puzzling has ever happened, either in a great city or in the country, than what is to be told of here, and which relates to both. when john lipsky bought the small barber shop on south clark street it occurred to him that he might increase his receipts a trifle by putting in a modest show-case containing cigars and cigarettes and tobacco; for lipsky, while a man with no vices, has a large family to support and is compelled not only to economize but to devise all means for adding to the defenses against the wolf at the door. when he bought the barber shop, which contained only two chairs, he was forced to make the investment on credit, as was also the case with the cigar and tobacco outfit. he was forced also to make certain repairs inside the shop, and found himself then without money and with a business not yet established, while the little lipskys kept on eating and wearing out clothes. he could not afford a barber's pole, though the stripes painted on the door jamb had practically disappeared under the influence of wind and weather, and, at the same time, put out a sign to make it known to passers-by that he had cigars for sale. he might afford one of the signs, but, assuredly, not both. then to thrifty john lipsky came a sudden inspiration. why not combine the signs in one? and here comes in what seems a key and yet may not be a key to happenings too remarkable for belief. oswald shornstein is a sculptor working in a great establishment on the west side. his specialty in the sculptor's art is the making of wooden indians. shornstein's vacation last summer was spent in wisconsin, where he spent much of his idling time in the vicinity of an indian settlement near green bay. he formed the acquaintance of a prominent member of the dwindling tribe, a tough old hunter known as keeshamok--which, translated, means "bounding bear"--and they were often together, fishing and smoking and loafing throughout the pleasant summer days. when shornstein returned to town he entertained a feeling of decided friendship for the lazy but interesting winnebago. the sculptor's vacation had done him good, and he plunged with vigor into his work again, the more so because the supply of wooden indians at the time was hardly equal to the demand, and within a week he had produced a masterpiece. shornstein had genius, but, in this case, genius had an inspiration. ordinarily shornstein made just an indian, but now it was different. it was a particular indian which came forth from the wood in response to his practised handiwork. fresh in the mind of the artist were the face and figure of the swarthy keeshamok, and, almost unconsciously, he reproduced them. the work was done. there upon his pedestal stood keeshamok of the winnebagos! meanwhile what of lipsky? he had resolved to advertise shop and cigars at one fell swoop; he would buy a wooden indian and have him painted gloriously in colored spiral stripes from head to heel! he carried out his idea promptly and fate ordained it that the wooden indian bought by lipsky was the image of the winnebago, keeshamok. it was painted according to the barber's wildest design, and never was seen such a sign before! holy moses! it would have scared a wolverine! lipsky had been wiser than he knew. from failure he had plucked success. the terrifying sign brought curious customers in scores; cigars sold rapidly and the business of the barber shop required at once another chair. meanwhile had come november and hunting was good in the wisconsin woods. the indians were alert. keeshamok and a companion one day killed a deer and dragged it to the nearest village, where they made a sale. they staggered forth at dusk each whooping gutturally but joyously, and each carrying a mighty jug. they took the forest path for camp and pursued it weavingly but far, until, at last, keeshamok, somewhat the drunker, proposed a camp upon the spot and consumption of firewater all through the deepening night. his companion refused and left him to his own devices. obtruding almost into the roadway projected the end of a mighty hollow log lying beneath a mountain of smaller logs and brush, and to keeshamok came, as he stood there undecided, a novel vision of beatitude. there were warmth and shelter. he would creep into the log, and there, with his jug to comfort him, pass such a night as indian never passed before! he acted on the glorious impulse. he crawled far in and stretched himself out upon the soft, dry flakes of rotten wood and took deep draughts of whisky and defied the outside world! it was a solitary but a grand debauch. the hours passed and the indian became almost torpid. he slept a little. the cold intensified and he awoke and drank again, but was still cold. he comprehended but dimly, yet another idea came to him. he would build a little fire and that would warm him! he scraped together a mound of the dry debris beyond him, and, after many efforts, got a match alight and applied it to the heap, which blazed at once. it warmed him. he took another drink and lay down again and slept. there appeared next morning beside the wood road a vast gray patch of surface upon which could be seen no object larger than a hand. the ashes of the great hollow tree and of the dead trees upon it were sifting through the forest with every wind, and with them were blown the ashes of the indian keeshamok. he had no body! that night something happened in south clark street in chicago, something so inexplicable and startling as to pass beyond the realm of credibility. at precisely midnight, the striped indian in front of lipsky's barber-shop stepped from his pedestal and fled northward, without a sound. so silent and so swift his flight that those whom he met or passed felt, rather than saw, a flitting thing. the city was left behind and still northward across the frozen fields and through the woods he went. the medicine moccasins of hiawatha never carried one more wondrously. the farms and forests of far wisconsin were reached at last and faded by, and at last before the runner's eyes appeared the cabins of his kinsmen. what life came to him now! he bounded upward in exaltation! he burst in among the clustered habitations with the wild piercing whoop of the returning warrior! "owannox! wah quah-quah! kinniwa! wow, wow, wanny-wanny-yook! ek-ek! laroo!" cabin doors burst open, dogs rushed forth, men and squaws dashed out and all was wild commotion. the voice of keeshamok had been recognized on the instant. he leaped in among his people joyfully. then arose such yells and shrieks as made the very woodland quiver! there was a rush for cabins whose doors were closed and barred within a minute's space. the very dogs, yelping with every leap, fled to the forest. even they were appalled and recognized but as a spectre the missing keeshamok. within the indian village all was frightful silence. with bowed head stood the striped wooden indian in the midst of the cabins. then he turned his face toward the south and the silent run began again. in the morning he stood once more upon his pedestal in front of lipsky's barber shop. how can it be accounted for? what psychologist or scientist can explain it? the spirit of keeshamok lacks, of course, the usual form in which to reappear and do any haunting anywhere, for good or evil, since his body was consumed entirely. does it seek the marvelous imitation made by shornstein as the only substitute? who, indeed, shall say? there are many things unknown to us. and still, each night, the striped indian runs his futile race and makes his sad return. chapter iv a special providence daybreak of the second day of imprisonment brought no renewal of the storm, though the sun was hidden and the clouds were dark and lowering. but the morning was to have its tragedy. the storekeeper who had got on at the station five miles back seemed half demented. he had chafed and grumbled loudly from the first, asserting that his business would be ruined without his immediate presence and attention, and heaping imprecations upon the weather and the railroad company alike. patience or philosophy seemed entirely lacking in his character. all through the first day of detention he had paced restlessly back and forth throughout the train, a walking expletive, and now he had become furious. "i must get home," he shouted; "i live only five miles down the track and i'm going to walk it. i know these blizzards, and i'm bigger than any of 'em! i can make it!" and he would have leaped from the train at once had not strong hands restrained him. he went forward mutteringly. the stillness of all the world about had something to it sinister and threatening. it was like the silence of a graveyard. "i'd rather have that storm howling again, and howling worse than ever," said one of the passengers, "than endure this ghastly quiet. it's altogether too quiet. something is going to happen!" he was right. something was going to happen. the dark clouds were sinking nearer and nearer to the earth, and at last there came a sound, the faintest of sighs, of the coming wind. it deepened steadily until it became more than a sigh; it was a moan. it increased in volume. the moan became a shriek, the shriek a mighty roar, and the blizzard, with its snowfall, was raging about the pass again. the passengers crowded together at the windows and a few of the more hardy even ventured out upon the platforms to enjoy, or to become apprehensive over, the mighty spectacle. they were thus engaged when there came rushing excitedly into the car the pert youth who had told the remarkable indian story the night before. "the storekeeper!" he exclaimed. "the storekeeper is missing! he must have left the train!" [illustration: "the storekeeper!" he exclaimed] there was aroused a sudden and alarmed interest, followed by a hurrying of men to the different platforms, but there was nothing to be seen. the man must have slipped from the train, unobserved, before the recurrence of the storm and made the desperate attempt to reach his home by the exercise of sheer bulldog tenacity and brute force, in struggling through the enormous drifts. stafford, accompanied by two of the trainmen, made a brief but arduous and difficult search for some distance, but found slight trace of the missing passenger. close beside the train they discovered where he had leaped off and staggered uncertainly forward, but beyond that there was no sign. the snow had already hidden the reckless being's trail. there was a sequel, long in coming. late in the following spring, when the looming drifts of the pass had melted, the mortal part of the storekeeper was found some distance from the track, where he had stumbled blindly in his wanderings. but of his fate there could, of course, at this time, be no certain knowledge. there was even a chance, some thought, that he might accomplish the seemingly impossible. the men muttered to each other, and that was all. why the storekeeper, apparently one possessed of shrewdness at least, should have taken such awful risk no one could say--but it made swift tragedy. communication had been maintained with belden. a path to the telegraph pole utilized by stafford on the night of the stoppage had been laboriously dug by the trainmen and stafford had again made the connection and learned the condition of affairs with the rescuing party already started. the report was not altogether encouraging. the vast fall of snow in the canyon, drifted, in some places, higher than the top of the smokestack of the locomotive--for this was the greatest blockade in the history of the road--had proved more than baffling, even with the snow-plow. scores of men were at work ahead of it with shovels, in the work of bringing the clearance within the range of its capability. the relief train was yet many miles from the one entirely helpless. still the snow would not be so deep at points ahead, where the canyon widened, and the belief of the rescuers was that the half-entombed would be reached at some hour of the fourth day of their detention. the news was not received with any degree of exultation. it was at this crisis that moses appeared to lead those in the cassowary and their visitors out of the gloom oppressing them. when men and women of intelligence and brightness and modern perception are cast together in an emergency, there ever appears among them some one who brings the group close together. he may not be the greatest of the group, but he has some dominant instinct in him involving a regard for the comfort of others. such a man was colonel livingston. the colonel was a man of thought, and he wanted his own sort of people around him. he had raised a regiment once, when fierce things were going on in the " 's," and he knew how to gather men. he had ranged through the train, like some good-naturedly overbearing lord high commissioner selecting those whose appearance most appealed to him and, because of his keen acumen and genial approachment, had captured easily and brought into the cassowary those whom he thought would swing best into being a healthful and merry part of the fraction of humanity enduring temporary distress. he had an idea. the occupants of the cassowary included a number of the more than ordinarily intelligent and cultivated--as would naturally be the case in such a car and on such an extended trip--and all had, by this time, become more or less acquainted, though all had not, like the colonel, acquired the fancy of addressing others by the title of their occupation. it was to such a group as this that the colonel, standing at one end of the car, addressed himself: "i'm afraid that we are flunking a little. i know--i feel it in my bones--that we are going to escape from this cold dilemma without any serious consequence, but we shall not be a credit to ourselves if we falter in the interval. let us avoid depression. let us enliven the situation as much as possible. to such end i have a suggestion to make in this connection which, i hope, may be well received. last night i was much interested in a story told by the buoyant and blithesome young gentleman occupying the end seat on the left side there"--and he indicated the "gallus youth"--"and it has come to my mind since that we may greatly relieve the monotony of our case by doing what we do in the smoking compartment, that is, by telling stories. if you consent, i will modestly offer myself as a sort of master of ceremonies. does the idea meet with any degree of approval?" there was no dissent, but, instead, a hearty agreement to the proposition, the colonel's cheery manner having its effect on everybody. for a time, though, the story-telling did not begin. there was need, certainly, for any and all suggestions as to means for ameliorating in any degree a situation the grimness of which was beginning to force itself upon even the most optimistic of the company. the wind, even when it lowered its tone for a moment, growled ominously. "it is awful," moaned the woman with the baby. "i wonder how god can let such things happen. i wonder if praying would help?" then followed--it could hardly be otherwise with such a company--reverent but earnest discussion of the question of whether or not providence ever really intervened in special cases, as a result of special supplication. varying opinions were expressed, the majority, even the most seemingly devout, inclining to the belief that the answer to the question was beyond the knowledge accorded to humanity. it was the colonel's opportunity. he appealed to the minister, who had listened to the discussion with a thoughtful smile upon his kindly face, but who had not given an opinion. "do you believe in special providences, sir?" he asked. "can you relate a single instance in your experience, or one of which you have heard, from a reliable source, where there has been the manifestation of what we call 'a special providence,' in direct answer to prayer?" "i cannot answer your question," was the minister's reply. "i cannot answer the first part of the query, because i am undecided, and i cannot answer the second because the same reasoning would, in a way, apply, since i am not entirely assured of certain earthly facts. but," and there was a twinkle in the reverend gentleman's eyes, "i heard a curious story once, for the exact truth of which i will by no means vouch, which i will tell in the narrator's own words, and which, supposing it to be true, might be looked upon as either for or against the doctrine of a special providence just who are the "salt of the earth" is a disputable question. the title belongs traditionally to a group of that splendid race--the jews. but it is claimed, also, and on seemingly excellent grounds, by other groups, including a large number of the people of iowa. appearances are in their favor, for iowa was settled by a fine lot of men and women, and their children have not deteriorated. they were excellent pioneers who came to cross the great river and make a new state, to cut away the forest where it was too dense, to plant trees where the prairie-planted farm-houses and barns needed shelter from wintry blasts, to import cattle, and horses, and sheep, and hogs with blood in them, and to repeat the old exploit of the dominating race in making, somewhere, the desert blossom as the rose. about what is maxonville alighted one of the groups of men and women, settling down like wild geese upon an area of fertile and well-watered land. maxonville was not much in evidence when they came, these strong men and women, for only "old man" maxon was living at the forks where the big creek found the little river; but they all settled about, and there were built new homes close to maxon's, and there came, as the years passed, a church, and a schoolhouse, and a grocery and dry goods store, and, in time, the prosperous town. the farmers round about prospered, for they had thrift and intelligence and something of the old covenanters' spirit. the church maxonville built, offhand and ready for all its uses before they had a preacher, was a pride to the sturdy men and believing women, and when the preacher came to them from the east they were more satisfied than ever. there may be something in lonely farm work making one a grim adherent of straight creed. down behind horses and plow all day long, with only the great blue sky of god above, and only a view of the same sky meeting a green horizon far away and all around; inclosed in this great vault of blue and green, and left alone with one's thoughts, it may be that the eternal problem becomes more earnestly considered, more a part of all the thought and life of a human being than it is to the man of the city, who has his attention distracted every moment from the great, overwhelming presence and pressure. such effects crystallize. the people of maxonville and its vicinity were sternly devout--that is, most of them--and their new minister was a fit exponent of their creed. the minister was tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven, and with brown eyes which were keen, chiefly, in looking into himself. he had a stern, well-defined mission in religious teaching--as earnest as ignatius loyola, stubborn as oliver cromwell. he had been through college, and then through one of the strictest of theological schools. he was fit to preach, he felt, as far as mere acquirement of having learned the ways of other preachers; but he knew that the ideas of the world were changing, and that if the world were changing god must be doing it, and so he was at times perplexed. but he came to his little land of prairie flowers, and steer-raising, and honest obstinacy, a fit man for the place. and they said they had a preacher! it is doubtful if any village of three hundred people in the united states, from montpelier to san diego, from portland to st. john, has not one pretty girl or more. maxonville had a number of pretty girls, and one of them was more than pretty; she was beautiful. deacon conant was the leading man of the church of the new town. he was a man who had succeeded, because of brains and energy, in managing his two or three farms, but he does not figure in this account save that he was the father of jane conant. his blood had gone into her, and it was pretty good blood, too. the preacher had fallen in love with her and she with him. preachers and girls would not be good for much if they did not do that sort of thing occasionally. here was an ideal relation of things, or what should have been an ideal one. what could have been finer than that there should have come into a growing town in a growing region a stalwart, almost fanatical builder-up of faith, who should find a fitting partner in the daughter of the chief man of the locality, and that from the union so buttressed all around should come great results? there was but one obstacle in the way of this perfect combination, and the obstacle was in the woman. it is astonishing how women will nibble at apples and learn things, from eve down! this particular young woman had graduated from one of the most cleverly conducted of eastern colleges for girls, and she had views. not only did she have views, but she had views in the face of her religious teacher, of the man whom she respected for his earnestness and loved for himself. they were intensely happy for a while after their engagement--as becomes strong souls getting close together in such relationship--but with nearer relationship came necessarily more vehement and unguarded interchange of thought, and--sad the day!--they differed seriously, upon a matter of belief. a part of the belief of john elwell, the preacher, was an implicit confidence in the manifestation at times of what we call a "special providence." one of the ideas of the young woman, deeply religious though she was, was an utter disbelief in this same thing--that is, a disbelief that god sometimes makes an exception, and, instead of working through the laws of the nature which he has instituted, produces a direct result having the quality of what we are accustomed to call a miracle. the two discussed the matter together very often after they came close together, as lovers may. the first time they debated there came a little wedge between them as thin as tissue paper abraded to an end. next time the wedge grew larger, and where it ended there was a cleft reaching down to anywhere. the third time there was a split broad and well defined, and the engagement was broken. "my dear, i do believe in special providences; i do believe that earnest prayer will bring results in certain cases, justifiable in themselves." "i do not." "why?" "because i believe that the whole thing--and i am only a girl talking, i don't know what you call it--is just a belief and taken on trust. what would you think of going down to the mill there and praying the miller to make one bag of flour coarse in the midst of all his business? the miller is giving us bread for our physical life, and he knows best how to do it, at least as compared with the rest of us. i know that this is all a poor simile, a poor comparison, but i can't help it." now, even an earnest preacher is human, and a great many girls--though the healthy among us call them angels--are human. the engagement between the two was at this juncture broken off so squarely that the ends weren't even ragged, though there was left a possible sequence, not altogether black as midnight--a vague hope in the heart of each that the future might have something to it. this brought a few words more before they parted. said the girl: "show me a case of special providence and i will believe with you. it must be--it cannot possibly be otherwise--than that there should in some way, somehow, come an opportunity for showing that you are right and i wrong." the pale-faced man's eyes were burning as he looked at her. "the day will come!" he said. time passed and the two worked together in social and church relations, but there was no more talk of marriage. it was one day in mid-july, a year after the conversation just described, when john elwell was talking earnestly from his pulpit, and jane conant was one of the congregation. the preacher talked well that day--there is no denying it. he talked in a simple, straightforward but wonderfully eloquent way of how the quality of one's relation to others in this world must make easy or uneasy the path toward what is the better habitation after death. he told of the duties of the successful to the unsuccessful, of the strong to the weak; and he told too, of how, even in this world, each man's mind is accuser or justifier, and how, even in this world, come rewards and punishments, and how to him with faith enough should come immediate returns. with glowing face he even went aside a little to speak of those who talk too much of nature and the universe, and who believe that a general scheme is as true and strong and believable as one more definite--"'he noteth the sparrow's fall,'" he said. it was sultry within the church, and all seemed lifeless, though hearts were beating rapidly under the preacher's eloquence. there seemed no oxygen in the air; all was oppressive. there was no sound as the speaker closed a long and telling sentence, save the slight "swish" as a locust alighted on the sill of an open window. there was sound enough a moment later. through the open doorway leaped a young man who shouted but one word: "cyclone!" at the exclamation breaking in thus on the religious stillness perhaps one-fourth of the congregation started to their feet and rushed into the open air, but the three-fourths remained in their seats as if paralyzed. the preacher paused, looked about, and then with almost shining face spoke solemnly: "my friends, we are threatened with one of the visitations which god sometimes decrees, but which, it is my earnest belief, cannot harm those who believe in him rightly and appeal to him most trustingly. let us pray that the cyclone will avoid this church." they knelt together, preacher and congregation, and strong and trustful and appealing was the pastor's prayer. his clear voice did not falter in the eloquent appeal, and those who knelt felt confidence and a glorified pride in the attitude taken in an awful hour. men came rushing to the doorway crying aloud upon all within to make the attempt at escape to a safer place, but there was no response, no sound save that of the preacher's uplifted voice. there was a roar and rumble in the far southwest and a half darkness was approaching. as the sound outside increased, the voice of the preacher became less audible, but the spellbound and trusting congregation did not move. among the women was still jane conant. the rumble became a roar, the roar an ear-splitting, paralyzing blast, and then--chaos! in blackness, with its steeple, its roof, its whole upper part torn away and leaving but an uncovered brick rectangle, ten or fifteen feet in height, remained what was of the church in maxonville. with the blackness came a torrent; the interior of the rectangle became a flooded space, within which area men and women waded, and floundered and shouted, and shrieked, and felt for each other, and feared, almost, that the world was ended. then gradually, the flood ceased, and daylight came again, and the drenched creatures within what was left of the church--by what seemed a miracle there had been none injured--emerged upon the greenery about. among them was the preacher. he spoke to no one. he had worn a straw hat when he came to the church, and had found it somehow. it had been wetted and crushed, and now hung down on each side of his head grotesquely. he was a sodden, queer creature who looked neither to the right nor to the left. but there was thought in him still. he lifted his face to heaven, and thanked god that all had been preserved, but said no other word. he walked drippingly along the sidewalk and then turned down a lane which led into the country. barely one-fourth of a mile--estimated conventionally as the crow flies--from the town of maxonville was the farm of john dent. it was not a large farm; it was, in fact, but a quarter of a quarter-section, which means forty acres; but acres have nothing to do with ideas. john dent, though he had only a little farm, worked hard and lived reasonably well, and had a standing, and knew the preacher well, and debated one important question with him frequently. it was this same question of special providence, and the attitude of john dent was, though in a man's way, identical with that of jane conant, the preacher's lost sweetheart. the preacher wondered at this sometimes. he wondered how it was that this gifted girl and this obstinate, deep-thinking farmer should so chance to decide alike. of course all this was before the cyclone. down at the bottom of his heart john dent was a little sentimental. his father and mother had come to the small farm before him. they were dead now, as well as certain sisters and brothers, and they were buried in a little private graveyard on the farm, around which the beeches grew thickly and from which the ground sloped gently into a laughing creek. there was not much surplus left at the end of each year of the product of john dent's farming, and the surplus had more channels for immediate and demanding distribution than it could supply, still john dent thought that some day he would put up a neat little brick monument in that graveyard--a somewhat unusual form of monument--but that was dent's idea. he was going to have a pyramidical thing about fifty feet high. the spire of the church at maxonville was of brick, hollow of course, welded solidly in its weather-hardened cement, as if it were a monolith of stone. the cyclone had passed. a preacher had gone down a lane thinking the thoughts which come to a clean christian man in a surprising and dispiriting emergency. a fair young woman had gone home crying over what was where her heart was, and mr. john dent had seen a cyclone come and miss his place by about forty rods, and had also seen an out-flinging and eccentric wing of that same cyclone deposit, just in the proper place in the burying-ground of his family, a perfect pyramid monument, such as he had been dreaming of for the last quarter of a century. it was all queer and out of the common, and was hard to explain; it is not attempted here, for this is only the story of what happened within an hour or two on a certain afternoon in iowa. this is going back to the preacher. he walked fast and he walked far, and found himself deep in the country. he was at least honest in all he thought; he was a good man, yet he was troubled to the depths of his being. "i have prayed to god," he said to himself, "and he has refused me. the cyclone didn't turn away from the church! is the woman i love right, and am i wrong? is there a broader and greater scheme of being wherein i should be a trusting and unquestioning instrument rather than one who demands as a special suppliant? i will see jane," he said in his great strait. "i feel that she may aid me." he met the woman that night; he went to her house and found her there, and found, too, that as she was, being a dear woman, she had just then but vague views either on special providences or anything else in particular, all being absorbed in anxiety as to his own health and welfare. she was but a loving, frightened creature, harried over what might have happened to the man who through all the months of silence and separation had been all there was in the world to her. he had come half intending to admit himself all in error, but soon all had been lost in the mere performance of a man and a woman blending. and the evening passed. then when the next day came, the two, now understanding, walked out into the country. it was in that wonderful hour of the summer sunset, when all the world is filled with light and the heavens are tinted with opalescent colors from an unseen source, and some vagrant vesper sparrow is still singing, that john elwell and jane conant stood in john dent's little family graveyard, looking soberly at the transplanted church steeple. it stood there, its base ranged plumb east and west, north and south, as if calculated with all the niceties of the ancient order; at its foot the quiet grass-grown graves, while all around stretched clover meadows and the cornfields. "i feel like borrowing a phrase from the mohammedans," said the minister, "or just the beginning of one, then saying no more: 'god is great!'" the girl's summer bonnet hung back over her shoulders, its pink strings loosely tied under her chin. she looked comprehendingly at the minister, but she said nothing. "i have been narrow," continued the minister, "but god is great." coming across the clover field they saw john dent, and the two went to the white picket fence around the graveyard, which he had built and cared for, and stood at its little gate to meet him. "mr. dent," said the minister, when he had shaken the farmer's hand, and as they all turned to look at the steeple top, "i have had a lesson, and i must acknowledge that it was needed. our vision is limited, and we often know not even how to pray! i am content to leave all to god, nor to wrestle for his special interposition in my behalf. the doctrine of special providences is presuming--of the earth, earthy. i see that now." "well, i don't know," said john dent; "i didn't exactly pray for it, but i've always wanted a monument to my folks here. sometimes i thought it was vain and worldly minded in me, but i couldn't give it up. i wanted that monument just about as high as the end of the steeple stands, just about that shape, too, more than anything in this world. i couldn't see my way clear to getting it. i couldn't afford to build one--and here it is! i don't know as i quite agree with you now parson, concerning special providences!" it was just before the conclusion of the minister's story that a lady entered quietly from the next sleeping car and was welcomed to the coterie by two or three of the ladies, who had, evidently, met her. stafford looked in her direction and their eyes met. then, all the world changed! they knew each other on the instant, but beyond the slightest of inclinations of their heads, there was no sign of recognition. there was no smile. there was but an almost startled look which changed into one of comprehension and then of the ready trust which was of the past. what message that lingering mutual glance conveyed neither could have told entirely--it was doubtful, hopeful, appealing, understanding. as the minister ceased talking, and comment began, stafford rose and made his way toward the new arrival. he had but neared her when mrs. livingston took him by the arm: "have you met mrs. eversham yet, mr. stafford?" they clasped hands, and his head swam, it seemed to him: "i did not know that you were on the train," he said. "i have been slightly ill," she answered gently, "and have been confined to my stateroom most of the time since leaving san francisco, but i am well again. it is good to be out." then their attention was demanded by others and they were separated. but, what a flavor to the world now! chapter v the far away lady they called her the "far away lady"--those on the train who had already met her. just why the name was bestowed by some one with imagination and aptness of expression or why it had been so readily adopted by the others, perhaps none could have clearly told, but it had its fitness. there was a certain soft dignity and reserve of manner and a "far away" look in the eyes of this stately, but certainly loveable human being. she possessed the subtle distinction there is to women of a certain sort, impressing those about her in spite of themselves, as years before, she had impressed john stafford. as has been told he knew her on the moment, yet in their words was nothing, and, even as they met, they had not looked into each other's eyes unless, it may be, with a hungering furtiveness and a dizziness at the marvel of the meeting. it is hard to describe the far away lady. her face was exquisite in its pure womanliness, but in its expression was something which told of a life unfilled. it was not a protest; it was too good for that, but it seemed to suggest with this woman a bewildered resignation. the face was one which, in other times, might, before the end, have been turned toward and found the cloister. yet there was all of modern living and appreciative conception in it. a smile came to the lips at certain incidents of the story-telling, and interest showed in the soft eyes at the relation of some striking episode. there was intelligence as there was sad sweetness in every feature of the lovely face. yet there remained always in the look that quality, not of listlessness, but of abstraction. it was a face as fascinating as it was appealing. in her own stateroom the far away lady sat at her window, but seeing no whirling snow, hearing not the plaint of the dying wind. she was detained in no cold and rugged canyon. her thoughts were far away. about her was no scene of pallid desolation. she looked instead, upon the blue waters of a great calm lake, the wavelets of which splashed at her feet, while about her all was sunshine. seated beside her on the rustic bench was a man, one strong, tender and trustworthy, and they were about to part, as they thought, forever. very sad was the man, almost a weakling for the moment, though talking lightly in an effort to distract her mind from what was near, blundering and only nurturing their mutual sorrow, by indulging in foolish fancies of what might have been. he was smiling by force of will as he looked across the waters toward the invisible other shore and dreaming aloud: "we would build a house upon some high wooded out-jutting point upon the other side," he said, "a house, it might be, most unpretentious, as near the southern end of the lake as practicable, so that we would be conveniently near the city. it might be of almost any material and be a sort of bungalow or even only what they call a 'shack,' but comfort would be in and all about it and happiness within its walls. it would face the lake with an outlook on all its moods, its bright placidity or its rage in storms, and there would be white sails and the passing steamers and all that pertains to those who go down to the sea in ships. and the sun would make yellow bars on the blue in the morning and in the evening we would see it go down into the water red and 'big as a barn,' and there would be a crimson pathway from us to it, and when the summer darkness came, we should sit happily together, listening to the voices of the night, the katydids and the whippoorwills and all the other things. then we would be waked in the morning by the sunlight again and the songs of all the wild birds instead of by the whistles and the noisy chattering of city sparrows. "and the house would have a big front room with a mighty fireplace in the winter, and the windows would be made wide and high so that ever in the daytime there would be light--more light--and there would be lamps a-plenty to make it light when the dark changed into blackness. and about the sides of all this big room there would be cases with many books and in the center of a great table, with all the magazines and everything of passing interest. there would be chairs, cosy, indolent chairs, to dream in, and light ones and business-like ones, and a great couch with many cushions. "outside you should have your garden, the flowers you love so, and in the wood there would be a fountain, fed from the lake by a windmill, where the birds could drink and bathe and quarrel and mate, and where we could watch and study them. you would become as wise as linnæus and i as burroughs. "and there will be dogs,"--unconsciously he changed the tense--"what is home without a dog! and about the shack we shall have no limitations. we'll have as many as we want; there'll be an irish setter, soft-eyed and chestnut-coated, the perfect gentleman among dogs; there'll be a bull terrier, bright and loving; there'll be a collie, wisest and most observing, and, possibly, a toy dog, for your plaything at times, when you are tired of me. and, finally, there will be a bulldog, a creature of such aspect as to give a ghost or burglar spasms, a monster in appearance, though kind at heart, a thing so hideous as to have a baneful beauty, with massive bow legs, wide apart, bloodshot and leering eyes and a countenance generally like that of a huge fanged toad. and all of these too shall be dogs of lineage, hapsburgs among dogs, and i will give each of them to you when a puppy, so that you may rear them yourself and they will become your adoring vassals and protectors. eh, but you will be well guarded, and i shall feel more at ease when i am away from you, riding over to town for the mail or to get a lemon or two. "and what friends we will have, not the casual, conventional, flitting friends alone, such as some might be content with, but those closest to us because of that which cannot be defined but which exists, and, besides them, perhaps less close but hardly less companionable, others of tastes and inclinations like our own, and who will riot or rest as suits them in the atmosphere about us. they will be the brothers and sisters of the time, and there will be doings both whimsical and wise. there will be a rendezvous for those who know--our author friends, our artist friends--what a lot of them are ours!--and our musical friends, to give an added and different flavor. what a piano you'll have! i'll get the one used by david and miriam and orpheus and apollo and st. cecelia and liszt and mrs. zeisler--if i can. never mind the anachronisms and solecisms--and we'll let them 'sound the loud timbrel o'er egypt's dark sea,' or rather o'er lake michigan, or engage in any other fantasies appropriate to arcady--land fifty dollars an acre--and, at times, we will, no doubt, be unentitled to call our souls our own. "and--so well do i know you--there will be often there some of those whose lines are not cast in the pleasant places and to whom such freedom from care, and such taste of home and real companionship about them will be like an outing in the outskirts, at least, of paradise. and we'll try to deserve the shack! yes, we'll deserve it all the time--when buds are bursting, when the green leaves hide the oriole in the maple, when the maple's leaves are red, and when there are no leaves, and the fireplace is doing its winter's roaring. what a home it will be! ah, my girl, we'll"--but the sorrowful jesting failed him, and he said no more. then came the parting. and now the dreaming woman's thoughts reverted to the present. she could see the snow and hear the wind and realize existent things. how strange it was! years had passed and he and she were together again, he drifting from another hemisphere, sterner faced, perhaps, but still the same, and she, changed too, she thought, but doubtless to less advantage. she felt rebellious. the world was lost. to him and her could never come in life the close comradeship which is the crown of things, the right to share good and ill alike, and meet the future, shoulder to shoulder, laughingly in the enduring love which can become so sublimely a part of two souls that it is a part of immortality. and in the next car stafford, too, was sitting alone and thoughts very like those of the woman were in his mind. but he was far less patient. his bonds were chafing him. chapter vi the life line there were smiles before comment began, as the minister finished his odd story, which, as everybody seemed to feel, was told rather to distract attention from the outlook in the present strait than as having any serious application to the theme under discussion, and, for a time, there was a departure from the subject. the wind still howled outside, but the cold did not increase perceptibly. a more cheerful feeling had obtained and the situation was now looked upon by most of the prisoners as but one of the extraordinary incidents of rocky mountain travel. the one woman had retired to her own car and stafford, after a season of wild imagining, had returned to earth again. he sat looking upon the scene with a degree of interest. experienced and toughened man of the world as he chanced to be, he was not lacking in keen sympathies, and he wondered, as he studied the faces about him, how the test would be endured should the car be no longer heated and the supply of food become exhausted before aid could reach them? he had been snowbound before, and he knew the more than uncomfortable possibilities of the case. there might be a more continued fall of snow than any one anticipated. the howl of the wind had subsided a little and was no longer so menacing in tone, but rather whistled and muttered, as it tossed the masses of snow about. it seemed to stafford as indicating no increased fierceness of the storm but, instead, more snow. the man who has experienced much of climes and seasons learns to recognize a prophecy in the voice of the wind and to set his house in order accordingly. in this case, stafford had much rather have heard the wind still giving utterance to its wolf's howls. howls and bluster were nothing, but an addition to the difficulties of the relief train was what was most to fear. so stafford did not like the wind's more whimpering tones. the other passengers, with the exception of a grizzled miner, and perhaps, a few others who had long known the storm king personally, appeared delighted at any abatement of the turmoil outside. to them, lack of noise was proof of lack of peril. it was the colonel, that fine combination of colonel newcombe, mr. macawber and an up-to-date retired american army officer, who gave direction to the course of events again, as the discussion went on idly. he broke in: "what the minister told us regarding what was or was not a special providence relieved us, certainly, for it gave us a conundrum, and conundrums distract the mind, but we must keep the distraction up. have there been no other providential dispensations?" he turned to the miner, whom he chanced to know well: "here, jim, you who have been so long in the mountains, ought to be able to tell us of escapes which seemed purely providential. don't you know of any such affair?" the miner, who was diffident, and who, furthermore, spoke in mountain phrase and with a queer stutter, tried to say that he really did know of one such case, and the colonel forced him to tell the story. translated into english--for it was with difficulty that the miner was understood, and the colonel, who was familiar with the account, gave most of it--this is the story of what happened to a man and wife, not altogether tenderfeet, in the hills, and what was accomplished by the life line robert felton was in luck when he met an eastern girl in salt lake city. he was from chicago and she from boston. an inveterate sportsman was felton and each autumn when he came out to visit a mine in which he was interested the trip terminated with a hunting expedition which extended sometimes to the very edge of the time of storms and snow. once or twice he and his companions had been nearly caught snowbound in the mountains and he had acquired experience, not perhaps sufficient. he met a tall bronze-haired, gray-eyed catherine murdoch who was on a visit from the east--and that settled it. he fell in love a thousand feet and wooed with all the vigor and persistency he might have exhibited after elk or bear. it didn't take long. the splendid advance of the tempestuous hunter-miner, business man, as cultivated as she too, somehow fascinated the frigid beauty and she yielded in almost no time. they met in june, were married in september and spent the winter and spring and summer in chicago. then, with approaching autumn, came again upon felton the mountain fever, and he proposed the usual western trip. he was in love as deeply as ever and he was a considerate man. "we'll go to salt lake city," he said, "and i'll attend to my business--it's all in town there--and then, dear, you'll let me make a hunting trip, won't you, while you stay in the city and have a good time with mary." mary was mrs. felton's cousin. "where do you hunt, bob?" inquired mrs. felton. "oh, generally away up a canyon which forks from one where a couple of my friends have a mine. i've had a sort of shack built away up on the side of this branch canyon, which is about five miles across country from the mine, and, every fall, they send over a stock of provisions--canned goods and flour, and sugar and tea and coffee--and come over themselves when they can and hunt and fish with me. it will be a little late this year." "what sort of a place is this shack of yours?" "it's fine. there are a cook stove and table and three chairs and a bed. there's a window, too, and there's a lithograph of li hung chang tacked up on the wall. it's just voluptuous--makes you think of the taj mahal on the outside and the boudoir of a sultan's favorite in the inside. it's a dream." "bob, i'm not going to stay in salt lake city. i'm going hunting with you." "what?" the tone of the lady became just a shade pleading: "why not, bob?" "madam, you're an honor to my home but in a shack in the mountains you would be like la cigale. out of your fitting clime and place and your own sweet season, you would perish as do the summer insects. so go the ephemera. why, dear, up in the shack there, it's only hunting, and fishing, and climbing or falling and washing tin dishes and eating and sleeping as sleep the dead and then doing the same things over again. you're no jewel for such a setting." the charming lady hesitated for a moment and then spoke very thoughtfully and earnestly though, it must be admitted, with a certain degree of cooingness. "bob, i'm afraid i've been negligent, perhaps criminally secretive--but i have failed to make clear to you one side of my character. i wish you to understand, sir, that i have been in the adirondacks, season after season, that i can swim like a duck, that i can cast a fly and that i can shoot tolerably well. furthermore i can cook almost anything in a tin dish. am i not going with you, bob?" there was some astonishment and a whoop, certain excusable demonstrations and, two weeks later, his business concluded in salt lake city, felton and his wife were up in the cabin in the mountain and the nickel had been fairly dropped in the western slot. it is wonderful when a man is afield with a man companion who understands both him and the woods. it is more wonderful still when the companion is a woman and the creature closest to him and understands all things, as well. his old friends of the mining camp--came over and hunted with him as usual and that fair veneered barbarian cooked famously for them, like a laughing, chaffing squaw and added two more to her list of her fervent admirers. never were such happy days for felton as when he fished or hunted with his wife. woman who well knew the mountains, wise as well as beautiful woman, she had provided herself with a suit for the time's exigency. thick woolen was it, ending in knickerbockers and stout shoes. there was a skirt which, by unclasping its belt, could be taken on or off in an instant. she proved sturdy and there is no occasion for the telling of the fishing and hunting records of the two. they were most content and they lingered in the mountains. one day--it was late for autumn--in the foothills--jim trumbull, one of felton's two mining friends over on a visit said abruptly: "felton, it's time to leave. we're all ready to skip." "i think so too," said felton. "those first little snows seem ominous. i think we'll get it early in the season. i intend to leave to-morrow night. the burros are all ready." but the next day felton and his wife found tracks and hunting and a good day of it, and so night found them still in the cabin. at eight o'clock in the evening felton went out and looked about. there was a great ring around the moon, and the stars had a dim look, not like their usual story. "it looks like the sky over chicago," felton muttered. he slept uneasily and was awake at daylight looking anxiously from the cabin door. the earth had changed. the universe was white. the earth was white and the air was white. he leaped back into the cabin. breakfast over, the man who had forced himself to eat, said: "get a day's food, kate, and get on your hunting dress, with thick garments under it, as quickly as you can." she did as he told her and he made swiftly a back load of the provisions and her skirt and two great blankets. well knew he that they must reach parson's camp or be lost. they plunged into the whiteness. they must cross the billowy tongue of high land up and down lying between the two forks of the great canyon. across this mesa ran a rude trail which none knew better than did felton, but to feel and keep it with this white shroud of snow upon the ground and in the air was a feat almost impossible. they plunged ahead into the white depths, for the wind had made the snow deep in the opening, and this depth, while it retarded their progress, was after all a godsend. it aided felton in keeping the trail. what need to tell of the details of that awful day? darkness was falling when felton carried an exhausted and senseless woman into parson's camp. there was no one there. felton struck a match and found a half-burned candle. he gave his wife whiskey and water and, later, food, and she was soon herself, for the trouble was but exhaustion. then felton sat down upon a chair and figured the thing out aloud. [illustration: "they plunged into the whiteness"] "they thought we'd gone and so did not pay any attention to us. they had sense enough to skip in time." his wife was up and beside him now. "what of it?" she said, "we have shelter and warmth, and when it stops snowing perhaps we can dig out"--seeing his face, she added--"anyway we'll be rescued, somehow." her husband laughed, agreeingly. "of course," he said, "we're all right." then he began looking around for food. he found in one corner a bushel of potatoes and hanging beside a bunk of shelves where the cook had kept his dishes, there was a good part of a dried deer's ham. standing on a chair he peered over the top of the shelves. there was nothing there. "we shall have to live on dried venison and potatoes," he said. "they seem to have left most of their stuff on top here," and the lady was content. "we'll have venison in all sorts of ways," she commented. "here's some salt," and she held up a little bag she had found on the floor. they supped on what they had brought and slept in the bunk which with its belongings, had been abandoned by one of felton's friends. there passed a couple of blithesome days--to the woman--while felton, brave liar, smiled and made fires, and puns and love, and was sick at heart and full of an inflammatory vocabulary in his inmost being. the miners had probably not yet half way floundered through the snow lying between them and a more or less green old valley. without aid from the outside felton knew that he and his wife must die. the snow fell quietly, steadily, remorselessly. when the two should be missed on the arrival of the miners at the settlement, it was more than likely that the mountains would be inaccessible until spring. felton found an axe and kept himself from desperation by digging out certain trees in a wind blown clear space one side of the cabin. the small trees he converted into firewood, passing the sticks through the window to kate, who delightedly piled the fuel up in great stacks by the chimney. it was not very cold, and they congratulated themselves upon their store of wood, which was carefully husbanded, for future contingencies. on the fourth day it ceased snowing and they could see the world. it was all white. the snow was about five feet on a level around the house. the canyon down which the home trail ran was evenly filled with feathery powdered snow. it grew colder. felton at last told the truth to catherine. "dear, i have been lying to you frightfully. there has been no food on the top of the big shelf. we have enough to live on for four or five days, at the utmost. then we must starve. we are supposed by our friends to be safe, and we cannot reach the outside world. it would take weeks for the most determined men to reach us--from sharon even, the nearest settlement." any man should be satisfied with what this woman did then. she said: "dear, the only reproach i have is that you did not tell me the true situation at first. then we could have suffered together, and that would have been better. as it is i think i realize all the situation now. we are together and we have been very happy anyhow." this altogether illogical conclusion of her words somehow strengthened felton wonderfully. he began fumbling round the room. courage filled his heart, without reason, he felt, but with courage regained he was not inclined to quibble as to its source. "i don't know," he said, "somehow, my girl, you've given me hope. i'll bet the good god will help us." "course he will," responded this dignified, blessed young matron born and bred in boston. "come," said catherine, rousing herself from the thoughtful mood which had gripped her, after the first excitement of felton's revelation was over. "we haven't half explored this place. who knows but there's a barrel of flour stowed away in some dark corner." "behind this door--for example," said felton, entering into his wife's mood, and glad for any little diversion to check thought and imagination. there had been standing against the wall in one dark corner of the room an old door, evidently brought in from some outhouse for the repairing of its hinges. it had not been disturbed since the new occupancy of the place. felton grasped the pineplanks in both hands and set them to one side. there semi-gleaming in the candlelight hung revealed one of the two business ends of the common place and eminently valuable telephone of north america. felton gasped and then sat down backwards on the floor. "holy smoke," was all he said. catherine came running to the half dazed man but for a little time he said nothing. he was thinking. he remembered suddenly that there was a telephone between the mine and the nearest town in the valley, that to which the miners had fled. of course the line was deep beneath the snow, part of the way, but it might be working. he looked at his wife in a dazed way, clambered to his feet and took hold of the receiver. "don't be disappointed," said catherine, "if it doesn't work. we shall be saved somehow." "hello!" shouted felton, into the familiar, waiting 'phone. the dazed wife stood by in the silence which ensued, saying nothing. moment after moment passed and there came no answer. still the man stood there repeating at intervals of four or five minutes the hopeless word, the call "hello". suddenly he upreared himself, laughed somewhat wildly, and applied his lips to the transmitter. "hello! who is this?" came the query from sharon. "i am robert felton. tell jim worthy or george long that we are snowed in at parsons, without provisions for more than a few days, and tell them to come in a hurry--the trail is from five to twenty feet deep in snow." "who do you mean by we--all of the parson's crowd?" then another question was put. "my wife is with me--we are alone--the parson's outfit left the night the storm began." "all right. keep a stiff upper lip. there'll be help coming," called the operator, and the bell rung ending the conversation. felton could not speak. he sat dumbly waiting, while catherine chattered to him of commonplace things to win him back to his ordinary frame of mind. soon the telephone bell rang again, and this time friendly, well known voices gave messages of hope and good cheer. it was rumored that the men from parson's camp were on the way--but so far they had not arrived. men and horses amply supplied with tools, with provisions, with everything needful, would leave the valley at once for the work of rescue. "but how long can you hold out?" at last broke in one of the heartsome, friendly voices. "it may take us ten or even twenty days to shovel through to you--can you stand such a siege?" "we'll do our best," returned felton, over the wire, "but the truth is, we are pretty short of food, so take no chances." they were already living on carefully measured out rations and felton resolved to reduce his own portion below the meagre amount he had already given himself. "keep up heart, we'll help you--good-bye!" so ended this talk with worthy and long. the days dragged. the wood chopping, the fire keeping, the story telling, to beguile the weary hours, went on. once or twice a day came a message of good hope from sharon. the rescuers were off, and in the shortest time possible would reach the beleagured couple. one morning there came a sharp, insistent ringing of the bell which opened the door of the world to these two who were making their one daily meal from scraps of dried meat, and almost the very last of the treasured rations were in their hands at the moment. "hello!" called felton at the 'phone in a moment. "hello! that you felton?" "yes. this isn't tom, is it?" "yes--of course, tom, just in from parson's--been hearing about you. we left in a hurry--mighty lucky or you wouldn't have had the telephone connected and ready for business." it was one of the men from parson's camp. "they've reached sharon!" said felton to catherine. "say!" came tom's voice over the wire, "you've found the stores, haven't you?" "what stores?" replied felton--"we found a little dried venison, and some potatoes in the cupboard, but they are all gone." "darn a tenderfoot anyway!" shouted tom--then recollecting himself he went on. "take up a board there over by the table. where do you expect to find provisions if not in the cellar?" then he muttered to himself. "they're in luck. it's just a providence! we thought of packing that grub down with us." down went the hand of felton, and away he sprung to the square pine table near the door. taking up a loose board he gazed exantantly into what tom called the cellar, a square hole under the floor, filled with boxes and kegs and tin cans of meat and vegetables and biscuits. "catherine!" he called, but catherine was already there, kneeling by him, her arms around his neck. she was crying, the brave girl, and felton was conscious of a sneaking desire to follow her example. "but won't we feast?" at last catherine spoke. and then she ran to the telephone to send her own special message to tom, and to the whole parsons outfit, and it is certain that there never went over the wires a more grateful and gracious thankfulness than was expressed by catherine and felton upon this occasion. and so, with renewed life, the two awaited events, and one day, toward noon, they heard through the stillness a faint sound, a sort of metallic clink, and a little later they were sure of the welcome ring of men's voices. felton fired off the loaded rifle which hung over the cabin door at parson's and soon came an answering volley of pistol shots and a faintly heard muffled "hurrah." felton seized his own snow shovel, and began madly working through the drifts in front of the door. his efforts looked puny in the waste of snow, but it was a relief to his nerves to be active, and soon catherine joined him, laughing and royally flourishing the parsons broom. it was two hours before the rescuing army of miners and cowboys reached the little lane which felton and catherine had cut out and swept for them--scarce ten yards it reached from the doorway. and then, well, then it was but a few days back to the world--that world which had been saved to felton and his wife by the life line, the wire stretched across and through the snow between mountains and men. chapter vii a toad and a song there had been a period of aimless talk in the rear car after the miner had concluded, but this resolved itself finally into a lively discussion regarding the probable quality of the hidden country round about. some declared that there existed only the abomination of desolation while others spoke of the amazing wealth concealed beneath the surface of the earth and asserted that neither the land of ophir nor pennsylvania could endure comparison with the region in which they were now marooned. "is this place in the midst of the ore-producing or the coal region?" some one asked, "or is it in neither? how about it, mr. miner?" "i don't know," responded the miner, "i only know that if it's coal, it's better than metal. when you find coal, you've got something. when you find silver or gold, you don't know how hard it may be to extract it from its rock or how soon the find will peter out. even bonanzas peter out. when you find gold or silver, you're just flirtin'. when you strike a coal bed you've got married." there was a laugh at the miner's simile and then a reflection from another seeker after information, mrs. livingston this time. "i wonder which is the older, the ore or the coal? it would be interesting to know." "i imagine, madam," said the professor, as he was only known, "that the ore deposits, formed by volcanic upheavals, far antedate those of coal, originating from vegetable deposits, great forests, fern-like forests it may be, which had their being long after earth had become productive. besides, as i understand, a toad has been taken from a coal mine and the toad, thus discovered, belongs to a modern order of batrachians." "was the toad alive?" was asked. "so i understand," said the professor. "it was in a comatose condition but revived when brought into the air and light." there was much comment among the party and then an idea came suddenly to the young lady, who was by no means lacking in sentiment or fancy. "i wonder," she mused, "what that toad was thinking of during all the centuries of his dark imprisonment? mr. poet," she broke out, "you are to retire to the end of the car and, for one hour, at least, no word may you utter. i will find you paper and pencil now, and you may not speak again until you have written a poem telling of the sensations of that toad when he was restored to light and air again." the poet was gallant. "one cannot do well always under duress," was his response, "but one should certainly make an effort, under the circumstances. i'll do my best, at least." and so, amid the laughter of the passengers, he was hustled off to a corner and left to his fancies and his struggle. the conversation went on and the sufferer in the corner was almost forgotten save, of course, by the young lady. it was a little after the hour's end, when he emerged, exhibiting a rather graceful diffidence. and this is what he read: the toad from the mines i am a toad, squat and grimy and rough and brown, i come from a queer abode, from down, down, down, where, for centuries, no light had fallen on my sight, until, with sudden shock, parted the rock, yielded the stony clamps and blazed in my dim eyes the miners' lamps! what view is now unfurled! it is another world from that i left centuries ago, to which they've brought me since the black rock was cleft where thus they caught me. centuries ago, one day, i was upon a river bank, at play. nature was very fair; i fed on buzzing insects of the air, beneath tall palms that grew beside the stream in which huge monsters bathed. it did not seem a world like this at all. it was more grand. the mighty waters washed a teeming land and life was great and fervid. suddenly upheaved the land, upheaved the awful sea; the earth was riven; toppling forests bent, to sink and disappear in that vast rent! down, down, down. the landscape plunged from light and life away and now again, to me alone, 'tis day. how odd it all appears! encysted in the rock ten thousand years, i am a stranger here; i cannot praise those who released me; mine are not your ways. in this new life i have no enterprise; the sunshine in my eyes but gives me pain. put me in some niche of the rock again, it is the only fit abode for me--a prehistoric toad. there was a buzz of applause as the poet concluded. then up rose colonel livingston. "the toad's experience has made me sentimental and dreamy of mood. personally, i'd like to have my savage breast soothed by some music. has anybody a piano? no? well, we can get along without one. will not some one sing? who can sing? mr. stranger,"--and he addressed himself to a recent and as yet unrecognized addition to the party--"you seem to enter into the spirit of the occasion and to enjoy our fancies indulged here in this, our preposterously direful strait. will you sing for us?" [music: . we are the dreamers of dreams, we're the creators of fancies; ... we are whatever it seems, ... the owners of reason that dances. we are the dreamers of dreams. . we tread the paths that are vagrant, and we do the deeds that are flagrant, ... but ever, without any goad, ... we find our way back to the road. we are the dreamers of dreams. . for we are the dreamers of dreams, etc. ] and to the amazement of all, the stranger did not hesitate a moment. "certainly," said he. "i believe in fancies." and this is what he sang: the dreamers of dreams we are the dreamers of dreams; we are the creatures of fancies; we are--whatever it seems,-- the owners of reason that dances, we are the dreamers of dreams. we tread in the paths that are vagrant, and we do the deeds that are flagrant; but ever without any goad, we find our way back to the road. for we are the dreamers of dreams; we are the creatures of fancies; we are--whatever it seems,-- the owners of reason that dances, we are the dreamers of dreams. chapter viii alan macgregor's brown leg one whose presence aided in promoting a healthful mental atmosphere among those so constrained to be together was a lady perhaps thirty years of age who bore herself with the air of a school-teacher, but decidedly with the manner of one whom her pupils would more love than fear. she laughingly alluded to herself as the teacher and, by common consent, this had become her designation. it was she, most well-informed and reflective of ladies, who, after the applause following the stranger's song had barely died away, advanced a proposition involving immediately and deeply a tanned, good-looking man who, as was known, had been engaged in the work of collecting rare orchids in south america. "i have read somewhere," said she, "that people adrift for days at sea, and parched and half-crazed with thirst, either relieve or, possibly, aggravate their sufferings--i do not know how that may be--by all sorts of queer debate as to whether ice-water is good for the health or not, whether iced-claret is better than plain lemonade, in short in a discussion as to the relative merits of all sorts of cooling drinks. and i have read too, that people starving, like some of the arctic explorers, conduct themselves in almost the same way, imagining all sorts of magnificent repasts, each telling of some meal where his choice among foods was the principal dish or describing what he would first order should he ever reach civilization again. "now," she continued, "it seems to me," and she drew her cloak about her more closely and with a shudder, "it seems to me that it would be a great relief and comfort if some one were to tell a story of a tropic region, a place where snow and ice are all unknown. i think we would enjoy it. i know i should myself. mr. explorer," and she turned to that gentleman, "you have certainly at some time wandered about in the vicinity of the equator, cannot you tell us a story, the scene of which is laid in a region where it is always decently warm?" and she shuddered again and cuddled down more closely in her seat. the explorer answered readily: "i've been in the vicinity of the equator a great many times, but i do not remember any experience which would furnish material for a story." he hesitated a moment, "ah, yes, i do, it's a very curious story, too. i think we may call it alan macgregor's brown leg alan macgregor was with us in south america. he was with us, but not of us. he had money enough, and had come along just because i wanted him to, and he wanted to see what the tropics were like. we were a semi-scientific group, looking for orchids and caoutchouc and various other things which could be transported down the amazon and turned into good dollars at any port on the atlantic coast. macgregor was practically an outsider, but was generally regarded as one of us. i think the only possible distinction which existed between him and any other man of the group was, that he was desperately in love with a young scottish woman of chicago, of whose intense clannishness and patriotism he was everlastingly boasting and laughing the while. in fact, he became almost something of a bore to us, with his dreaming and his tale-telling of this miss agnes cameron, who, he declared was the most earnest highlander on the face of the earth. she knew every clan and the coloring of any crisscross of tartan ever worn under snowflake or under sunshine. he was most desperately in love, and what he seemed greatly to admire in his sweetheart was her pure scottish patriotism. she thought of, and he quoted, only "scots wha hae wi' wallace bled," or "up with the bonnets of bonny dundee," or any other thing of that sort relating to the exploits of the highlanders of modernly classic times. well, macgregor and i did a good deal of exploring and a good deal of shooting, and enjoyed ourselves together. it is not necessary in this account to mention the exact locality, because, to tell the truth, i could not remember it distinctly myself. we were camped in the corner of a little affluent of the amazon, some hundreds of miles up from the delta. it was a pleasant enough region, barring the fact that it was frightfully hot and that there seemed to be more jaguars and alligators and anacondas to the square mile than were really necessary. of course, tastes differ as to the number of jaguars and alligators and anacondas there should be to this mentioned area, but the consensus of opinion in our little party was that, in that latitude and altitude, the average had been a little overrun. not only were they numerous--the animals thus indicated--but they seemed to be, in every instance, healthy and unnecessarily enterprising. lots of things happened, but the thing which has always remained best fixed in my memory was the affair of macgregor's brown leg. we had been out shooting parrots together that very afternoon, and i remember that he drove me nearly mad by his repetition of how good a scotchwoman his "lassie" was, and how she boasted of the fact that she was a direct descendant of the reckless old riever, who, herding back into the highlands stolen cattle from the lowlands, and stopping for a few hours about midnight to let kine and clansmen rest, suddenly discovered that his son, his eldest son, the pride of clan and family, had so degenerated that, lying barelegged in the snow, he had rolled up a snowball for a pillow, and was there sleeping most luxuriously when his father found him. the old laird promptly kicked that snowball into the ewigkeit, and wanted to know how far his family had become degenerate and degraded! well, miss agnes cameron boasted of this old laird as her great, great, and so on, ancestor. this will give some idea of the extent of her native pride in bare legs and scottish blood. it was, perhaps, four o'clock one afternoon when we were in camp in an open glade in the very midst of the forest, that the whole company scattered itself of its own impulse. i wanted to study the habits of a small animal, a specimen of which i had seen among some rocks a mile away--a sort of little armadillo. my scientific associate wanted to try for a jaguar, the growls of which our attendants had heard in the forest, a mile or so in the other direction. the natives whom we had employed as guides and servants were themselves anxious to engage in a little expedition of their own. they had seen a fruit of which they are fond--they are always gorging when they have opportunity, these almost savage natives--and they wanted to go out and gather a great quantity of it while the opportunity offered. alan alone remained inactive. he had worked hard the day before, had done a lot of shooting, and had need of rest, and now, as he declared, he wanted to slip away and sleep all the afternoon. sometimes alan drank a little. i believe he had a flask with him that day. at any rate, we all departed and left him lying stretched out upon the ground beneath a giant tree, which kept him shaded as if beneath an umbrella, fifty feet, at least, in its diameter. that is all there was to the situation. we drifted away into the forest in our several directions, and left alan lying there sleeping like a lump, for, poor fellow, he needed rest. "it would take a good deal to disturb that man," laughed one of the party as we departed. now, as to what followed, i can tell you only of what i did not see, but what, as was made apparent later, was the absolute fact. we were camped close beside a great creek which reached the affluent of the amazon, and along these creeks, as along the river proper, were gigantic serpents. the anaconda is as much at home on land as in water. those big constrictors of the southern part of this great hemisphere are dreadful. they prey upon the deer and upon a thousand other things. they are a terror everywhere, and, though we did not know it at the time, there was concealed in that tree beneath which poor alan was lying, a very healthy specimen of this powerful reptile. that was what we concluded afterward, although the great snake may not have been there when we left, and may have come afterward. anyway, what happened must have been just this: the great serpent saw the sleeping man, and looked upon him as his prey. he saw what was his food breathing stertorously, and he dropped from the tree or came up from the river beside him. he began to swallow the man. [illustration: "the great snake began its work of deglutition"] it was unfortunate for this particular anaconda that the reptilia are not great reasoners. he should have begun upon the man's head. then it would have been a simple thing. the man would have been engulfed, the serpent would have crawled sluggishly a hundred yards or so away and begun his period of digestion, and that would have been the end of the incident. instead of that, he started on a foot, and began swallowing from that point. now, it is a well-known fact that this swallowing of a body by any of the constrictor family, except as to contraction and eventual suffocation, is harmless, because the jaws of this class of serpents are unconnected. the upper jaw slips forward, hooks onto the body with its fangs and draws it into an enormously distended throat. then the under jaw slips forward in the same manner, hooks its fangs, and draws it back in the same way. so, inch by inch, a body is engulfed. anything with a nonsensitive exterior can be swallowed by an anaconda, a boa, or a python without knowing about it until a lack of air becomes apparent. macgregor wore a pair of very heavy leather trousers he had secured to guard him against the undergrowth with which we had to worry. so the great snake began his work of deglutition, and alan lay there, unconscious of what was going on. still that snake swallowed alan as fast as he could. he swallowed him as far up as the leg went and then stopped, from the simple fact that the rest of alan lay at right angles across his mouth, and he could not swallow any further. but a snake does not reason much, and this particular anaconda lay there contented, perhaps in his dim way knowing that he had got something good as far as it went, and that he was satisfied. and the process of digestion went on. it was truly a coincidence that we all returned almost together that evening. it must have been about seven o'clock. malcolm came back from his particular quest without a jaguar. i had failed to find my little animal. the natives had found their fruit, and had gathered a large load, or they would have been in long before us. then we looked for alan. to describe the scene that ensued when our poor friend was discovered would be impossible. he was sleeping like a log. we thought him dead, at first, but some one gave him a spat upon the face and shouted, and he leaped, or tried to leap, to his feet, and when he saw what was the matter, he gave one of the most blood-curdling yells ever emitted upon either the north or the south american continent. the snake began thrashing around, but was already in a semi-lethargic condition, and was promptly chopped in two a little below the point where the foot of our poor friend was supposed to be. then the remainder of the serpent was cut away with much difficulty from the leg which it had enveloped, and a shocking spectacle was presented. it is understood, generally, that the digestive organs of the anaconda are something most remarkable. here was an illustration in fact. not only the leather trousers of our unfortunate friend had been digested away, but the digesting process had reached his skin and destroyed it utterly. the bare flesh was all exposed and the skin had followed the trousers. alan was unable to stand, and was so overcome with horror at his condition, as to be incapable of suggesting anything for relief from his immediate predicament or for his future restoration. the raw flesh attracted a myriad of insects, who added all their tantalizing possibilities to the situation. alan could not bear contact with any sort of covering, and none of us was provided with oiled silk or anything suitable for such an unheard-of emergency. i did not know what to do. i called upon dr. jacobson, the eminent scientist of the expedition. hardly had i asked his advice, before there came the whirr and swish of arrows, and we were in a charming fight in no time. the event, in fact, became almost too interesting, but we managed to drive off the natives and found half a dozen of them, dead or dying in the underbrush. they had carried off most of their wounded. to jacobson came an inspiration, as he was looking curiously at one of the dead natives. he broke out excitedly: "there's an insensible, dying indian just about the size of macgregor. if we work quickly enough, we can do the biggest job of skin grafting ever heard of upon this or any other continent, or anywhere in stellar space as far as you have a mind to go." we did it all with a rush, under the scientist's direction. we skinned that half-way nigger's leg, and it was immediately and neatly inflected, adjusted, and stitched upon the leg which had loitered a shade too long in the maw of the anaconda. the dark skin fitted on, and grew to be a part of macgregor in almost no time. talk about the "hand-me-down" man who assures the customer that the thing "fits shust like de paper on de vall," well, neither he nor his customer could be counted in with our scientist and macgregor and a portion of the south american, so lately but so permanently deceased. that is about all there is to the tropical part of this episode. i was present when alan met his sweetheart again. soon came st. andrew's day. macgregor was to be a prominent figure, and his sweetheart awaited the occasion with pride and hopefulness, and great enthusiasm. she waited, anxiously, until she should see her true love conspicuous, as she thought he ought to be, in the crack organization of those who made part of the parade of st. andrew's day. there came a moment of intense excitement, both to her and to the somewhat overbearing scottish group about her. when it was generally understood that the most vaunting, aristocratic, and full-blooded scots company was about to pass, she watched and watched, watched just for him, to see her great lover stalking nobly in the finest company. time lagged. never before had time so loafed and enjoyed himself in some nonsense by the wayside. finally, a hundred yards away, came imposing and demanding on the ear-drums the music of the pipes. there wasn't any slogan, because there wasn't any fight, but something almost as appealing to the clean, stubborn, scottish heart, be it in man or woman. they swung around the corner and into the main street. she saw it all and she knew it all, and looked for alan macgregor among those coming barelegged to the fore with the weird music which has for centuries meant ever pluck, and sometimes conquest. her eyes turned this way and that way, and finally they lit upon her sweetheart. there was no doubt about it. there he was, marching as lieutenant or something of that sort, of the tartaned company, all barelegged from below the kilt a little above the knee to thick stocking just below the knee, all alike displaying this ancient scottish endurance of field and flood and of anything else. the girl's stately alan walked grandly in his place, clad confidently in the tartan of his clan, and showing his strip of leg about the knee as brazenly as did any other man of the parading scotsmen. the girl saw him, looked upon him, first buoyant, excited and admiring, then appalled. she saw him lording it abroad among his minions, and, at the same time, she noted that his legs were black and those of the other men white. she could not understand it; it was something ghastly. what had happened was this: it was the morning of st. andrew's day, and they were gathered in the armory, the hundreds of enthusiastic scots. the sun's rays shot slanting through the windows, lit upon bonnet, tartan, and sporan, and upon legs bare at the knee, "uncomely fair," as a veteran observed, which was not to be wondered at, as they were thus exposed but once a year, to the intense but concealed discomfort of their shivering but patriotic owners. ringing-voiced and cheerful among them was alan macgregor. he dressed himself in the retiring room, as did the others, and came out in all the kilted glory of his ancient clan. he was a fine figure of a man to look upon, but there was a howl when he appeared. the bare patch about the knee of one leg showed white, and on the other, black! "ken ye what's the matter wi' your legs, mon?" roared a giant among the group; and macgregor looked down, to realize in a moment his condition. it would never do to march through the streets with one leg black and the other white. in desperation he told his story to his assembled countrymen. there was a groan of sympathy and perplexity, until the tension was relieved by the cry of an inventive young whelp from the orkneys: "what's the matter with ink?" the suggestion was received with a howl of applause, and, three minutes later, the bare portion of macgregor's white leg was made to correspond in color with the other. to repeat, in a way, what has been already told, from the armory, the gallant scotsmen swung upon the street in serried numbers, to march imposingly through streets lined and flanked with thousands and thousands of their fellow-citizens of any birth. they made a spectacle which it was good to see. each piper "screwed his pipes and garred them skirl," "the pibroch lent its maddening tone," and the pipes droned and clamored and yelped for victory nearer and nearer all the time. the marchers passed in gallant style. the moment came at last when, with a defiant howl of the pipes, macgregor's company passed the stand, and it was now that, as has been related, agnes saw her lover, broad shouldered, cleanly built, and striding with the inherited gait of a thousand chieftains. eh! but he was fine! for one blissful moment agnes gazed upon her lover's figure, before she saw his knees. she swooned, and the lady who sat next her applied her salts and led her gently from the scene. it seemed to the scotchwoman there was but one thing for her to do. when she recovered sufficiently, she wrote this letter to her alan: oh, alan! are ye no patriot, no product of the scotsmen of the old time? and i, i thought your blood as blue as the water in the mountain lakes fresh tinted from the sky. oh, alan! my alan! ye looked so braw, barrin' the black breeks ye wore to protect the single patch of ye from the raw weather. oh, alan! did our stern ancestors do the like of that? cared they for squall or flurry or the frost rime? oh, my alan! i love ye. ye ken it well, but we must not marry. think ye i would tak pride in children of the man of the black breeks? i'm gey--sore gey! your agnes. now note what happened! now pity me! alan was heart-riven and wild, and came to me in his distress. i was the only person in the great city who could give authoritatively the story of his brown leg. i was the only person who could re-establish him in agnes' mind as an ardent scot. imagine a mission like that. imagine a man having to go and talk to a young lady about one of her lover's legs! i don't know how i did it, but certainly i did it. i want to say here and now and frankly--and i don't care whether she reads it or not--that when i first met her, the temperature was far more sultry than we had ever found it upon the amazon. it dropped many degrees, though, before my story was concluded. well, they have a boy about two years old, and they have named him after me. i don't know what i'll do to that boy. the little wretch hugs me so strenuously that i believe he is part anaconda. and this ended the story-telling for the day. their imaginations had been "stretched enough" commented kindly mrs. livingston. chapter ix the huge hound's mood the morning of the third day of rude experience opened somewhat more brightly for "the wastrels of the waste," as the young lady of the party very nicely designated them, for it had cleared. there remained, however, the thought that the addition to the snowfall must delay the work of rescue, an apprehension which was soon confirmed. stafford was using the telegraph with no inconvenience now. he had contrived to bring a wire from the main line into the smoking car, and communication from there with those on the relief train was an easy matter. the news that came was not exhilarating. very slow headway was being made, so the workers beyond the drifts reported. the railroad company had not yet installed the rotary snow-plows which, later, proved most effective, hurling the snow to a distance and clearing the way thoroughly, while the one in use but bored its way through the drifts, only to have a part of the tossed-up mass come whelming back to the track again. there was a vast amount of shovelling to do, and that took time. the resolute workers "at the other end of the trouble," as the trainmen called it, were not discouraged, but they admitted that they were not attending a midsummer picnic. in fact there was no semblance of a picnic about it. they were not so assured now that release would come to the enthralled on the fourth day, at the latest. they but expressed a glittering confidence that the fifth day, beyond all doubt, would see the end. this assurance by no means satisfied the captive passengers. they felt that the white jailor still held the keys and had them in his inside pocket. there was much gossip over the emergency line and, despite the somewhat oppressive news, there was infused an element of cheerfulness by this easy, sympathetic communication with the outside world. the car in which the instrument was placed was a magnet, for, though stafford was the only one on the train possessing sufficient experience to accomplish what he had done, there were some who understood a little of the science of telegraphy and could receive and send messages, after a fashion. communication between the trains was going on most of the time. stafford had completed his work at the instrument and returned to his own car, where the usual group, with others who had wandered in, were assembled, amusing themselves as best they could for the after-luncheon hour. he had noted the outline of a woman's head as he entered, and though her face was not toward him, knew very well to whom the fair head belonged. a sudden courageous impulse swayed him to its way, an impulse for which he had reason to be grateful all his life. he advanced and seated himself directly across the aisle from the far away lady, who looked at him and smiled a quiet welcome. he was not quite himself as he began talking to her, but he did well, under the circumstances, and so did she. it was a meeting as delicious as constrained, for this was the first occasion on which they had opportunity to engage in anything like a real conversation. hesitant, happy but, in a vague way, apprehensive, with a trying past recalled by tones as familiar to each as if five years were but an hour, the two exchanged only commonplaces at first, comment on the curious manner in which they were now held from the rest of humanity, or speculation over the immediate prospect. it was all commonplace, or would have been so, if either been able to veil the story of the eyes. eyes are faithful but sometimes faithless servitors, meaning well and doing ill. none can control them absolutely, lovers least of all. and then their misgivingly sweet communion was ended by what was so inconceivably and suddenly alarming and dangerous that even stafford was, for a moment, dazed. from outside came the sound of a wild yell followed by what was a man's shout, or rather shriek, of terror, then, commingled with a fierce yelp and growl, a sound of clattering on the car steps a rattling of the door, its sudden violent opening, as a man's form veered away from it and plunged into the snow on the other side, and then the appearance of a thing which hesitated but a second, then turned and entered the car leapingly, a monstrous brute with fanged jaws agape and glaring eyes and death in his fierce intent. not the black dog of the marshes, not red wull, the murderer of scottish sheep, not the hound of the baskervilles could have presented an appearance more utterly demoniacal. there were cries and shouts of alarm and the occupants of the car were on their feet as the great brute plunged forward. he saw, apparently, but one object. the far away lady had been sitting close to the outside of her seat and it was her white, startled face which drew the red eyes of the charging monster. two great leaps he made and the third was at her throat. but not so swift the leap as that of the man opposite the imperiled woman. as a panther starts, stafford shot from his place and was before her. with arm upraised, to shield his throat, he met the full impact of the tremendous force, staggering before it, but not falling. then began a struggle brief but terrifying. the hound's teeth found nothing as they came together, missing the fending left arm as the man thrust it forward, and coming together viciously as the brute fell back for an instant and leaped again. this time the arm was siezed fiercely as the man's right hand grasped firmly the dog's throat. there was a momentary wrenching and swaying, the dog's hold on the arm was lost and, at the same instant, almost, the hand of the arm released was aiding its fellow in the throat grip, when the fierce wrestle became more even. the dog writhed and twisted madly while the man stood, pale but firm, his legs braced against the seats as he sought a mastery of the folding skin and to bring his hands together until they should find the windpipe and afford a chance of throttling his powerful adversary. the feat was not an easy one, for there were great size and the strength of savage rage to overcome. growling hoarsely, foaming at the mouth, whining hungrily in its blood-thirst, the brute surged forward again and again, and wrenched and swayed in the effort to free himself from that merciless, seeking hold. so they swung and tottered for a moment, and then, at last, the man found the deadly grip he had been feeling for; he had the windpipe of the beast! now came another aspect to the struggle. the hound, in peril now, no longer aggressive, for the moment, was fighting for his life. his strength was going. with a mighty effort, stafford swung him about and backward against the seat, gasping and gurgling. with the utmost strength of his hands the man squeezed and bore forward, at the same time, with all the weight and impulse of his body. the dog twisted in frightful paroxysms, the red tongue protruded and the eyes stared blindly, but there was too much vitality in the animal for a sudden end of all. still the man surged forward with all his might, bearing so closely that the hot slaver of the beast was on his cheek and in his hair. the straining lasted for a little time, and then at last came what was certain; there was a sudden yielding, a great final gasp, the big body relaxed and straightened out and the fight was over. stafford rose weakly upright, assisted by the men who had vainly sought opportunity to assist him in the sudden fight and turned toward the woman who lay faint and white, against the window ledge, with face upturned and eyes unseeing. they carried her gently to her stateroom. [illustration: "the big body relaxed and straightened out"] there was a rush of the passengers to stafford's side and there were showering thanks and congratulations and all the exclamatory comment which would naturally follow a scene so startling and with such a termination, but one man swept the others aside, with suddenly acquired authority, and demanded an examination of stafford's hurt. it was the physician of the group, and the wisdom of his action was recognized at once. it was found that the dog's teeth had entered the fore-arm deeply, but the marks were clean and the blood was flowing readily. "it would be nothing serious," commented the doctor, "if it were not for the chance of hydrophobia. do you think the dog was mad?" he asked of stafford. and, even as he spoke, something happened, something which, as before, was so unexpected, so alarming, so utterly beyond all ordinary chance, as to rob the men there of the moment's reason. there was a snarl like that of a tiger at their very feet and the dog's neck upreared among them fiercely. he had not been strangled utterly unto death, and had revived to breath and life again. his strength seemed to return to him instantaneously. with a growl which was almost a roar, the beast surged into the aisle, his glaring eyes unseeing at first but, as perception came to them, discerning again but a single object. their devouring intent was upon a figure just entering the other doorway. the animal's sighted quarry was the effervescent youth who had first made himself generally known on the train because of his air of optimism. he had instant opportunity for an exhibition of all his blithesome qualities. straight toward the man the dog plunged furiously, in an uplifting leap which was but a hurling of himself squarely at his throat as he had leaped at that thinner one of the far away lady, but the youth lacked not presence of mind, which was illustrated in so diminutive a fraction of a second as to be practically unrecordable. far and well he sprang from the steps of the car and landed in a drift up to his armpits, falling forward as the dog plunged after him. the beast collided with the railing of the platform and turned and rolled into the snow as he struck the earth, or as nearly the earth as he could go. the snow was above his head, and well it was for the pursued that it was the case. the man plunged ahead, hampered, it is true, but making swift headway in his alarm, straight toward a tree on the ascending slope, a stunted pine which was providentially but a few yards away, while the brute pursuing him plunged wildly about yelping and barking, guided only by scent and sound in his fierce chase. the man had the advantage and what had seemed a prospective tragedy one moment became something very like a comedy the next. it was droll but well was it for the evading man that the snow he had lately been anathematizing had now become his ally and protector. he reached the tree not much ahead of the raving dog, who was at its trunk in a moment as soon as the pursued came fairly into sight, and clambering to safety upon a lower limb, not very far up but sufficiently high to assure him immunity from the snapping jaws of the beast leaping upward in a vain attempt to reach the perching chase. the youth wound his arms about the bole and dangled his legs down tantalizingly, meanwhile announcing exuberantly to the people who had rushed to the platform that snow was the finest thing in the world, when it was deep enough. all would have been over with in a moment and the youth free to come down from his eyrie but for a sudden interruption, for half a dozen of the passengers had, by this time, secured revolvers from their grips and were about to end at once the career of the raging animal. a shot, which missed had already been fired when the voice of stafford rang out sharply: "don't shoot! don't shoot the brute, yet! i want to know first whether or not he is a mad dog. wait a few moments." his request was obeyed unhesitatingly, all recognizing its good sense and forethought, while the gallus youth called out cheerily: "that's right. i'll amuse him here mr. stafford while you diagnose his ailment. it's a good idea. may save a record case of hydrophobia. try him on, but look out, or 'dar's gwine ter be not only trubble in de chu'ch but discawd in de choir.'" and while the passengers crowded at the windows and on the platforms, stafford did "try him on." he sent for bread and meat and, stepping down to the lower step of the car, waited until the dog had become silent for a moment and was gazing intently and watchfully upward at his undestined prey, and then called out, attracting his attention. there was a general shrinking back, the majority of the passengers expecting a rush of the animal toward the car again, but to the surprise of all he did not move as stafford spoke to him soothingly, though he turned his head and showed his teeth. stafford leaned forward and tossed to the dog's very feet the steaming meat and other food which had been brought and no sooner had the scent reached the nostrils of the beast than, ignoring instantly the man perched in the tree he pounced upon the food voraciously, gulping it down as if he had not fed for months. stafford called for more and fed the suffering creature until he would eat no longer. then he called the dog to him, good-naturedly and in an ordinary tone, and, astounding as it was to all, the beast responded, approaching him though somewhat cautiously. stafford sent for water, and finally the dog lapped it from a pail in quantities which told a story. dumb animal though it was upon which they were gazing the onlookers could not but sympathize with its evident past distress and recognize what had been the natural consequence. stafford rose and drew a long breath of relief. assuredly he had good reason. the chance of hydrophobia was past. "the dog is not mad," he said. "he was only starving and crazed with thirst and raging blindly at everything and anybody. i don't blame the unreasoning beast. how did it happen?" the whole thing was soon made clear. the dog, a dappled monster ulm, or siberian bloodhound, had been shipped from san francisco to the east by an owner to whom the hound was as the apple of his eye. it had been confined in the forward baggage car the man in charge of which had been ill during the train's imprisonment and had forgotten the beast entirely. the car had not been opened before and the imprisoned animal crazed by thirst and hunger, had gone practically insane with suffering and, upon the opening of the door, had leaped out furiously, in pursuit of the first object upon which it could vent its fury. one man's neglect had resulted in something very close to tragedy. now the dog was fawning at stafford's feet. he patted it on the head and the beast followed him into the baggage car again where it lay down contentedly. there was no thought of killing it now. as one man said: "we may be all going mad ourselves before we get out of this." but he created no apprehension. stafford returned to his car and another examination of his hurt was made. the punctures in his arm were treated by the doctor, to avoid all chances, as he said, and the episode of the dog was ended. chapter x the siren the startling episode of the attack of the dog had not sufficed to distract colonel livingston's regard from his manifest duty as guide, philosopher and friend to all the incarcerated wayfarers. he was too old a campaigner for that. after the confusion had ceased and comment on the stirring incident had died away, he looked about in austere contemplation. his eyes rested upon the conductor and porter, who were discussing something together at the end of the car. he acted promptly. "here," he called out, cheerfully but imperatively, "if you think that this train crew has but one sort of responsibility just now, you are mistaken. passengers must, under the circumstances, have even more attention than usual. they must be entertained. you must each tell a story. mr. conductor, i call upon you first." the conductor was mightily embarrassed. evidently story-telling was not his specialty. recognizing, however, the fact that there was nothing for him but submission to the inflexible colonel, he succumbed, red in the face and twisting nervously his short mustache. "i'm not much at telling anything," he managed to explain, "and don't believe i have any story of my own that would be worth while, but i never hear the whistle cut loose that i don't think of what a man i met in san francisco told me of what has been going on in one of the big cities, and may be going on yet for all i know. i haven't been east of denver for a long time--that's the end of my run--and, it seems to me, that, if what he told me is true, i'd have seen something about it in the newspapers. maybe not, though; they miss lots of things. anyhow, this is what he told me--and i'll try to tell it just as he did, even using some of his big words, about what has been happening with a kind of big whistle to help sailors which they call, the siren half a mile off shore, an adjunct of the light-house, was the siren, friend of mariners and enemy of all the rest of mankind. when the fog came upon the face of the waters and steamers and sailing vessels, creeping fearfully about in all directions, were in danger of collision, with resultant horrors, and shrieked out their apprehensions in strident whistlings, the siren responded through the opaque waste with a warning howl, telling each seaman where he was and where was safety and where was death. it was a howl of the pitch and key best adapted for reaching a great distance and served its purpose well, yet it was doleful as a sound from the tomb or the wail of a lost soul with a bass voice. but little cared the fog-fretted captains or their crews or passengers for the lugubriousness of the siren's call. as long as the notes of the misnamed fog-horn indicated the path to safety they cared nothing for the quality of the note. in the city which stood beside the shore, the case was different. people recognized the fact that the great water highways must be made safe and that mariners must be protected, but the burden of the siren was hard to bear. little attention had been paid to its sound at first but the constant iteration had told upon mind and body as tells the constant falling of a single drop of water upon the head. people were seriously affected. in the foggy season strong men became fretful and impatient and weak women were compelled to seek the country. the whole city was threatened with an attack of nervous debility. all night long, and sometimes late into the forenoon, the fog would hang stubbornly above the harbor, and all night long and far into the daylight, the siren would groan and groan while the people raved. sanitariums did a thriving business. some sort of climax was approaching when hannibal perkins appeared from the suburbs upon the scene. hannibal perkins was a young man about twenty-one years of age. he was born "down east" as he explained, and was tall and gaunt, with pleasant blue eyes and a soft voice. he was ambitious and possessed of an inventive genius which he wished to cultivate. he had graduated from the city high school and desired now to spend two or three years in a famous scientific academy, but could not gratify his wish, because of relative poverty. he helped his father in the work of a small truck farm just outside the city, but there was small yearly surplus to aid in the realization of hannibal's hopes and plans. there was stuff in the youth, though. regretting but not dismayed, hannibal worked doggedly, ever planning as to how he might raise honestly the needed money. the little farm lay close beside the shore and at night the youth's thoughts were frequently disturbed, for the perkin's family got the full benefit of the siren's groans. not only was hannibal perkins an inventor, but he had a musical gift as well. he played the violin with skill and feeling, and had studied with an excellent teacher, a friend of the family who had become interested in hannibal and given him lessons gratis. he possessed an exquisite ear and it is doubtful if in all the city there was a person who suffered more from the siren's dismal cry than did this robust young man. night after night he would toss about in his bed and but endure. "is there no way of stopping it," he thought. "cannot the same end be attained in some less melancholy and devastating way?" unable to sleep regularly, at last, in desperation he set his wits to work. reading a scientific magazine one day, a single sentence impressed itself upon hannibal perkin's memory: "it is a well known fact that a musical sound can be heard distinctly at a greater distance than can an unmusical one." hannibal pondered much. one night, either because his nerves chanced to be a little more nearly on edge than usual or because the siren chanced to be in good working order, the sounds which came from the outer harbor seemed to hannibal more than ordinarily loud and mournful and appalling. he raged helplessly. "what need of so much noise, and such a noise!" he fumed, but, sobering in temper with reflection, tried to content himself with muttering resignedly: "i suppose it's necessary that the thing should be heard as far away as possible,"--then checked his muttering suddenly. the sentence in the scientific periodical had recurred to him. "it is a well known fact that a musical sound can be heard distinctly at a greater distance than an unmusical one." he rose from his bed and sat silent, with wrinkled brow. gradually the wrinkles disappeared and a light came into the young man's eyes. he sprang to his feet, giving vent as he did so to the single, all unstudied, expression "b'gosh!" he had learned it when a boy "down east" while working in the fields with the hired man. for the next two weeks hannibal perkins did little labor on the farm. his time was spent from daylight to dark in a small lean-to which served the double purpose of woodshed and workship. then for another week, he was in town studying the mechanism of the great church organs--instruments with which he was already tolerably familiar--and consulting with organ-builders and other craftsmen. the fourth week was spent in the little shop again. it was the beginning of one of the foggiest months in the year that hannibal perkins, hat in hand, somewhat abashed, but resolute, entered the office of the mayor of the city. he looked curiously upon the man seated at his desk. he saw a person of apparently strong physique, but thin and pale and with glittering eyes, the eyes of a victim of insomnia. the mayor wheeled about in his chair. "what do you want?" he asked peevishly. it was not a pleasant reception but, as a matter of fact, the man ordinarily affable was nervous and consequently irritable. hannibal resolved not to appear abashed. "it's about the siren," he said. "what!" the mayor was all interest now. "what about the siren?" "i want to suggest a means for getting rid of the awful sounds which come over the water every night; to get rid of them so that the people of this city can sleep again." the mayor stared at his visitor for a moment or two and then spoke solemnly: "young man if you can do what you propose you are not unlikely to take my place in this seat, some day. you will be the most popular man in the city. look at me! i weighed two hundred and ten pounds when the siren was first placed in the harbor. now i weigh a scant one hundred and fifty-six. there are thousands of others who have suffered in the same way--insomnia, shattered nerves and all that sort of thing--and the situation is growing worse instead of better. only the stolid and dull are unaffected. talk about american restlessness and excitability! why, what has been in the past will be calm philosophy compared with what will come in the future when sirens are established in every harbor of the country. of course, young man, i know that you're only a dreamer, a would-be inventor--you have the big full eyes of an inventor--but i don't feel like being impatient with any one whose efforts are bent in a direction as laudable as are yours. tell me what your particular dream is." and the mayor leaned back wearily. "but i'm not a dreamer!" exclaimed hannibal excitedly. "i know what i have been doing and what i'm talking about. i tell you i can get rid of the ghastly noise made by the siren and yet have the vessels warned in a fog as well as they are now. yes, i'll warn them at even a greater distance. more than that," and hannibal began to get excited, "more than that, i'll transform what is now a source of agony to one of pleasure. i guarantee it. i can explain my plan to you and you'll say it's feasible, sir; i know you will!" and the young man paused, out of breath. the mayor's face had taken on a look of patient endurance. "go ahead," he said, "and show me how the wheels work in your head. i hope it will not take long." hannibal paid no attention to the sarcasm. he was too full of his subject: "i tell you, mr. mayor, that i've solved the problem. i've spent weeks and weeks upon it and at last i've got it. i can make it as clear as day to you. first i want you to hear this from one of the leading scientific magazines of the world," and he drew forth a clipping and began to read-- "it is a well known fact that a musical sound can be heard distinctly at a greater distance than can an unmusical one." [illustration: "the mayor had been getting interested"] "there," continued hannibal triumphantly, as he restored the clipping to his pocket, "you see the point; you can hear a musical sound at a greater distance than you can hear an unmusical one. the dismal wails of the siren are not musical, but why not make them so? there's a way and i have found it." the mayor was sitting erect in his chair, now. he was becoming interested. "go on," he said. "well," replied hannibal. "there's not much more to say at present. i've given you the general idea. the principle is sound and i know how to put the design into execution." "are you sure," said the mayor, "are you very sure?" "i am," responded hannibal. "well, what do you want?" "i want the privilege of putting new works inside the siren, that's all." "but the siren is under the control of the united states government. how can we get permission for the experiment?" "oh," said hannibal, cheerfully, "i've thought all that out. the government usually pays attention to the advice of business men of any locality where it has established something in their interest. the vessel men here are the ones who have influence in the case. get the vessel men to endorse it and the government will consent to the experiment." the mayor had been getting more and more interested as all the bearings of the case became clear to him. the thing seemed practicable, and what would not follow should it really prove a success! it would redound to his credit that he had recognized the plan which gave the city peace. he reached a decision promptly. "i'll help you," he declared, "i'll call a meeting of the vessel men for to-morrow night. you'll have to be there to explain the thing as you have to me--more fully though. does that suit you?" hannibal departed walking on air. could he convince the vessel men! he had not the slightest doubt of it. he neither ate nor slept much from the time he left the mayor's office, until on the evening of the next day when he entered the hall where the vessel men were assembled, the mayor with them. the mayor took the chair, called the meeting to order, explained briefly the proposition which had been made to him, and said that he had thought it best to refer the suppliant to those most vitally interested in the matter. the inventor was present and would make his own explanation. hannibal took the platform tremblingly. he had never addressed an audience in his life, and his knees shook and there was a lump in his throat. at first he could not articulate, but when a bluff, red-faced old mariner, taking pity on him, called out--"don't be scared, young man; take your time," he recovered himself and began stammeringly. gradually the words came more freely. he believed in his scheme, and that gave him strength. he warmed to his subject and almost forgot where he was. he became eloquent, in an inventor's way. he described the present horrors of the siren, the condition of the people, and the prejudice that was growing up in consequence against anything marine, a prejudice which might in time affect seriously the shipping interest. then he told how much farther a musical sound could travel than could an unmusical one. then he outlined vaguely the value and nature of his invention which would substitute one sound for the other, and make of the siren a blessing on land as well as on the water. he carried his audience with him and, when he closed his address, flushed and earnest, his hand was grasped heartily by a large proportion of those present. there was a brief debate, but it was nearly all one way, and it was decided, that the presidents of the vessel owners association and the tug owners association should form a committee of two, to proceed at once to washington and there secure from the right department permission for the trying of hannibal's experiment. furthermore there was contributed on the spot a sum sufficient, in hannibal's estimation, for the execution of his plan. within two weeks the committee had made its trip and returned with the government's consent to the undertaking. hannibal went to work. it was no simple task that now faced the young man, albeit the greatest obstacle was just removed. sanguine as most inventors are, supplied with funds sufficient for his purpose, unlimited as to time, he yet realized a certain gravity to the situation. he rented a wing of an old warehouse, hired capable mechanics as assistants and plunged into his labor, feverishly. what is known as the "orchestrion" is a gigantic musical machine popular in summer gardens, restaurants and various similar places of public resort. perforated sheets of metal are slipped into the machine, one after another, and different tunes are played according to the perforations in the metal. the basis of hannibal perkin's idea was the orchestrion, with the addition of certain adjuncts of the fog-horn, to secure a volume of sound equaling that which nightly woke the echoes and everything else. of course he could not himself manufacture perforated plates of the size he required, but a special order to a great firm in the business solved this part of the problem and a huge set of circular plates, twenty-five feet in diameter, was soon delivered at his shop. the machine itself was all the work of hannibal and his two assistants. the day came when the thing was done and the monster orchestrion, or whatever it might be called, was loaded on a barge and towed to the light-house where the siren was about to be deposed. to make the proper attachments for the orchestrion--which did not get its power from winding up in the ordinary way, but by a steam arrangement--was a work of time, for just here was the most difficult part of the undertaking, and where the inventive genius of hannibal perkins shone out most brilliantly. it was a new departure but it was all right in principle, as hannibal had maintained, and the day came when he announced that, when the fog fell that night, a new siren, one with a voice such as was never heard before on sea or shore, would call across the waters to belated vessel men. night came and the fog came with it. dimmer and dimmer grew the flashes from the light-house lantern until, at last, they could no longer be distinguished from the shore, and then, to the people of the great city came a sensation. "chippie, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut, chippie, get your hair cut, hair cut short." loud and clear from away out in the harbor came the notes of the rollicking tune, once so generally popular. the atmosphere was fairly saturated with it. never had even the howl of the detested siren so thoroughly permeated every outdoor nook and cranny of the town. the moving multitudes on the brilliantly lighted streets paused and listened, and as they stood there, lost and curious, the same sweet but tremendous voice informed them affably: "there'll be a hot time, in the old town to-night." evidently this spirit of the waters, was of a lively, not to say hilarious, disposition--at least that was the first impression given--but as the hours passed, the music changed in character, and it finally dawned upon the populace that there was method in the madness of the siren--for the news had flown rapidly of what the wonder was--gentler airs succeeded until the hour when the young men calling should go home, when apparently impersonating all the young women in the city, the siren spoke softly: "bid me good-bye and go!" and, later, as the time came when erring heads of families might be lingering out too late for their own good, the mentor started in with-- "oh, willie, we have missed you!" and, a little later, after apparent consideration, wailed out despairingly: "oh, father, dear father, come home with me now." it was charming! still later, came soothing, familiar airs in a minor key, such as were sleep-encouraging, and there was no variation from this until six a.m., when there was an outbreak: "i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up this morning! the sergeant's worse than the private, the captain's worse than the sergeant! the major's worse than the captain, the colonel's the worst of 'em all! i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up to-day!" ringing out over all the city was the reveille, but, as if in drowsy answer came a little later, almost like an echo--the lazy, listless, "let me dream again." evidently not what was approved of, for, sharply and indignantly, followed the peremptory demand to-- "take your clothes and go." and so, until the fog lifted, continued the interesting programme of the siren. the people were delighted. no more was the name of the "siren" a misnomer. the newspapers were full of praise of hannibal perkins, the inventor, and a dream, for once, was realized. improvements were made by the elated genius. people in the city soon perceived that certain airs were played only at certain hours, so that one could tell what time of night it was while lying comfortably in bed. the invention was recognized as a boon to the community. the board of trade voted a neat lump sum to hannibal perkins, he was elected member of numerous scientific and musical societies, and negotiations were begun with the government looking to the introduction of the siren in harbors everywhere. now comes reference to the action of a law of nature which has always been accounted curious, that law which is in direct contradiction of the old and popular saying that one cannot have too much of a good thing. the months passed, months of triumph and elation for hannibal perkins, and, at first, of enjoyment for those on land. then in the city came a gradual change, though hannibal, in the light-house, was not aware of it. there arose an anti-siren party, and a clamorous one! it was the old story--they were "tired" of the same old tunes. they were all antiquated things it was declared. it was the result of that quality in the human ear and human nerves which enables them to endure the continual passing of a railroad train, but not the too frequent repetition of a musical air. even an effort to remedy this fault did not avail. there came two dread november weeks of almost continual fog, day and night, and, as the siren gave four tunes an hour for variety's sake, it necessarily played ninety-six tunes a day, and there weren't enough popular airs in existence to keep this up without constant duplication, or worse! a new form of nervousness was seizing upon the multitude. even the mayor, who had grown fat, was getting thin again. on the other hand the siren had a powerful supporting force in the officers and crews of every vessel entering the harbor. most delightful was it to those gallant seamen, when the fog lay dense and sinister, to hear, at a greater distance from land than ever before, the sounds which guided them to safety and, at the same time, to recognize and be cheered by the notes of some familiar air. they heard the siren only occasionally and to them there was no monotony. the whole shipping interest arose figuratively in arms against those who objected to the new order of things. and so the case stands now. the government is considering the matter. doubtless the perkins siren will, in the end, be adopted--with modifications and restrictions. hannibal perkins is pondering over the question of why people get so maddeningly tired of a piece of music, from some favorite of the operas down to the latest bit of "rag-time." they do not get tired of bread and beefsteak! is the palate wiser than the ear? even hannibal perkins cannot answer that question. human nature is odd. chapter xi the porter's story from the beginning of the train's delay the porter of the sleeping car had attracted attention unostentatiously. this expression perhaps best describes the man's demeanor. he was, apparently, not much over thirty years of age, and a white man, but for that indefinable something which manifests itself in the bearing of a human being who, by unfortunate stress of circumstances, is fighting the world at a disadvantage. he was a blonde man, six feet in height. there was to his bearing a certain dignity. yet, he was the porter of the car! it followed, as a practical certainty, that he was of african descent, however much of his blood had come in the intermingling with a preponderence in favor of the anglo-saxon. he looked like a viking, one of those who sometimes sailed down to africa, after ravaging the seine valley, and taking toll of the monasteries and castles of the spanish peninsula en route,--but certainly not like one whose real ancestors, those who made the man, could have been african. the colonel had recognized the fact that this big blonde man was one of nature's mistakes in production under too sinister surroundings, and saw, too, that there was a story which might be told readily and impulsively and forcefully, and, perhaps most interestingly, under some momentum of the hour. he decided this to be the psychological moment. "will you not give us a story, now, john?" he said--he had learned the porter's name the day before, but half hesitated at the familiarity--"i've a fancy you may have more to tell than any of the rest of us. will you let us know what it is?" the porter glanced at him curiously but not in any protesting way. it could be seen that he recognized in the other man, a sympathizing human being and he rose to the occasion. "i will tell you the story," he said, slowly, "though, really, save as possibly amusing somebody for the moment, i scarcely see the object, but it may be that it will afford me a little relief personally. come to think of it, i don't know that i've ever had a chance to tell my story to intelligent human beings under anything like fair auspices. i'm going to tell it simply and truly. i'll leave the verdict to you. your verdict cannot help me any, for you are as weak as i am in this case, but this is the story: his problem is it well for me that i am a product of a university, that i am what i am? some time ago i read an exceedingly clever poem in some magazine, describing the sufferings of pierrot, that inimitable and fascinating french modification of harlequin, ever vainly seeking his elusive columbine. "i, who am pierrot, pity me! oh pity me!" he cries in his helpless desire for sympathy. sometimes i feel like pierrot, though my suffering is not as his. i hesitate, somehow, at telling my own story lest i be misunderstood or offend in some manner. i have some courage and i'm not asking sympathy in any weak or maudlin way. i am but stating a case, a case with a problem attached and one which i have, so far, been unable to solve, though the quality of my life must depend upon the nature of the solution. i am neither whining nor begging. the story may or may not possess a degree of interest. i wish i could tell it better. i am thirty-four years of age, and i think i can fairly say, am well educated; so thorough was my college course and so diligently did i apply myself, that i excel most graduates in the extent of my real acquirements. i have forgotten neither my classics nor my mathematics and i read and speak french and german fluently. i keep myself familiar with what occurs in the field of literature. i chance to have a retentive memory and my perceptions are, it seems to me, at least reasonably keen. i am six feet in height and, absurd as it may seem in me to say it, am a well formed, well set up man. i have clean cut features, rather aquiline than otherwise, grey eyes, light hair, which curls slightly, and a fair complexion. i am an athlete, trained from boyhood, and have borne myself, i hope, as a man should in encounters in the southwest, where brawn has for the moment counted for more than brains. i describe myself thus directly, but not conceitedly, because i want to be known as you see me, for just what i am. to discredit myself unjustly in the least, to tell less than the truth, would mar the justice of the premises upon which i make my case and from which i make clear, or at least try to make clear, the nature of the problem which has proved too difficult for me. i have had ambitions, hopes and love. i have known men and women. i have become familiar with the affairs of the world. i am naturally of a buoyant and hopeful disposition and yet i, a strong man, am to-day perplexed, sad, almost hopeless. i have no incumbrances. a healthy, educated man of thirty-four, with no burden of the ordinary sort, and yet disheartened! i can imagine you saying, with an inflection of either pity or contempt. well, what i have told of myself is the truth and i must take the consequences. i was born in one of the southern states. one of my grandfathers was a man of standing, and one of my grandmothers was, i am told, a very beautiful woman. my father was also a man of note, a distinguished officer in the civil war who did well in battle. my mother was a woman of exceptional charms of person and character, but died when i was a mere child. i was educated by a wealthy brother of my father, who chanced to take an interest in me. until the age of twelve i was the almost constant companion of his own son. at the age of twelve, my cousin and i who had been so much together were separated, he going to a school in one of the great cities, i to one in a smaller town. after graduation at school we were each sent to college. my cousin went to one of the great universities and i was sent to one of the smaller colleges of the country, but one where the curriculum was extensive and the requirements severe. i studied hard and graduated in the same year with my cousin. we met again at the old homestead and i found that, because of my close attention to my studies, perhaps, too, because of a somewhat quicker apprehension, i excelled him decidedly in acquirements. we passed a not unpleasant month together, hunting and fishing in the old way, but, somehow, it was not the same as it had been when we were boys together. i noticed a change in my cousin's demeanor toward me. his manner was not unkindly, for he is one of the best and most generous of men, but there was a certain change, a certain distance of air which made it plain to me that we could never again be to each other what we had been as boys in the past. we separated each to go out into the world to struggle for himself; i, alone; he, with the influential family and a host of influential friends behind him. i have never seen him since. equipped as i was the natural course for me to pursue seemed to be to adopt for a time the work of teaching, not that i inclined toward it, but because it afforded opportunity to acquire a little capital which might enable me to take up a profession. i secured a school without much difficulty in a thriving southwestern town, and at the end of a course of three years had saved several hundred dollars. with the money thus obtained, i graduated at a famous law school, after which i studied diligently for a year in the office of a prominent attorney. i was clerk, porter, office boy, everything about the office, but the distinguished lawyer did me the honor, at the end of the year, to say that i was the most thorough student he had ever assisted and prophesied flatteringly as to my future. i was admitted to the bar with compliments from the examining judges as to my knowledge of the law. i at once established an office in a town of about two thousand people, where the outlook seemed exceptionally promising. i was entirely unknown in the little city, but for two years i prospered beyond my expectations. i knew the law and, as the event showed, i was strong with juries, possessing the power of interesting and winning the confidence of men to an exceptional degree. i won a number of cases, some of them important ones. i became known in the town and in the surrounding district as a public speaker of force and eloquence. upon the lecture platform or political rostrum i felt as potent and at ease as in the court room. my future seemed assured. i found friends among the best people, my income was more than sufficient for my needs; in my rooms i was accumulating books of the world's literature. my law library was the best in the county. in all things i was flourishing and the world looked bright to me. one day there came to the town wherein i had established myself a young man who had been in college with me. i was glad to see him and did what i could for him during his stay, though we were unlike in temperament and tastes, and his associates and friends had all been different from mine. he soon left the place, and, not long after, i noticed a surprising change in the manner of the people toward me. i no longer received invitations to dinner nor to social gatherings. no reason was given me for the freezing indifference with which i was treated by my former friends. what was, from one point of view, a matter of as much importance, my business began to drop off; men who had placed their legal affairs in my hands no longer sought me for advice and only an occasional petty case in some justice's court came to afford me a livelihood. after a vain struggle with these intolerable conditions i gave up. i closed my office and left the city. it was early in june, that year when i left the place where i had hoped to become a lifelong resident and useful citizen. i drifted east and found myself in boston. there i met two young men, seniors in college, but poor, who had engaged themselves as men of all work--partly as a midsummer lark, but chiefly for the money to be gained--to work in a great summer hotel in the mountains. a third man was needed, and they asked me if i would not go with them. i was ready for anything, and accepted the invitation. the hotel was one of the largest in the mountains, and the numerous guests included wealthy and distinguished families from all parts of the country. that we were college-bred men and had students' ambitions also became known, and it came to pass, at last, that our duties for the day accomplished, we appeared in evening dress, and joined in the evening's amusements, laughed at in a friendly way, and jesting ourselves in return. i cannot go into further details of the happenings of that summer at the mountain resort, where all was healthy and healthful except my own mentality, which had been made what it was by conditions over which i had no control. i prayed, and prayer, while it strengthened me, did not help me bow to the injustice under which i suffered. i thought and tried to find what a logical brain, a broad view of things, and a keen intelligence might do, and that did not help me. ever, ever came the same inevitable deduction. i was a hunted wretch, pursued by a social and partly natural law, driven ever into a cul de sac, into a side gorge in the mountains of life, a short gorge with precipitous walls on either side and ending suddenly and briefly in a wall as perpendicular and high and smooth. true, i had for the moment escaped, for the instant i was free, but i knew that soon, inevitably, the cordon would hem me in and that i would be at the mercy of the pursuers--the unmalicious but instinctively impelled pursuers. then came a respite from the torturing thought, a forgetfulness for the moment, a forgetfulness to be paid for. i was the man with the boats and, as well the guide who conducted individuals or parties to and from all the picturesque or curious spots of the wild region round about the summer resort which shrewd capitalists had implanted in the heart of nature. so it came that i met all, or nearly all the guests, groups who had chaffed at me, and yet, knowing my status, made me one of them. strong young men and good ones made me a comrade, fathers and mothers of broods of little children leaned on me, and at last and worse in the end, the occasional woman who thought for herself, knew nature for herself and wanted but to go out alone to meet her sister, that same nature, became my companion. there was one among those who, to me, was above the other women. there was one among those--may the good god ever have her in his keeping--who, from no thought or fault of hers, has given me the greatest vision of happiness and also such sorrow as few men know. then i seemed to live for the first time and now it is still a thought deep in my mind that it was my only taste of real life when i held communion on lake and shore in that enchanted summer with the woman who held my heart in her white hands. no doubt i was guilty, frightfully guilty. what right has a pariah in a world of caste? but i am a human. i drifted and drifted. i cannot analyze my own feelings at the time. i knew that i was good and honest and as real in mind as she and yet, even then, i think i felt as if i were some vagrant who had wandered into a church and was inanely fumbling at the altar-cloth. like every other rainbow that ever spanned my miserable sky it disappeared, not gradually, as do other rainbows when the clouds part slowly and the sun shines out between them, but suddenly, leaving blackness. one wild but simply honest letter i wrote telling all things, and then came silence. there was only the information that one fair guest of the great summer resort had departed suddenly. yet in my letter i had told of nothing but a life of steadfast honor, principle, and high ambition and endeavor; i began to lose heart. i am a wanderer. what am i to do? i am a man without a country as much as was poor nolan in edward everett hale's immortal story, though unlike nolan, i am blameless of even a moment's lapse of patriotism. i am without a country because my country will not give me what it gives to other men. i am even without a race, for that to which i really belong neglects me and with that into which my own would thrust me i have nothing in common. the presence of a faint strain of alien blood is killing me by inches. i am not black, i am white. does one part of, perhaps, some african chieftain's blood offset thirty-one of white blood from good ancestors? i do not believe in miscegenation. there is some subtle underlying law of god and nature which forbids the close contact in any way of the different races. it is to me a horror. but i am not black, i am white. a negro woman is to me as she is to any other white man. a negro man is to me as of a strange race. a white man is to me my brother. all my thoughts, all my yearnings, are to be with him, to talk with him, to sympathize with him in all the affairs of life, to help him and have him help me, to go to war with him, if need be, to die by his side. i am a white man. but there is that one thirty-second of pariah blood. "pity me, oh pity me." as i have said, i began to lose heart. there is no need to tell all the story. i remember it all. one or two incidents suffice to show the way i have traveled. once in an eastern city, i obtained work as a brakeman on a freight train on the railway. at first my fellow workers received me well, named me byron, some knowing me among them, with rude but kindly chaffing at my pale face and studious habits, for when not at work i had ever a book in my hand. one day, while we were waiting on a siding near a small station, a tramp recognized me. he was a man i had defended in court for some small offense, in the distant western town where i practiced law. i had him kept out of jail by my pleading. i had believed that his arrest and trial would be a lesson such as would keep him from the idle and vicious ways he was just beginning to follow at that time. the tramp rode a few miles on our train. after that the train crew ceased to consort with me. they looked sullenly upon me and muttered among themselves when i came near them. the engineer looked the other way when he had to speak to me. his face was grim and sad, as well, but he looked the other way. there was no outbreak, but i could not endure my position. i left the railroad work as soon as our train arrived in the city where the company made its headquarters. once again, some years after the railway episode, i thought to work on a street-car line. i applied for the position of motorman, and was well received by the superintendent to whom i reported after he had in reply to my letter, asked me to call at his office. i gave, at his request, the names of a half a dozen responsible men as references as to my character and responsibility. i arranged with a security company for giving the required bond, and was told that as soon as favorable answers were received from my friends i would be put to practice work; i felt assured of a position, laborious and nerve testing, it is true, but respectable and reasonable well paid. after two weeks i called upon the superintendent again, although he had not written, as he promised to do, after hearing from the men i had referred him to. he was a hard man of business, that superintendent, but he spoke to me kindly, regretfully, almost shamefacedly. the testimonials to my character and life were, he said, very flattering to me. no one had said anything but good of me. but it would never do, he explained, for me to be set to work on the road. the men would be sure to find out the truth about me, sooner or later, and then the officials of the road would be blamed. there was sure to be trouble. personally, the superintendent had, he said, no "race prejudices," but he could not answer for the feelings of others less free from the influence of tradition and natural aversion. i stood silent while the man of my own race calmly, even tenderly, waved me back into the ranks of a people of whose blood a few drops only run in my veins. so another gate was closed. so i was once more forced into the narrow bounds of an invisible prison. my mother had one-sixteenth of negro blood in her veins and was a slave. now what explains my most unfortunate condition? is it because this ancestor had this trace of the blood of another race, and that i have one thirty-second part of the same blood, though i chance to be whiter than most caucasians? well, god made the races. is it because this ancestor was a slave? so were the britons slaves of the romans. my father was a descendant of some slave. he is not responsible for the chase of his mother in ancient woods and for her capture by some fierce avaricious roman legionary who knew the value of a breeder of sturdy teutonic brawn in making roman highways. it was through no fault of mine that the arab trader chased my great-great-great-grandmother or grandfather down in the jungle and sold her to the sallow-faced slave dealer who brought her to america. the blood of my father's ancestors became intermixed with that of the captors. my father's race became free. so has mine. the difference is but in time. why is it, then, that i am as i am? i do not want to become a barber, nor a porter, nor an attendant in a turkish bath, nor to serve other men. i do not want to work upon the streets, though i am not afraid of manual labor nor do i count it dishonorable. but i am a cultivated man, a man skilled in a profession where intelligence and training are required, a man of moral character and refined tastes. i am starving for the companionship of my own kind. brain and heart, i am starving. what am i to do? pity me, good people, oh, pity me! chapter xii the purple stocking there was unaccustomed silence for a time after the porter finished speaking. he left the car at once, perturbed, it may be, by his own disclosure of his condition and emotions. those who had listened to him, whatever may have been their views concerning one of the great problems of the age, could not but feel a certain sympathy for the man condemned to be thus isolated--the man without a race. that his case might be somewhat exceptional detracted in no way from its curious pathos. it was recognized as one of the tragedies of human life as it is, and the recital had induced a thoughtful mood among the porter's audience. what should be the attitude of the ordinary man or woman in a case like this? and, seeking honestly in their own minds, those pondering could not answer the question satisfactorily, either to judgment or to conscience. by what law should they be guided? the colonel was among the thinkers, but he rose superior, as usual. that gilded optimist wanted not even reflection among the snowbound. had his company been of males exclusively he might even have been tempted to introduce the flowing bowl, but for his knowledge of the inevitable depressing aftermath. he wanted but carelessness and distraction and forgetfulness until the time of pale monotony should end. now he was tempted to an act most ruthless and unconjugal. his glance was toward his wife, whom he adored openly, and toward whom he, at all times, showed the greatest consideration, but who, through some prescience, was fidgeting a little. "madam," he began pompously, slapping his hand upon his chest, "the husband is the head of the family--he really isn't," he added in an audible aside, "but we'll assume it for the present. madam, he is the head of the family and must be obeyed. i order, command and direct you to tell a story; if need be i will even abdicate for the moment and so far humiliate myself as to implore you to tell a story. tell about that affair which took place at the grand cattaraugus, when we were stopping there last summer." the pleasant-faced lady appeared hesitant: "but it's almost a naughty story," she protested; "it's about a stocking, and, oh dear! there's something about a"--and she blushed prettily, as is always the case when a middle-aged woman thus demeans herself, "there's an ankle in it, too." "nonsense," retorted the colonel. "do you mean in the story or in the stocking? in either case an ankle is all right. go ahead, my dear." mrs. livingston yielded: "after all," she said, "it's not so very wicked and the story is chiefly about matching colors, which is a subject not unlikely to interest ladies. anyhow, it interested me in this instance. i know all the shocking circumstances, and, since i've gone so far i may as well be reckless. i suppose the story might be called the purple stocking maxwell, a gentleman stopping at the hotel, was bored. there existed no particular excuse for his frame of mind, but the fact remained. he had fairly earned a vacation, but when the time came for escape from the midsummer heat of his offices he had found himself with no well-defined idea of where his outing should be spent. circumstances rendered it necessary that it should be a brief one this time, else he would have known what to do with himself, for the man knew the rocky mountains. as it was, he had but taken train for one of the nearby summer resorts, where the grand cattaraugus caravansary, consisting, as those places do, of an enormous piazza with a hotel attached to its rear, loomed up beside and overlooked the pretty hill-surrounded lake with its blue waters, narrow beach and many pleasure boats. it was not a bad place and maxwell had decided that it would be endurable for a week or two, especially after the arrival of his friend, jim farrington, who had promised to follow and loaf genially with him. but first impressions are not always final. maxwell found the hotel full of people, mostly women. it was a fashionable place, and the women were fair to look upon, but there were not men enough to go round. there were two or three dowagers who knew maxwell and, seek to avoid it as he might, he was soon generally introduced and his eligibility made widely known. then came monotonous attention and, for his own peace, the man, who hadn't come after women, was driven to daily exile either to his room or to the lake or hills. the elder ladies with daughters hunted him as hounds might hunt a rabbit. he resolved promptly upon escape and, within a week, an afternoon found him engaged in packing for that purpose. his laundry had just come in and among the articles he picked up first were a lot of blazing silken handkerchiefs. colored silk handkerchiefs were a fad of his in summer. he tossed them idly into his valise when the color of one of them attracted his attention. "i never owned a handkerchief like that," he muttered. he raised the article to examine it more closely, and to his amazement it unfolded and lengthened out. it was not a handkerchief at all. it was a lady's stocking--a brilliant purple stocking! maxwell wondered. "washing's been mixed," he said, and then devoted closer and more earnest attention to his prize. it was a charming affair, small of foot but not too small otherwise, and possessed, somehow, an especial symmetry, even in its present state. "it's number eight--number three shoe," thought maxwell, "and it's the prettiest stocking i ever saw." his comment was fully justified. the stocking was a dream in its department of lingerie. the purple was relieved, from the ankle upward a little way, by a clocking of snow-white sprays of lilies-of-the-valley, and the purple itself was of such a hue as to send one dreaming of the glories of the ancients. it was a wonderful stocking, a fascinating stocking. it lured like a will-o'-the wisp. maxwell abandoned his packing and sat stroking and admiring the hypnotizing object. he became vastly interested. "i wonder whom it belongs to?" he mused. then--there's no explaining it with authority, and discreetly--a sudden fancy seized upon him. "i'll not leave to-night!" he said, "i'll find the owner of that stocking! it will give me something to do and add a little zest to things. might as well be stocking-hunting as anything else. by jove, what a neat little foot she must have!" the packing was left undone. the man had an object now, one which might have seemed trivial to the bloodless and unimaginative, but which to him became a serious matter. talk about the round table fellows after the holy grail or diogenes after an honest man, they were not in it with maxwell! he dawdled and mooned over that stocking and made and unmade plans. he bribed a gentleman, youthful and dirty, connected with the laundry department of the hotel, and it came to naught. his gaze was ever downward. he appeared more frequently on the piazza among the scores of "porchers" engaged in idle converse there. he strolled along the little beach, ever with furtive eyes on twinkling feet, and neat ones he saw galore and stockings rainbow-hued galore, but never a purple one among them. it was the quality of the purple, he decided, which must have so enthralled him in the first place. he had never seen a purple like it. he read up on purples. he learned that royal purple is made up of fifty-five parts red, twelve parts blue and thirty-three parts black, and concluded that the stocking must be almost a royal purple, so wonderfully did the white lilies show out against its richness. tyrian purple he rejected as being too dull for the comparison. then he considered the purple of amorgos, the wonderfully brilliant color obtained from the seaweed of the grecian island, and this met with greater favor in his eyes. he decided, finally, that the hue of the stocking was between the royal and the purple of amorgos, and this relieved his mind. but this didn't help him to find the girl--and how vain a thing is even the most beautiful stocking in the world without a girl attached! then the unexpected happened as usual. there came a lapse in the search. the cure for maxwell's dream was homeopathic. like cures like. one girl blighted most of interest in the vague search for another. maxwell was caught by the concrete. miss ward, a guest of the hotel, in company with her aunt, was not, maxwell decided, like any of the other women. she was dignified, but piquant, pretty, certainly, and well educated. likewise, she had self-possession and much wit. maxwell enjoyed her society and they became close friends. he began to feel as if the world, if hollow, had at least a substantial crust. he was no longer bored and the stocking fancy was put aside. then came farrington. farrington had spirits. he lightened up the hotel piazza and flirted with every one, from dowagers down to the little girls to whom he told liver-colored stories as evening and the gloom came. he was deeply interested when maxwell told him of the stocking and the marvel. he became full of ardor. "don't give up the search!" he expostulated. "such a stocking as that must belong to the one woman in four hundred and eighty-three thousand. why, it's like finding a nugget in a valley! there's bound to be gold in the mountains!" so the interest of maxwell became largely revived and his mind was on stockings when he was not in the company of miss ward. one day an inspiration came to him with the gentle suddenness of a love pat. he took farrington into his confidence. that evening on the piazza that gifted friend adroitly turned the conversation to the subject of matching goods and colors. the debate became most animated. the ladies, one and all, declared that in the matter of matching things men were scarcely above the beasts that perish, while as for themselves, there was not a woman, young or old, among them who was not an adept. maxwell, who had seemed at first uninterested, broke into the conversation. "i'm not ungallant," he asserted as a preliminary. "when it comes to gallantry i'll venture to say i'd outdo any medieval troubadour, if i could only sing and twang a harp, but, though angels can do almost anything, to tell the truth i'm a shade doubtful concerning their absolute infallibility in matching hues and fabrics. i've a piece of silk i'd like matched for my sister, and i hereby, in the presence of all witnesses, offer a prize of one box of gloves to any lady who will match it for me within a week," and he produced about six inches square--thirty-six square inches--of splendid purple silk. as the war horse snuffeth the battle and says "ha! ha!" to the trumpets; as the sea mew rises from the waves to riot in the spindrift; as the needle to the pole; as the river to the sea or the cat to the catnip in wild enthusiasm--so rose the ladies to the silken lure. match the silk? why, the gloves must be distributed among the score! and then ensued a busy week. the sample, divided into thirty-six pieces an inch square, was surrendered. there were trips to the nearest city and, as excitement grew, even to the metropolis. the afternoon for the test arrived and maxwell, seated judicially beside a table on the piazza and provided with another sample of his silk, awaited with manly dignity the onslaught of the gathered contestants. one by one they came and laid down their little pieces of purple silk; one by one the samples were compared by the judge with the piece held in his hand, and, one by one, he passed them back with a regretful and unnecessarily audible sigh. last of all came miss ward, who had not been to town and who had, apparently, taken slight interest in the competition. it was too trivial for her, had been maxwell's firm conclusion. now she approached the table and laid down, as had the others, a piece of purple silk. maxwell's heart thumped. there was no mistaking that wondrous hue! "miss ward has won the gloves," he said. there were congratulations and any amount of fun and curious speculation. that evening maxwell caught miss ward upon the piazza and induced her to sit with him awhile, to improve his mind, he said. they chatted indifferently until he took occasion to compliment her upon her success in matching the purple silk. "you have a wonderful sense of color," he declared. she answered that she had always enjoyed matching things, and then he ventured to expatiate a little on the particular silk which had been matched: "what pretty trimming for a hat, or what pretty stockings it would make," he said. she asked him why the nighthawks circling overhead and about gave utterance to their shrill cries so frequently, and he said he didn't know. then they talked about the coming boat race. for a week maxwell's chief occupation was what farrington described as "concentrated musing." he walked much. one afternoon he was strolling along the narrow beach, which lay, a sandy stretch, between the water and a tree-grown grassy ledge, about fifteen feet in height, which was a favorite place of rest and outlook for the hotel guests. he was looking downward, but there came a moment when the heavens fell. chancing to look upward to determine if any of the usual idlers there were of a companionable sort for him, he saw that which turned aside the current of his life as easily as an avalanche may turn a rivulet. there, projecting a little beyond the crest-crowning grass and greenery of the ledge above, was something trim and gloriously purple and gloriously perfect. the tan of the neatest of number three shoes blended upward into the purple paradise, and from the tan seemed growing a snowy spray of lilies-of-the-valley. delicate is the subject, but it must be treated. delicate is the making of a watch, but we must have watches; eggs are delicate, but we must eat them; goldfish are delicate, but we must lift them by hand occasionally. duty first! perfect the exterior of that wondrous stocking, perfect, absolutely so, but its contour and its contents! ah, me! the flat, thin ankle--let arabian fillies hide their heads! the even upward swell--just full enough, just trim enough, revealed, but not in view, as one sees things by starlight. ah, me! maxwell's eyes dimmed and he reeled. what is known as locomotor ataxia smote him there suddenly in his prime and pride of life. then after a moment or two a degree of health came back and he turned and retraced his steps, feebly at first, then more rapidly, and then as hies the antlered stag. he gained the ledge and followed it and found miss ward seated demurely at its very crest and surrounded by a group of friends. within three months he owned, after the wedding, not merely what was left of one, but two similar purple stockings, and their contents, together with, all and singular, the hereditaments and appurtenances thereunto belonging or in anywise appertaining. chapter xiii the fattening of pat the general opinion seemed to be that the amiable lady's story was innocuous in every detail, while it commended itself as being absolutely true to human nature, that great essential in a narrative of any sort. there were the feminine instinct as to the matching of colors, inbred throughout each latitude, and the masculine instinct in relation to stockings, existent in every longitude, each indicated with all assuredness and delicacy. the account, it was declared by the young lady, was a veritable "idyl of an outing," and no one disagreed with her. then came renewed expression of the now constant anxiety and curiosity regarding the progress of the rescuers and stafford went forward to learn the situation, and report. "we're in 'in a hole,' literally," came, the reply to stafford's inquiry of the engineer in charge of the relief train; "that's all we make, at first, merely a hole, when we charge into the big drift ahead of us now. it's thirty feet deep and we can't do much more than loosen up things, just here, and let the shovelers do the rest. it will be better when we get through this cut. we've sent men on ahead and they find the thing not nearly so bad half a mile from here. we're getting along." "but, how fast are you getting along?" queried stafford impatiently. "when are you going to reach us?" "i can't tell. i'm getting a little doubtful about the fourth day, now. still, we may make it. how are you fixed for heat and provisions?" "all right yet, i guess. i'll find out and let you know later," and stafford went back to the sleeper. the bearer of unpleasant news is seldom received with an ovation and stafford proved no exception. there were the usual plaints, but he did not notice them. somehow, he had no interest in deliverance. he was satisfied to be where he was. he was living entirely in the present and what was near him. he looked about for the far away lady, but she was not visible, and he indulged in a fit of moodiness, like a boy. he lingered with the company until the time for retiring came and then went forward to the smoking compartment, where the usual group of the gregarious were enjoying themselves. here he found relaxation of thought, at least, and, to a degree, amusement. he entered as there was being related an incident of politics. it was told by a man portly, ruddy-faced and wearing a gold watch chain, weighty enough for a small cable, from which depended the emblems of two or three of the great secret fraternities. though in the drawing-room gatherings he had appeared somewhat less in his element than here, he had become rather a favorite because of his unfailing good nature and evident shrewdness and sense of humor. he was known as a "commissioner" of something in one of the large cities, a typical city politician. he was relating the difficulties experienced in what he called the fattening of pat pat, who was an excellent janitor, in charge of a big bank building, with men under him, had aspirations. he wanted to become a policeman. the place he held was a good one and most men of his class would have been contented, but pat was not. he was dissatisfied with the monotonous indoor life and decided that to be on the "foorce" was the only thing for him. he was a fine fellow, overflowing with energy and full of persistence, he would not, however advised, abandon the idea. he was a tall, muscular man and, aside from the qualities already mentioned, was possessed of good sense and was of excellent habits. he had friends among the tenants of the big structure over the care of which he presided and when, realizing that to attain the object of his desire some strong alliance would be necessary he appealed for aid to an occupant of one of the offices in the building, a young man, who, if not in politics as a business, knew something of the game, he met with no discouragement. "i'll do what i can, pat," said wheaton. the municipal civil service commission had just been established in the city and was yet "wobbly" and, to a degree, swayed by political influences. under the direction of wheaton, who decided to see fair play, pat underwent the usual preliminary examination, passed admirably as to all questions and would have passed physically, as well, but for his weight, or rather the lack of it. the required weight for a policeman of his height was one hundred and sixty-five pounds; pat weighed only one hundred and fifty, for he was as gaunt as an australian. other men lacking as many pounds of the weight nominally demanded had secured places with no difficulty, but pat was not desired by those in authority. his political views were not of the right sort for the examiners and his manner showed his independence. fortunately for him, the first examination was only a preliminary--(a delay allowed the politicians time to select their men among the many)--and a second and final one was announced to take place four weeks after the first. pat came to his friend almost with tears in his eyes: "oi'm done fur," said he. "what's the matter?" demanded wheaton. "oi'm fifteen pounds short," said pat. "how long before the next examination?" "four wakes." "pshaw," said wheaton. "we'll fix it, yet. i'm not going to let those fellows squeeze you out. will you do just as i tell you?" "oi will, begobs!" was the sturdy answer. "well you must begin to-morrow morning. you've got two sub-janitors, haven't you?" "oi have," said pat. "you can make them do all the work, if you want to, can't you?" "oi can that!" "then what i want you to do is this--and, mind, i'm going to take charge of the whole thing and foot the bills; they won't be much--i don't want you to do a lick of work for the next four weeks. i want you to stay in your room about all the time: you mustn't even walk about much. i want you to eat nothing but potatoes and bread with about a quarter of an inch thick of butter and sugar on it. eat lots! you can have meat, too, if it's very fat. and--you're a sober man and i don't believe you'll get a fixed habit in four weeks--i'm going to send a keg of beer to your room in the morning, and another whenever one is finished. you're to drink a big mug of it every hour." "blazes," interjected pat, "th' ould lady'll murther me. oi'll be drunk, sure, an' me breath will breed a peshtiliench." "no it won't. you'll soon get used to it. we begin to-morrow." and the next day pat began, resolutely, though with fears. wheaton visited him frequently and encouraged him in every way; "i'll get you all the newspapers and teach you to play solitaire--it's a fine game with cards when you're alone. you're a goose," he said "and i'm training you for _pate de fois gras_," but pat did not know what that meant. he only knew that times were queer. he was afraid of the "ould lady." the third morning he came down beaming. "it's quare," he announced. "oi belave th' ould lady do be fallin' in love wid me over agin, she does be that foine an' carressin' wid me. 'pat!' says she, 'you're the new mon intoirely! you do be as gentle as a lamb an' it's good to see ye so playful wid the childer' says she. 'oi'm in love wid ye, pat' says she. an' oi all the toime falin' loike a baste, for i knew well 'twas only the mellowness av the beer in me. but it's given me a lesson it has. oi'll be betther tempered after this." "good idea," said wheaton. at the end of the first week wheaton took pat out and weighed him, undressed--four pounds gained. "we must do better than that," commented wheaton. "we'll barely pull through at this gait, and it will be harder work getting on flesh the last two weeks. do you take your beer every hour?" "o'm beginning to spake dutch," said pat. "well, keep on with it and eat--eat like a hobo! we'll make it! don't exercise, don't even wink, if you can help it." pat took his instructions literally and obeyed them. he stayed in his room and gorged. his eyes became a trifle heavy and his face flushed, but at the end of two weeks he weighed only one hundred and fifty-nine pounds. somehow, the next week he didn't do so well, gaining only three pounds more. dame nature, in mistaken kindness, was trying to adjust him to his new diet. wheaton was becoming excited--only one hundred and sixty-two pounds, and only a week to gain something over three more in! "we must hump ourselves!" and pat did "hump" himself, ate and drank with an assumed voracity, and had a slight attack of indigestion. this didn't help matters. the night before the examination he weighed only one hundred and sixty-four pounds and four ounces--three quarters of a pound short! wheaton was anxious but not despairing. "the examination begins at ten," he said. "meet me here at four o'clock in the morning. we'll have six hours left." at the hour named in the morning came wheaton, carrying a big jug. "have you had any beer, yet, pat?" he asked. "no sor." "then don't take any. you must be clear-headed when you go before the commission. here's a gallon of water, good water it is. you must drink it all before ten o'clock." pat looked dismayed. "oi'll try sor." then began the struggle. pat washed down his breakfast at once, very salt-broiled mackerel--which wheaton had brought,--with the usual potatoes and a big beefsteak. after that every five minutes, wheaton forced the poor fellow to drink a glass of water. at half-past nine the gallon was done. pat, like the tea-drinkers of ebenezer chapel, "swelled wisibly." but wheaton made him drink more water. "oi feel loike a fishpond, sor," he complained. they hurried to the nearest turkish bath and pat stripped and got upon the scales. he weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds and three ounces. pat was perspiring violently. "if you sweat, i'll murder you!" said wheaton. they appeared before the commission, wheaton watching everything like a hawk, his heart in his mouth as the weighing test came. one hundred and sixty-five pounds and one ounce! there was no getting around it! "pat," said wheaton, later, "you're on the force now and you've had a lesson in practical politics. you ought to be a sergeant in no time." "politics is aisy," said pat, "but oi'm thinkin' oi'll be changin' me diet. oi'm forninst beer and bread and butther forever--an'" he added, reflectively, "oi dunno but wather, too!" "he's making a good policeman," concluded the commissioner. so ended the relation of pat's experience, and, a little later, the laughing group in the smoking room dissolved itself. stafford sought his berth, largely recovered from his discontent and more like his reliant self. but he was not assured as to his dreams. would his conscience be with him still? could the line of conventional demarcation between him and the far away lady be rigorously preserved, even in them? but no dreams came to him at once. he could not sleep at first but struggled with himself. he was tumultuous and impatient with his environment and obligations, all, seemingly, standing in the way of his happiness. he was lost, utterly, in the old conflict which comes with the hesitation between the recognized right and wrong, the accepted thing at the time in the age of the earth in which he lived? to his aid, he quoted to himself the sayings of the keen thinkers, the abstract reasoners: he thought of anatole france: "what is morality? morality is the rule of custom and custom is the rule of habit. morality is, then, the rule of habit. morality changes, continually with custom, of which it is only the general idea." he thought of the others, too, of one who reasoned from the fact that there were a jewish morality, a christian morality, a buddhist morality, and all that. in his half sleep he mumbled; "why, reason is the thing," and then he added mumblingly and reflectively, "but then we have learned that there is a right and reason must end by being right. there is a right--we know that; we feel it--and we know what it is. it is, largely, a subordination, a regard for others. we cannot quite justify ourselves for any selfishness by quoting some great law of nature. conscience, somehow, has become the greatest of these laws." and so, vaguely and jumblingly, as his senses oozed into sleep, he quoted failingly, the cold thinkers. then the real dreams came to him, but they were misty and bizarre. he was with the far away lady, but the surroundings were all strange and she was most elusive. they were in a great house and he could hear her voice but he could not find her, though he searched from room to room. then they were in a forest where there were many flowers and tall trees and she was a bird somewhere up in the trees and he could hear her singing, but he could not see her amid the foliage. and, finally, they were where there was much shrubbery and where he could see her plainly enough, but she was at a distance and as he followed she would disappear among the roses down some garden path. all was most tantalizing and fantastic. and so his night passed. chapter xiv a test of attitude what are they going to do, a man and a woman who have met and loved in the past, and have separated conscientiously, when brought together again under extraordinary circumstances, after each has felt that loving and of real living had been denied, and endured it all for years? what is going to happen when, because of one of the accidents of life and of one of the great accomplishing conditions, such two as this have been, once more, thrown, figuratively, into each other's arms? this man had saved this woman's life yesterday, stumbling upon her after all this separation, after he done a man's work in another hemisphere and had, disappointed with life, supposed the chapter closed. now he was to meet her at the breakfast table. what must be the demeanor of these two toward each other now? be assured neither of them knew, not even the woman,--and in foreseeing as to such a situation a woman knows more, by some instinct, than a man may learn in a thousand years. she knew that they would meet that morning. that was the inevitable, after yesterday. anything else would have been a foolish affectation. he knew, as well, that he must go in to that breakfast table and sit opposite her and that then they must face together a situation delicately psychological and dangerous and altogether fascinating--from a philosopher's point of view. it was not perhaps, quite so fascinating to these two people with what we call conscience and the possession of what makes the greatness of humanity, whether it appertain to man or woman. there is no sex to nobility. she was sitting there, divinely sweet, as he stalked in. she was sitting there, divinely sweet, because she was made that way, and never did stafford realize it more. the years had taken from her gentle beauty not the slightest toll. she bloomed this fair morning--it was only moderately fair, by the way--as there entered the man who had saved her life the day before and with whom in the past hers had been the closest understanding of her life. to the eye she was merely placid and infinitely enchanting. the man did not appear to such advantage. he entered blunderingly and doubtful. there were, of course, the usual expression of morning courtesies and then they settled down to a fencing which was but a lovingness as vast as unexpressed. they talked of a variety of things but there was no allusion even so near as saturn, to what was lying close against the hearts of both. we are rather fine but we are unexplainable sometimes, we men and women whom nature made so curiously. as a matter of fact, this one of the most forceful of men and one of the most sweet and desirable of women said practically nothing throughout the entire breakfast. they did not even refer to the grim incident of the dog and the grapple, which had been something worth while. had the thing been less they would have talked about it. but, to them, by an indefinable knowing, this matter was something too great to consider at the present moment. and, so, unconsciously, understanding each other, they consigned themselves to ordinary table talk. but we cannot always command lack of remembrance and get obedience. there is something better. nature has her ways. one of her ways is to have given us eyes, and how she did place us under her soft thumb when she did that! they said very little, but they looked into each other's eyes. they couldn't help that very well. then the laws of life worked themselves out. it is a way they have. what are you going to do with a woman's eyes? inside the depths of a woman's eyes, lurking lovingly, sometimes, are all the revelations that must come when the time comes and reflect themselves into the looking-glasses god provides to tell us of the thoughts of others. there are different women and different eyes, of course. we must take our chances on that. and, so as said, they did not even refer to the happenings of the day before or of any of the context of all that had occurred. they did not refer to the great hound. they talked of nothing but of things incidental. she asked him when they would probably be released from their snow imprisonment and he told her that it would be within two days. and, so they separated and had practically said nothing. but eyes, as announced, are the most astonishing things. they had talked a great deal that morning. as we human beings are made, they are a little the neatest and finest expression of all there is in life. they hold and send forth the beaconing flash from every intellectual and loving light-house in the world. they are, with what they say, the confessional between any two human beings, man and woman, in the world. they are the mediums of revelation. no wonder that those who know want sometimes, foolishly, it may be, to die when to them comes a physical blindness which may not be remedied. and this man and woman looked into each other's eyes, he hardly comprehending at first but having the great consciousness come to him at last, she doubtless understanding sooner, and even more acutely. intelligent fluttering of the heart is what might possibly be said of her. she was alarmed and yet, from another point of view, entirely without fear. she realized the situation better than did he. ever since the world was first firmly encrusted out of the steaming fog woman has been the braver of the two in our love affairs. exceedingly clever as these two people were, there is no opportunity to do any exceedingly brilliant work in telling all about them. brought down to its last analysis, theirs was but the plain, old-fashioned love which has stood the test of all the centuries and which, in our modern english and american times, has the flavor of the hollyhocks which grow about the front fence and the old-fashioned pinks in the yard and a lot of other things. we have new ways in other things, but love has not changed much since the time of egypt. doubtless it was about the same way before. "what is the day of the week, please," had been stafford's last utterance. she did not even reply. she looked back into his eyes and that look, if it could have been weighed, could have been considered by nothing but troy weight, the jeweller's weight, and then it would have been too coarse for the occasion and the demand. and so they separated and had practically said nothing. not the great sultan schariar, when listening to the fair scheherazade, as she prolonged her life from day to day and finally saved it by the fascination of her stories; not the august hearer, as sinbad the sailor described his marvelous adventures; not margaret of angouléme, as she gathered the more lettered ladies and gallants of her court and induced them to add to the gayety of nations by the relation of brisk and risque experiences; not dickens, as he spun the threads himself of his tales of a wayside inn, had a more keen enjoyment than the colonel listening to the words of his drafted and mustered volunteers. he fairly glowed appreciation and satisfaction. as stafford entered the cassowary, he perceived that the colonel was still recruiting. chapter xv a samoan idyl among the passengers from one of the other coaches who had occasionally visited the cassowary and listened as the novel symposium progressed was a brown-bearded, middle-aged gentleman with a tanned face and merry eye. that he was of the navy the colonel had soon learned, and to the naval officer he now addressed himself: "lieutenant, you, necessarily, have visited many parts of the world and must have become acquainted with the facts of many a pretty romance or rough adventure. i believe you mentioned the circumstance that you were stationed for a time in the samoan islands. can you tell us a tale of samoa?" the lieutenant smiled: "i'll tell you a tale of samoa, a little one," he said. "i was a witness to its main incident, and it interested me. it was this way: a samoan idyl una loa was a samoan girl, and she was fair to look upon. they have festivities in their season in samoa as we have here, and, as here, there are rivalries among the young women. there are tests of beauty, too, and she who can show the most beautiful headdress of flowers is counted the most charming among the maidens. she is as the jersey heifer which takes the first prize at the annual fair in some prosperous county; she is as the lithe and graceful and beautiful creature who doesn't fall over her train at the receptions at the court of england; she is an adornment to the society in which she moves, and, in samoa, it must of course be the best society, must consist of those who enter into the contest exhibiting the sublimity of all head-gear--for head-gear is a woman's glory. there was stationed upon one of the islands of the samoan group--there is no use of mentioning the island in particular--a young gentleman who had been sent out under the auspices of the department of agriculture of the united states, and, to speak more definitely, from that branch of the department which is known as the weather bureau. his business was to sit at the top of a somewhat illy-constructed tower and note the variations of wind and temperature and all that sort of thing, and then send his report to the department at washington, when he could catch a steamer, which didn't always often happen, for this was some time ago. still he sat up in the tower and took notes and glowered, and made the best of things, and the work in this region of mild latitude and much lassitude did not wear upon him to such an extent that he could not fall in love, not in the purely abstract way that he loved some things either, as for instance, the equation of the parabola, but vigorously and deeply. he fell in love to such an extent that he became personally interested in the contest among the fair samoans as to whom among the belles should show the most ardent and effective floral decoration of her mass of hair on the day appointed. now, be it known that the atlantic ocean is the atlantic ocean, that the washington monument is the washington monument. they exist as they are. be it known also, that the hair of a samoan beauty, a great burnished mass, also exists as it is and is rarely washed between the rising of the sun and the dropping into the ocean of the same luminary, or at any other time. the name of the young man connected with the weather bureau was john thompson. that is not a very poetic name, but john thompson can love just as hard as everard argyle. this john thompson did anyhow, and he vowed that his sweetheart should win in the contest of flowery decorations of the heads of the maidens. this resolve came upon him some six weeks before the time of trial. he visited una loa. "how long is it, sweetheart, since you let your hair down?" said he. "i do not remember," said she. "that is all right," said he. now, john thompson had entertained certain ideas regarding agricultural speculation in the samoan islands, and had imported for experimental purposes various small quantities of assorted delicate fertilizers--powdered bone and ammonia, or something of that sort. here was material, and inspiration for action comes to a man sometimes in a way which makes it seem to him as if all the ancient gods were behind him and beside him, aiding him in every way. this sublimity of inspiration came to john thompson at this moment. this is how the man, thus sublimated, reasoned: "all the other girls must, necessarily, as in the past, wear cut flowers, which must, to an extent, wither before the judgment of the wise ones is declared. i will make a real, living garden of my darling's head, a garden in which shall bloom, not only flowers of the islands here, but of europe and america, and all countries of the world. above one of her dark eyes shall dangle such a bunch of glowing and living pansies as the islanders have never seen; the phlox shall lift itself aloft from her coronet; sweet peas and old-fashioned pinks shall adorn one side of her shapely head, while the other side will be blazing with tossing poppies. she shall appear among the contestants with such a crest as never a queen has worn, though the jewelers of all ages have struggled to make a surpassing crown." and the man did his work. "eh," he said, as he patted the matted mass of dusky hair, "talk about farms in the states! here is an area of the right kind for the support of a family! talk about landscape gardening! i'll show them what real landscape gardening is!" he did. he planted right and left with ardor and good judgment, for he was not only an enthusiast but had the artist's gift. una loa yielded because she had the trust which every girl should have in a real lover of good character. as thompson sowed and sowed, she submitted with all hopefulness and slept each night with her neck upon a little log, that each flower plant might grow without abrasion or disturbance. she saw but little of her kin, save a sister who stayed beside her, for thompson was arrogant--said he was making a botanical experiment--and allowed none to visit her. [illustration: "the award could but go to una loa"] the day of the contest came, as the world went round and round. at the appointed hour, all the samoan maidens appeared together, each with her head in the halo and glory of fair flowers. but there was no contest. una loa stood among them all like a bright spirit from somewhere. the fragrance from the flowers upon her head sapped itself into the senses of all who were near her, and there was a glittering, a very splendor of brilliant, multicolored and flaming humming-birds about her queenly head. there was no discussion among the judges. the award could but go to una loa, and so it went! they say that there is a laziness, which is not, after all, a laziness, begotten in those who dwell among the islands in the southern seas. it is but adaptation, possibly most sensible. thompson has resigned from the weather bureau and married una loa. he is keeping a cigar-store in south apia and is doing tolerably well. and the listeners agreed that the lieutenant had at least looked upon a romance as genuine as simple. chapter xvi a woman and sheep none had acquired a more general regard among the passengers than the kansas farmer. he bore no resemblance to the typical farmer as represented in the comic publications but was, on the contrary, a well-dressed, imposing looking man of middle age, a college graduate, as stafford knew, and one who had selected his occupation because it appealed to him as, to their own and general good, it might appeal to hosts of others of the educated men of the country. stafford and he had become friends, as was almost a matter of course, and it was the former who insisted that the farmer bring to the front some curious experience of human nature in connection with farm life. "you are the tree we must tap now," he jested. "it's just because you are what you are that we want the thing. inevitably, you, with your experience and associations, can tell us something of the inner being and its ways on a farm which will be edifying. tell us the queerest and most unexplainable thing you remember in connection with such life and of one man or woman's part in it." the farmer stroked his grizzled, close-cut beard and laughed: "it seems to me that the element of love has entered with tolerable regularity into most of the narratives to which i have had the pleasure of listening here. that is right, certainly, and natural. what i'm going to tell is a love story, too, in its way. it is of a love which budded and bloomed but bore no fruit, for the oddest reason in the world. it is about a man who loved a woman and was won away by sheep. no, he wasn't exactly won away; he just forgot. it was the strangest thing i ever knew or heard of, but it is true. i know the man and his sheep myself, though i never saw the woman. this is jason's love story a swamp oak stump is one of the most contumacious stumps in the world. it is usually big and its roots extend, like the arms of an octopus, in all directions save upward. furthermore, having been bred to the wet, feeding on dampness when alive, the wood does not rot willingly. the upper portion of the stump absorbs the showers of heaven and endures the cracking heat of the sun apathetically and remains pretty much the same for a long time, while the roots lie solid in their dark bed, almost regardless of the years as men grow old. so it is that an otherwise cleared area of land occupied largely by swamp oak stumps is what the farmers in michigan's lower peninsula call an unpromising place for present making of crops. it was such an area that jason goodell--who was in love--owned. he possessed eighty acres, an eighth of a section, with fifteen acres cleared--but for stumps. the young woman whom he loved was melissa trumbull, the eldest daughter of "old man" trumbull, who was well-to-do. the place where swamp oaks grow is of a sort to command respect. it has features. it is often a black ash swale. a swale is low ground, but not a swamp, crossed sometimes, at irregular intervals, by strips of higher ground referred to generally as beech ridges. in the lower ground thrive the black ash, the huge swamp oak, various moisture-loving bushes and luxurious growths of ferns. up on the ridges grow the maple, the white ash, the beech, ironwood and birch and bushes which do not object to less damp soil, nannyberries elders and the like. in the swale proper the growth underfoot is bush and there are hundreds of puddles where the frogs congregate in thousands, mostly the small, brown wood frog, not the big, green "kerplunk" sort of the ponds and streams. here the raccoon finds what is, to him, a land flowing with milk and honey, for he agrees with a frog diet as a frog diet agrees with him; here upon dead white trunks the solitary log-cock, the great black, red-crested woodpecker, largest of his genus, in the region, hammers away like a blacksmith; here the hermit thrush sings sometimes; and here little streams are born, to trickle at first, then ripple and then leap, bubbling and noisy, into the sloping fields outside, to attain the dignity of brooks at last and join the undercreek. on the beech ridges life is different. there the ruffed grouse struts about and feeds upon the nuts and berries; and there are the squirrels, black, gray and red. the grouse raise great families on the ridges and the wooing "drumming" of the males in spring is like nothing else in the world. it is the most distinctively wildwood sound there is. as for the squirrels, the black is no longer holding his own with the red and the gray. he is going like the red indian and the buffalo and no one can tell why. he was not born to civilization. the red and gray adapt themselves. of such swale and ridge, so peopled, consisted (as has been said) the greater portion of the estate of jason goodell; excellent land but requiring much work in its subjugation. never better man for conquering a forest or making good soil yield the crops it has owed than this same brown-bearded jason goodell. personally strong, six full feet in height, though a trifle stooping, and slouchy in his gait, thewed like a draft-horse, broad of forehead and strong of chin, with firm mouth and steady gray eyes, this man was one to accomplish things as thoroughly and doggedly as victor hugo's gilliatt toiling sturdily at the wrecked ship. like gilliatt, too, jason was toiling for love's sake. he had never spoken of his passion to melissa trumbull, but they had studied together in the little district school, had grown up together, had confided their plans and hopes to each other and, until jason left the employ of old man trumbull and began work on his own "eighty," had been almost constantly together. to jason, reticent, and timid as well, in a matter of this sort, it never occurred to make a definite engagement, and to melissa, black-eyed, gingham-clad, buoyant and with plenty of work to do, the situation doubtless presented itself with the same aspect. no pledged word, though, could have made the matter more fixed and serious than it was, at least to jason. what need of words? the first thing to do was to make a home for the occupancy of two young married people. so jason built a rude cabin and lived in it alone and began clearing his land. at the end of the second year he had fifteen acres in crops of grass and grain, and the beginning of a herd of cattle and a drove of hogs, and was counted by his neighbors as a young man who would be well off some day. they were right in their conclusion. jason was the one to succeed as a farmer. living simply, working untiringly, the accomplishments of the isolated man were a surprise even to the rugged farmers who knew him well. at the end of the third year a new field had been hewed into the forest and the land first cleared had become more easily tillable. fire had fed on the stumps. half a dozen cows were feeding on the grassland, the hogs were fattening on last year's corn crop and chickens and turkeys cackled and called about the rough log-barn. butter and pork and eggs had a value at the nearest little town, and jason had saved money. he bought another eighty acres of woodland--land was cheap then--and began to plan the building of a house. there was melissa! no log house should this mansion be but one fit for a bride's reception. it should be a framed house, with all proper rooms, clap-boarded as to the sides and shingled as to the roof. there should be a porch in front and the building should be of two stories. jason brooded fondly over it all and planned and dreamed. he consulted often with jim rubens, the farmer carpenter of the locality: "never saw a man so wrapped up in his house-buildin' in all my life!" said rubens. the beams and plates and joists and rafters for the house were planned and, with axe and broad-axe and saw, jason and rubens labored in the forest until oak and pine were cut and hewed, true to the line, and were then dragged by toiling oxen to the site of the house of which they were to be the stay and strength. the farmers round about assembled for the raising, there were heavings and shoutings, the parts were reared under the hoarse overseeing of carpenter rubens and the great timbers, tongue in socket, pinned lastingly together, stood aloft, the sturdy white outline of a pleasant home to face the roadway. what days they were for jason as the two men labored afterward for weeks until the house stood all complete from cellar to roof-peak, and even painted--white, with green blinds, of course. furnished it was too, well furnished for the country. it was the finest house in the neighborhood and jason walked through the rooms with that feeling which comes to a man of purpose when he looks upon the thing accomplished. not yet, though, was the place ready for melissa. there was much to be done besides the mere building of a shelter, but, even now, the front part of it must be sacred for her. there jason nailed up the door solidly. what comfort could a farmer's wife have with merely a house to live in! here must be all convenience for her outdoor work in connection with the household and all should be pleasant to look upon. jason settled down resolutely to what was yet to come. obviously the old log barn had outlasted its original purposes. its small stable no longer afforded shelter enough for the increasing herd of cattle and the horses nor its mows room for the hay and grain. there must be a frame barn, a big one, with high, wide doors into which a team with a load might be driven and with long stables and mows and roof room enough for all contingencies of harvest. the year after the completion of the house, the barn was built and the one of logs abandoned. but the barn had not absorbed jason's thoughts so fully as had the house. the lonely toiling of the man was not lonely to him. he was strong and rejoiced in work, and there was ever melissa and always something to be done for her. from the front door of the house down to the roadway he made a wide gravelled path and along its sides he made beds of old-fashioned pinks and sowed and planted larkspur and phlox and dahlias and peonies and golden coreopsis and bachelor's buttons and other flowers named in the circulars of a seed firm in the distant city. he made a neat picket gate in the fence where the walk opened on the roadway and beside the fence he had hollyhocks, and sunflowers, the latter trying every day to see melissa, and turning their heads resolutely from sunrise until evening and going to sleep every night with their faces toward her home, which was in the west. close beside the house he planted rosebushes and "old hen and chickens" and lady-slippers and morning-glories, and a madeira vine for the porch. there was a path from the front around the house to the kitchen--which had a porch as well--and beside this path jason had planted an abundance of sweet briar, thinking as he did so how its faint, sweet fragrance and fair blossoms would match melissa. a hop-vine clambered up the kitchen porch. jason was thirty years old, now, and melissa twenty-five. one day old man trumbull, who was a great trader, suddenly disposed of his farm and moved into the adjacent county. somehow, the news did not have much effect on jason goodell. it would be as easy to bring her from thirty miles away as from where she had lived, he reasoned. the only difference to come would be that he would not see her often in the interval. there had never been any correspondence between them and it did not occur to jason to write now. there came a hard winter, the horses and cattle and other stock required close attendance, and jason was much about the house. it was at this time when he discovered the faults of the kitchen floor, which was of pine. the boards had shrunk and there were cracks and the soft wood had worn away under the tread of his heavy feet. that sort of kitchen floor would never do for melissa! he made a new floor and was happy at his labor all through "the big snow." the floor was of hard, seasoned ash, matched perfectly and smooth as the floor of a ball-room. "it will be easier to mop" said he, and thought of melissa's sunbonnet, and of how it would look hanging against the whitewashed wall. all winter in jason's newer eighty acres the axes of two men had swung hardily and, with spring and early summer, came to jason a stress of effort in helping at the clearing and in attendance on the crops. he had little time for work about the garden, though it was not neglected, but he felt that he must somewhat change his home life. he had lived in the kitchen and a little room adjoining it. he had, from the time the house was built, never changed in the feeling that the front part of the house was sacred to melissa, but he felt that now a little change must come. his duties were increasing. he must have a hired man about him, one who would live with him. so the hired man came and slept in the room jason had occupied while jason slept upstairs in what, in fancy, he had called "our room." "she won't mind," he thought. there is spur to effort for the real farmer and a great comforting pride in looking out upon a conquered province, to note the corn swaying full-eared, the timothy and clover and grain fields changing color with the shift of the clouds and sweep of the breeze, the lowing cattle in the pastures and the general promise of autumn's wealth. jason enjoyed it all, for was it not the product of his design and energy, and as the farm grew, he grew with it. success fairly earned made him zealous for more. he broadened and was for trying things. one day old rubens came along, and leaning idly over the front fence, began a farmer's chat with jason, who was digging among the flowers. rubens looked away at the vacant log barn. "what are you going to do with the old barn?" he asked, "tool-house?" "no," said jason, "i have a tool-room in the big barn. i don't know what i'll do with the old one. pull it down, maybe." rubens gazed meditatively at the abandoned but still sound structure: "it would make a mighty good sheep barn," he suggested. no more was said at the time, but ruben's idea was not forgotten. it remained in jason's mind and the more he thought upon it the more he became impressed. jason had never raised sheep, successful as he had been with other animals. he considered, and rightly, that most of his land was too low for them. there was an eighty acres of woodland adjoining that which he had latest bought that was hilly, not heavily timbered and with many springs and brooks. partly cleared, with what woods were left well under-brushed, it would make a perfect sheep pasture. he had half a mind to buy it and experiment. and the plan grew in his mind until it overmastered him and he bought the land. not the sort of man to venture upon a new venture carelessly was jason, and he had a problem before him now: what sort of sheep should he raise? his cattle and hogs were of good breeds and to have seen to it that it was so he had found profitable. with sheep he was less acquainted. he asked advice. "get merinos, by all means," pronounced henry wilson, who lived to the north of him. "get southdowns and nothing else," said james remington, who lived to the west. "i'll get twenty of each and experiment with them separately," decided jason. now as between the merino and the southdown sheep there is a great gulf fixed. the merino is small with gnarled horns, wrinkled neck and nose; with silk-like wool curling close to the skin in its fineness, yellow underneath because of its oiliness, and dark outside because of the dust gathered and held by such close, sticky coat. well tried is the endurance of the sheep-washer who, in late spring before shearing time, stands waist deep in some stream and seeks to cleanse the fleece of a flock of shivering merinos driven bleating to the water, and dreading it like a tramp. but the fine merino wool commands a price; the fleece is heavy and the breeder profits from that, not from the mutton. the flesh of the merino requires for its consumption people who have been long besieged and who are hungry. different is the quality of the southdown; not from spanish ancestors, feeding on andalusian hills, as came the merino, did he come, but from anglo-saxon forefathers who cropped the herbage of the hampshire and sussex downs. big and white of body and dark-faced, sturdy of build and garbed in clean, not over fine white wool, hornless but stepping free and high, the southdown has a healthy individuality. as concerns his mutton, those who know how to eat, and what to eat, speak fluently while their eyes glisten. and almost as the flocks throve under isaac, toiling for rebecca, throve the flocks of jason, toiling for melissa. in summer and autumn they fed in the new pasture land and in winter they were sheltered and fared well in the old barn, now renovated and with a great shed attached for further room. jason became absorbed in sheep-growing, as he had never been before in the growing of anything. he read books on the subject and tried experiments. at the end of the third year, with good flocks now his he selected from each the finest ram and ewe and entered them at the county fair. he wanted to learn with which breed he had been most successful. canny and just are almost always the judges at an american county fair. known personally throughout the region, selected for their uprightness and knowledge of special beast or fowl or any product of the fields, their verdict is almost mechanically accepted as a final and just one. more and more interested became jason regarding the issue of his experiments in thus entering into competition with breeders, some of whom had raised sheep before he was born, and he puzzled himself much over the problem of where, in the opinion of these unbiased experts, he would prove to have done best. the decision, when it came, was hardly a surprise to him. his merinos, it is true, received favorable mention, but his southdowns took first prize in a field where there was decided and worthy competition. a proud man was jason goodell when he saw the blue ribbons tied by a gray-bearded giant in jeans about the necks of his two entries. he made an instant resolution. "i'll not raise wool," he said, "i'll leave that to the ohioans of the western reserve. i'll raise mutton!" he sold the prize-winners for a mighty price and returned to his farm. within a week the flock of merinos was sold, as well, and the money so received was invested in an importation of more southdowns, with blood as blue as that of the hapsburgs, and far stronger. then began sheep-raising that was sheep-raising. it is hard to serve two masters and it must be admitted that, since his thoughts and plans had turned so absorbingly to southdowns, jason felt less surpassingly the inspiration of melissa. there had been a time when he dreamed of her almost nightly, but, now, his sleeping visions were of great flocks upon the hillsides and the eyes into which he looked were not always the sparkling ones of melissa, but it might be the soft, gentle eyes of quite another color of some great ewe. dreams are grotesque things. still, instinctively, sometimes fervently, jason worked and devised for the girl who had gone away. the big orchard back of the house and barns, now growing into fruitfulness, he cared for well. in the spring, feeding the just-weaned calves, as he put his fingers in the mouth of some vigorous youngster and then thrust its muzzle into the milk, that it might learn to drink, he thought as the calf butted joyously at the pail as if it were his own mother, how melissa would like the calves and how much better than he she would attend to them! he was somewhat troubled, too, because the spring in the hollow was not nearer the house--he did not want melissa to carry water so many yards--but he planned a "spring-house" with a cement floor, where melissa should keep the milk and make the butter. that would be less labor for her. there would not be much butter-making anyhow he was not going to have butter and eggs to sell. only enough cattle and horses and hogs and chickens for farm purposes did he intend to keep. and he bought yet another eighty acres of land. it is wonderful how some over-mastering aim, one the accomplishment of which requires concentration of thought and exertion of all energy in one direction, will get its grip upon a man and hold it to the end. with high and low it is the same. mozart died with the score of the requiem mass hardly dry from his feeble hand. napoleon died with the word of command upon his lips. seekers, investigators, experimenters in all fields, great and small, have grown into a forgetfulness of aught save one object, have abandoned all outside, and have dreamed and devised and labored toward one absorbing end. such compelling influence in life may come to the farmer as to others. with jason, who recognized a farmer's dignity, who knew that the farmer often fought men's battles and at all times fed them, the attainment of his own ambition was nothing small. he became almost a monomaniac over southdowns. how they thrived!--for nature ever loves a mentor. peas grew where oats had grown, clover where was before a cornfield, turnips where had been potatoes, for sheep must eat in winter. it became a southdown farm, and acres were yet added, for the undertaking was most profitable--until the time came when jason's keen eyes could not, as he stood looking from the barn door, reach more than vaguely the outlines of his own domain. one day, a girl wearing a sunbonnet matching exactly in shape and color the one melissa had once worn, passed by and jason's thoughts went back. that afternoon he took horses and wagon and drove to the growing town. he returned with a piano. "melissa may have learned to play," he said to himself, "and she will be glad to find it here." but, for weeks, perhaps for months afterward, no melissa came again into his waking dreams nor in his sleep. [illustration: "the children carried away armfuls of blossoms"] he had abundance of help about him now. another hired man, accompanied by his wife, had been brought into the house, the wife proving a notable housekeeper and relieving jason of all petty duties. he visited his neighbors and was liked among them. the children especially were fond of him and he allowed them to visit his house at will and to carry away armfuls of blossoms from his great flower-garden, seeing to it only that they did not harm the plants. but the parlor, with its furniture still unworn, though becoming somewhat old-fashioned now, and with its piano still untouched, was never entered except for dusting, and the front door was never opened. far and wide as the great breeder of southdown sheep, became known the name of jason goodell, and his flocks and barns grew with acres steadily. one afternoon a traveling nurseryman came to see him upon business and stayed to dinner. they chatted over the meal: "i was over at wishtigo last week," said the man; "drove over one day and came back the next. who d'ye think i met?" "couldn't guess." "i met county clerk jim lacey's wife--her that used to be melissa trumbull, you know. it was the first i knew of it. i took dinner with 'em; she wouldn't allow anything else. they've been married seven years and they've got a mighty nice little family: three children. jim's a good fellow." jason said nothing for a few moments. then he assented deliberately: "yes, jim's a good fellow. i've met him often. i didn't know whether he was married or not, though. what was it you said about them young pear trees? i may take a dozen or two of 'em." in the middle of the forenoon a few days later, while jason was looking over the sheep barns and giving directions to the men at work there, a sudden fancy came upon him. he went to the house, asked for a hammer and withdrew the nails from the front door. then he opened all the parlor windows and let in the sunlight. "it'll be healthier," he explained to the astonished and delighted housekeeper. "keep them open as much as you want to now, in pleasant weather, and let the children in, too, if they like it. it'll brighten things up." at a table in one of the fine restaurants in the big city sat, recently, at dinner a man and woman, he a man of the world, she charming as women so often are. they were delighted with the wonderful mutton they had just eaten and were talking of it. "it's a mutton only kings would be allowed to eat, if these were ancient times," the man asserted laughingly. "it's delicate as strawberries, though that isn't a good comparison. it may have come direct from the goodell fields." "who is goodell?" queried the lady. "goodell, my dear madam, is a public benefactor. he is one of the wisest raisers of southdown sheep the country knows. he's a splendid old fellow, too. i've visited his farm and met him. he's awfully fond of children." chapter xvii the enchanted cow for some reason, not altogether clear, there was no comment for a time after the farmer had finished his account of the affair of jason and the girl and the southdown sheep. perhaps it was because of the grotesqueness of the idea that a man working so faithfully for and so dreaming of his love--a practical man--could have left absolute possession of her to the unreal, while making his hobby at hand the real. the silence was broken by the young lady: "that is very strange life history, it seems to me. how could any man, a real man, forget the girl he cared for in such a way? it seems all wicked and unnatural." "but, my dear young lady," explained the professor, banteringly ponderous, "he did not forget her. in fact, from the account he appears to have been a most devoted lover. what he forgot was time. besides," he continued, "taking the broader point of view, how much better it is for all of us that, in one region at least, we have better mutton than that jason should have raised a family!" "bother the mutton!" was the indignant and somewhat irreverent answer, and then the colonel intervened: "my dear miss," he explained ingratiatingly, "i am confident that it is neither the professor's lack of heart nor sympathy nor gallantry that has spoken, but, instead, his superior and appreciative judgment in the matter of mutton. it may be that he is braver than some of us. however, it doesn't matter, because your sensibilities are going to be soothed and fed on caramels just now. i am most confident of that, since i am about to commandeer the poet. mr. poet, there is no alternative." there is something anomalous about the successful modern poets. they are usually disguised as citizens. they do not have shaven faces and long hair and another world expression upon their countenances. sometimes they have even a stubby mustache and a bad look. this particular poet chanced to be good-looking, but that proves nothing. he responded easily enough: "vocalism is difficult to me. i'd rather write this out. i can tell you a story, though, of the region where, it is said, were sowed the dragon's teeth from which sprang the men who later owned the eastern hemisphere. the story of the enchanted cow has the merit that it is true." the enchanted cow it is odd how often when from some legendary source a fairy story comes, we find fact mixed with the fancy. this tale, for instance, might just as well be called "single hoof and double hoof" or the "wild ride for caviare," as to be named "the enchanted cow." certainly every one should know about caviare, and why some beasts have split hoofs and some round, unyielding ones, but that enchantment should have anything to do with it is curious. into the danube far southwest of buda-pesth once ran a deep, still stream which babbled when it began in the hills, became more quiet as it reached the plain, and was almost sluggish when it entered the black tarn, as the broad sheet of water was called, though it was in fact a lake surrounded by sedgy marshes. the stream after feeding and passing through the black tarn became a deep river, and broadened as it poured itself into the danube, the father of waters of all the region. to the north of the black tarn was the moated grange where lived the lady floretta beamish, that is the lady whose name would have been that if translated into english, for the country in which she lived was hungary. the streams which would, in english, have been called ken water after flowing through the black tarn as told, went on through the estate of sir gladys rhinestone. it is true that gladys is usually accepted as the name of a gentlewoman, but this time it belonged to a gentleman, and one of high degree. he explained his name himself by frankly confessing that he had been named after his mother. in the days referred to people of the class of the lady floretta beamish and sir gladys rhinestone were generally under the immediate sovereignty of a prince, and the prince in their case was scarce a model. the one to whom all of that part of hungary owed allegiance was prince rugbauer, and he was hardly of a type to be called gentle or considerate. in fact none of the people of the lands about were accustomed to pronounce the name of prince rugbauer above a whisper. whenever it became necessary to allude to the prince, the inhabitants of the country were used to make the motion, hand on throat, of strangling. this was a direct allusion to the prince's system of taxation, and was understood by the humblest knave in the whole valley of ken water. even the prince knew the meaning of this gesture, though when first told of it he but laughed grimly and no one ever spoke to him again about it. it was the witch of zombor who told the prince. anything malicious might be expected from her. it was because of the witch that the cow was in trouble. the witch had enchanted the cow for a thousand years, and the seven hundredth year was passing when this tale begins. it may be said straightforwardly of the witch, that she was one of the worst of a disagreeable class of beings now, happily, becoming rare. she lived in a sort of hutch, a round mud-walled den on a hill which would be called endbury moon in english, and throughout the day she lay curled up in this den like a snail in its shell, but at night she came out regularly to work such mischief as she might in the country round about. wherever she found there was no trouble she proceeded at once to brew some. there was no end to her pernicious activity. the lady floretta beamish was an orphan and sole mistress of the two-towered grange and all the lands and waters a mile either up and down the deep ken water. but the land was far from rich, and the revenues of the lady came mostly from the sturgeon in the river which were caught each year in the same manner as in the danube itself. the lady floretta was a very beautiful creature. her hair was of a pale golden hue, and her eyes were blue. her cheeks were like june roses. she was tall and fair, and walked around the walled grange in a long white satin robe embroidered with gold, and down her back rippled the golden hair, even to the hem of her trailing gown. it required the services of seven maidens and seven hours daily to comb and brush the lady floretta's hair, but they did not mind it. the seven maids had nothing else to do, so they combed and they combed, and they brushed and they smoothed the pale golden treasure of their mistress' hair, fastening each shining braid of it at last to the hem of her trailing gown, with pins sparkling with diamonds, moonstones, rubies and emeralds. why the lady floretta did not dispose of some of these jewels when the strait came, which will be told of, it is not easy to understand. it may be they were all heirlooms and so not to be parted with. a year of trial came at last for both the lady floretta and sir gladys rhinestone. no fish were caught and that was a disaster which affected everything. the fish were the fortune of the country, for from the eggs of the great sturgeon was made the caviare, without which no true-born noble of the realm could make a tolerable meal. the caviare was shipped away to all parts of the civilized world as it is now, and it will be seen that to have the stream fail of fish was a calamity of first magnitude. it was a wonderful thing to see the manner of fishing in those days, and they fish in the same way upon the danube now. they cut a great gap through the ice in the winter, the gap extending across the stream, and in it they set monster nets. then, miles above the nets, a band of horsemen ranged themselves straight across the river on the ice, which would bear an army, and at a signal blast come thundering down at utmost speed. the noise was terrific. "ohe! ohe! a hun! a hun!" yelled the wild horsemen, there was a blare of trumpets and the strong ice trembled beneath the impact of the mighty hoofs. the timid sturgeon fled beneath the ice before the pursuing shock, and at last rushed blindly into the awaiting nets, to be taken by thousands and tens of thousands. but from ken water, though the horsemen rode as in the past, no fish were found. the stewards explained that the stream had run very low, and that the fish had gone either to the danube or the depths of the black tarn. the case was very bad. prince rugbauer announced that sir gladys and lady floretta were false traitors both, and announced as well that he would cancel their ownership of their lands and castles, and hold them no better than common folk themselves unless the heavy annual taxes were paid within a week. and so it came to pass one night that from his castle sir gladys paced with bowed head along ken water, around the black tarn toward the witch's hut on endbury moor, and at the same time, the moon over her right shoulder, came to the desolate hill-top lady floretta, each bent on consulting the witch as to what should be done about the fish that had left ken water. the witch, seated on top of her hut, gave what is called in old stories, an eldritch laugh when she saw sir gladys advancing on one side of the moor, and lady floretta, more slowly climbing up the other. when the lady floretta heard the strange laugh of the witch, she was startled and alarmed and stood still for the space of a full half-hour, while her seven maidens coaxed her to go on, and so sir gladys, who was less affected by the eldritch laugh than she and who, moreover, was alone, arrived first at the witch's haunt and secured audience at once. he gave the witch a gold-plated candlestick and two sugar spoons of silver, then explained his woeful plight, and asked advice and counsel. the witch clutched the articles eagerly in her claw-hands, climbed down from the little hut, and standing in her low door croaked out: "by the light of yonder moon, look and see your fortune soon!" she thrust the candlestick and sugar spoons into a bag at her girdle, and, curling up within her hut, fell fast asleep without ceremony, leaving sir gladys peering doubtfully in at the door which she had left open. what she had said was certainly vague and unsatisfactory and he felt that he had been imposed upon. he tried in vain to arouse the creature and tiring at last of shouting into the hut at a figure apparently of stone, he turned away but to meet, fair and full, the beautiful lady floretta beamish attended by the seven maidens carrying seven lighted horn lanterns, and followed by a gentle snow-white cow with golden horns and hoofs. sir gladys swept the heather with his plumed hat, as he bowed before the lady floretta. "madam," he said, with deep respect, "upon what quest do you come upon this lonely moor by the uncertain light of the moon feebly aided by the seven lanterns carried by your maidens?" the lady floretta could not speak. her embarrassment and confusion were such that she could scarcely stand even when supported by her maidens. she looked around for a chair. sir gladys took from his shoulders his cloak of purple velvet, and spread it at the lady's feet. "rest," he said, "rest, and recover your strength, fair and honored lady! i will await your pleasure, meanwhile examining the unusual specimen of the animal kingdom which i see following your gracious footsteps." he took a step or two toward the enchanted cow--for it was she--but she shook her golden horns, and he remained standing near the lady floretta, who sat down, affably and quite comfortably, upon the cloak of purple. "hark to the thunder!" said the lady floretta. "it is going to rain!" and she began to chide the maids for not bringing umbrellas. each it is true had a small parasol to ward off moon-stroke, but there was not one umbrella worthy of the name among them all. "it is not thunder that you hear, sweet lady," said sir gladys. "'tis but the stertorous and unseemly breathing of the foul witch in the den." "oh, is she asleep? and no one dares awaken her!" sighed the lady floretta. "i have walked a weary distance to consult her," she explained, as she became convinced that the sounds she had heard indeed came from the witch's hut. sir gladys came nearer, the seven maidens drew nearer, the enchanted cow herself walked closer to lady floretta, as she sat upon the cloak spread upon the heather, and there in the summer night the lady floretta and sir gladys exchanged confidences and condolences about their sore strait, and often made the dread gesture as they talked, for neither thought best to name the prince rugbauer and both were too well-bred to whisper in company. the seven maidens sitting there on the heather, fell asleep, each nodding over her horn lantern. the enchanted cow, however was wide awake, and, from her expression, appeared to sympathize deeply with the two distressed mortals whose troubles were so freely poured forth in her presence. they spoke of the disastrous happening of the winter, and of the probable hopelessness of an attempt to retrieve their fortunes at this time of the year. "the outlook is black indeed," remarked sir gladys, and the lady floretta agreed with him dejectedly. "it is the split hoof that you need," said a soft deep voice; and the two turning their heads saw the enchanted cow looking upon them earnestly. it was she who had spoken. sir gladys and lady floretta were dumb with astonishment. after a brief silence, the enchanted cow continued: "last winter when you rode furiously upon the frozen stream the thunder of your horses' hoofs scared no fish into your nets, and when spring came the water was as low as it had been the summer before and is still shallow. but i know where the fish are hidden and that they have not spawned. i stand, during the heat of these summer days, knee deep in the water in the shallows of the black tarn, and i see what i see." "dear enchanted cow," said the lady floretta, "please tell us what you see!" "this one night in the year," resumed the enchanted cow, without appearing to notice what the lady floretta has said, "this one night in the year, and the only one night in the year, yonder crafty witch must sleep. she cannot awaken until midnight and this is the one night in the year that the witch's spell is lifted from me, and i am given the power of speech until the clock strikes twelve." "oh! however can you stand it to be dumb so much of the time?" exclaimed the pitying lady floretta. the enchanted cow looked at the lady in surprise, for it is a great and beneficent thing to a cow to be allowed to speak at all. "it is getting late," said sir gladys, looking at his watch by the light of one of the lanterns, and then, addressing the white cow: "you were making an interesting observation concerning fish in the black tarn, if i mistake not." "the black tarn is full of the great fish," the enchanted cow declared. "they have taken refuge there, ken water being so low. you have but to stretch your nets, draw them, and reap your harvest." "but, my dear madam," urged sir gladys, "the black tarn is surrounded by fens and marshes. our horses were mired in trying to take out boats and nets this spring, when the ice first broke and we thought to fish in the black tarn, at a venture." "as i remarked at the beginning of this conversation," said the white cow, somewhat testily, "it is the split hoof that you need--" just then the distant church clocks of the saag could be heard, all striking the hour of twelve. the white cow turned at once and walked in the direction of the black tarn, and sir gladys, the lady floretta and the seven maidens, now fully awake, followed, the more speedily because of a screech from the witch, as she burst from the door, her inevitable yearly nap at an end. but no word could be heard from the enchanted cow. she looked meaningly at sir gladys, though, and that gallant gentleman seemed plunged in thought as the little party of wanderers left the white figure standing on the edge of the swampy ground which surrounded the black tarn. sir gladys escorted the lady floretta home, and what the two said to each other as they hurried over the moor toward the moated grange is what no one need consider. they were companions in misfortune, and so drawn closely. having bowed to the ground at the great gate, and having seen it close on the disappearing forms of the lady and her seven maidens, sir gladys hied him home, with quickened step. all the while he was thinking deeply. he had been from boyhood a student of natural history. [illustration: "sir gladys escorted the lady floretta home"] away back in the past so dim and distant that only the most learned can talk of it intelligently, away in the time after the earth had risen from the warm waters and when the great reptiles had given place to animals, something like those which exist to-day, the hoofs of all the quadrupeds were split. the land was low and marshy then, and the split hoof best supported its owner on the yielding surface. as the earth protruded more and more, and dry and sometimes rocky land uprose, such beasts as frequented the hills found that their hoofs were changing slowly with the centuries. hard and round the hoofs became as was best for the hill dwellers, but the beasts of the shores and lowlands retained the split hoof and still can tread the morass. this the enchanted cow knew. this, sir gladys rhinestone, who had studied natural history, knew as well. it was four in the morning by the great clock of the castle when sir gladys stood in the center of the stone-paved courtyard and wound his horn. at the sound every man in the castle and its surrounding buildings, and on the farms about, became astir, and soon sir gladys had his trusty henchmen a dozen deep about him. his words of command sent them scattering in all directions, and sunrise beheld a sturdy band, headed by sir gladys, leaving the castle gate and turned in the direction of the black tarn. with the men marched fifty of the great red oxen of rhinestone, and upon their mighty shoulders they bore the heavy nets and boats of the once lucky fisherman of ken water. sir gladys had taken the white cow's hint, and set the split hoof to do what the whole hoof could not accomplish. a messenger was sent to the moated grange requesting the lady floretta to visit the shore of the black tarn, and thither the procession moved and soon the tarn was reached. then followed a scene of which the story was told for years, for it was something worth the seeing. the great tractable oxen, encouraged doubtless by the enchanted cow who stood knee-deep in the oozy margin awaiting them, bore out bravely into the black waters through reeds and sedge and yielding mud and made a mighty splashing toward the center of the lake where in a semicircle were gathered the fishermen with their boats and nets. the waters near the shore were churned into a foam, and the watchers looking outward could see the long wakes of the frightened sturgeon as they fled to certain capture. and the nets were filled to the overflowing; so heavy were they that the great oxen could scarcely draw them to firm land. so the great work was accomplished, the lady floretta and her maidens coming in time to see it all. there were fish enough to furnish caviare enough it would seem for half the world. it was well that their two estates joined, for while during the fishing, the lady floretta and sir gladys had been sitting on the strand of the black tarn--sir gladys' cloak around the lady, for the day grew chill--they had declared each to the other their determination to join their lives and their fortunes together from that hour, and so it came to pass that, by the time the fish eggs were turned into caviare and sold and the money was in hand to pay prince rugbauer's taxes, sir gladys rhinestone had made the lady floretta beamish his bride, and what was good or ill fortune for one was the same for the other. and this is also told, that, as for the enchanted cow, ever afterward she wandered at will on the moors in summer, and was well cared for at the castle or the moated grange in winter. and ever on the night of the witch's sleep, the cow was visited in state by fair sir gladys and lady floretta, for nothing is more excellent than gratitude. chapter xviii love and a zulu mrs. livingstone, who had become accepted, by this time, to the colonel's great delight, as a sort of lovingly hesitant chaperon and hostess of the accidental house party, was now, doubtless to her own surprise, the one to take the initiative: "did i understand you to say, mr. poet, that what you just related was strictly true?" "yes, madam, certainly," was the calm and unabashed reply of the person addressed. "thank you," was the gentle answer, "it was beautiful," and then she turned to her husband, "colonel, won't you please request one of the stern business men here to tell something, something reliable, and of the present time?" the colonel's quizzical eye had, for some moments rested upon the broker, to the evident disquietude of that gentleman, though it was clear that he would not seek to avoid the issue when his time for effort came. he had not listened to the tale which had been told as intently as he might and there was a look upon his face as of a man recalling memories. he was mentally preparing himself for the colonel's onslaught--and it came. "mr. broker," said the genial tyrant, "gentlemen of your type in the business world are about the best fellows going, and, as i know, from listening interestedly a thousand times, are always telling good stories, when not going crazy 'on 'change.' your turn has come and your fate is sealed beyond all peradventure. sir, we await you." the broker "accepted the situation:" "i've been anticipating this emergency and have been preparing for it as much as possible. i don't know that it is what might be called a strictly business story, but it is that of how a friend of mine--an admirable man--made a lot of money and gained one of the prettiest wives in the world. i think we might call it love and a zulu in every drop of the blue blood of st. louis there is a bubble of sporting blood. this is a love story of st. louis, with filaments of fact entwining themselves with the lighter filaments of fancy. the st. louis lover--of course, there are exceptions--loves with his whole heart, and in his constant heart, with every pulsation, throbs the idea of chance. so, the great city on the banks of the father of waters is a city of honorable betting. john driscoll was in trouble. john driscoll, aged twenty-seven, was a lone scion of one of the best families of st. louis, a city where they have good families, certainly. driscoll's trouble was of the sort which tries a man. he was desperately in love with a fair young woman, but consent to the marriage was absolutely refused by the young woman's father until driscoll should be worth at least twenty thousand dollars; and a very obstinate old gentleman was mr. cameron, who owned much real estate and was looked upon as one of the solid men of a solid city. it was not altogether a harsh impulse which had brought this decree from him. he wanted driscoll to show that he had business ability, for driscoll had been something of a figure socially and not much of a figure otherwise. mr. cameron was very fond of his daughter jessie. john driscoll had been left, on the death of his mother, with a fortune of only eighteen thousand dollars; two thousand dollars were already gone and he had earned nothing. in order, therefore, to meet the requirement of his prospective father-in-law, he must, somehow, make four thousand dollars. it may be said to his credit that he lacked neither earnestness nor courage. he devoted himself at once to a vigorous endeavor to gain the required sum. he worked with feverish earnestness. he became solicitor for an insurance company, and, with his wide acquaintance, made a moderate success of the business from the beginning. it was hard to endure--for love is impatient--but the man did not flinch. at the end of a year he had a little over eighteen thousand dollars in bank and admirable prospects. but, as above wisely remarked, love is exceedingly impatient. he was offered a chance in a speculation which promised to gain for him two thousand dollars at once, and yielded to the temptation--though persuaded against it by the girl he loved and who loved him. instead of gaining two thousand dollars, he lost two thousand, and was back at the sixteen thousand dollar notch again. a year had been wasted. at the northeast corner of elm street and broadway is a famous place--half restaurant, half summer garden--where theatre parties go, and where the gilded youth of the city eat, drink and are merry. nonsensical propositions arise among these young gentlemen with money and, in many instances, with brains as well. one evening at one of the tables there arose a discussion over the old problem of whether or not the ordinary man could eat thirty quail in thirty days. the discussion became warm. "it is absurd," said a young man named graham--"the whole idea of it. why, after a hard day's shooting in texas, i once ate six quail at a single meal. that means that even a man of my size can eat thirty quail in five days, doesn't it?" "well, it may or may not," was the response of a youth named malvern, one of the group; "but eating six quail in one day, or thirty quail in six days, is not the matter under discussion. one of the most exquisite forms of torture known to the chinese, is to bind a prisoner so that he cannot move his head, and then, from a reservoir above, allow drop after drop of water to fall upon his head. at first it is nothing, but, finally, there comes an uncomfortable sensation, then pain, and, in the end, an exquisite agony. the victim dies or goes insane. a barrel of water poured upon him at once would not have affected him at all. so it is with eating thirty quail in thirty days. it is the monotony for all those days--the thing that cannot be avoided--that tells." "bah!" said graham. "i don't take your view of the case. i've the courage of my convictions, and i'll bet you five hundred dollars that i will eat thirty quail in thirty days, breakfasting here at nine o'clock each morning and eating my quail then." "done!" was the prompt reply. "you're not the only fellow who has the courage of his convictions. we'll appoint a committee of observation, and breakfast here together regularly. there'll be fun in the thing, whatever the outcome." the committee was appointed, and the next morning saw a hilarious group seated about the table. graham was full of confidence and jest. he ordered his quail broiled, and his companions, out of compliment, ordered the same thing. it was a breakfast enjoyed by all. here follows a summary of what happened on succeeding mornings: breakfast second.--graham came in, still confident, and had a good appetite, as appeared when he ordered broiled quail again and ate it with much gusto. of the five men at table two ate quail as well; the others ordered beefsteak. breakfast third.--graham's serenity was still unruffled. he ate his quail broiled, as usual, and seemed to enjoy it, but he noticed that none of his friends took quail. "i must have variety," said one of them. breakfast fourth--graham said he must have indulged in too much champagne the night before. he ordered his quail roasted for a change, and ate it slowly--the committee of three watching him like hawks, to see that he picked the bones clean. breakfast fifth.--the events of the meal were almost identical with those of the day before, save that graham required a little more time in which to consume his bird. breakfast sixth.--graham declared that, after all, we were behind the english in our manner of cooking birds. they boiled two fowls to our one. he ordered his quail boiled and picked away at it with some energy. he certainly cleaned the bones with more ease than before. breakfast seventh.--graham came in, looking bilious. he hesitated before ordering, but finally decided that he would take his quail chopped up into stew. there was some debate over this, and the committee finally went into the restaurant kitchen, to see that nothing got away. the stew seemed to please graham and he made numerous jests at the expense of the men, "who," he said, "had no stomachs." breakfast eighth.--graham ordered quail stew again, but did not get along so well as he had on the previous morning. he declared the bird to be stale and said that it smelled "quailly." as a matter of fact, it was a plump young bird, shot only the day before. breakfast ninth.--to the astonishment of everybody, graham, who looked more bilious than ever, ordered quail hash. the committee was indignant, but there was no recourse, and so they were compelled to visit the kitchen again and watch the career of the quail from plucking to plate. graham became furious. he said it was a shame to doubt the honesty of the establishment. he ate the quail. it is unnecessary to continue in detail the story of the breakfasts in the great restaurant. each day graham became more petulant and unreasonable. all ways of cooking quail were at last exhausted, and there was a compelled return to some of those already employed. graham by the fifteenth day had become haggard and the very odor of the delicate bird, as it came in, brought to him a feeling of utmost nausea. he was brusque with the faithful waiter, and took no interest in the conversation of his friends. he was plucky, though, and managed, by sheer force of will, to consume the distasteful ration. meanwhile, the wager had become the comment of the town, especially among the wealthy youth, and thousands of dollars were staked upon the issue. the restaurant was thronged each morning, and the proprietor wished he had some such attraction to such a class throughout all the rotund year. this notoriety but made the case of poor graham worse; it made him more anxious to succeed, but it unnerved him. on the twentieth day the odds, which had at first been in favor of graham, dropped to no odds at all, and on the twenty-second they were against him. he came in with a pallid look upon his face and sat down before his dainty fare. he took up his knife and fork; then suddenly laid them down and left the place. within ten minutes he returned with a set face and resolutely performed his task. where he had been was not known at the time, but it was rumored, later, in the southern hotel (which was in the same block) that there had been sold a half-pint bottle of champagne that morning to a gentleman in a hurry. so, worse and worse became the man's condition, greater and greater his abhorrence of what is counted a delicate bit of eating. on the twenty-sixth morning he came in with a more closely hovering look of apprehension than had yet been noticed. he sat down before the bird, picked at it for a moment, rose from the table walked about for a while; then came back, again and again, and considered what was before him. he gasped, and, as he arose to his feet and started from the room, exclaimed huskily: "it's no use, boys. i was mistaken. i can't do it. i give up!" there was pity for him, especially among the minors, for he had done his best. many cheques were drawn that morning. driscoll always breakfasted at this restaurant and had, naturally, become interested in this droll struggle between man and quail. for a day or two after his own loss he had been dazed and discouraged haunting the lobbies of the planter's, the southern or the lindell, and pitying himself amazingly. all at once he braced up, to an extent, through the influence of plucky little jessie cameron. "we must begin again--that's all," said she, resolutely and cheerily. "surely, you love me as much as jacob, who served twice seven years, for rachel, and i admire you more than i do jacob--though i never liked his device concerning esau. begin again, dear, and all will come right." and driscoll did begin again with a vigor, though henceforth he referred to mr. cameron as laban to the indignation of the fair and filial jessie. the lover settled down to earnest work, did well and was becoming contented and hopeful. this condition of mind enabled him to speculate in his hours of ease upon something outside of his personal affairs. the quail-eating contest had interested him, because he was an educated man, and something of a student of the body. why had graham failed in the eating of thirty quail in thirty days? men eat thirty breakfasts in thirty days and do not know they have done it. hunters and miners eat bacon alone--that is, as far as their meat goes--for months at a time and think nothing of it. why had graham failed? just as a matter of amusement, driscoll tried to study the thing out: "man is omnivorous," he thought; "not a flesh-eater alone, and his range of consumption is wide. he must have variety, even in flesh, as a requirement of his stomach. furthermore, man alone, among all creatures, is imaginative, and, when forced to eat a certain thing, develops a thousand fancies against it until it becomes revolting. it might be so, very likely would be so, in the case of the beefsteak or the bacon. the only animal which can live easily and uncomplainingly upon one kind of flesh alone, live cheerfully and healthfully, like the lion or the tiger or others of the carnivora, must be one accustomed to such purely flesh diet and one without imagination." and driscoll was right in his conclusions. there existed at this time on fourth street, near walnut, a dime museum of the better sort. among the attractions for the season were five zulus from barnum's circus--zulus, most graceful of all savages, with their incurved backs, broad chests, and the step of him of kipling, who "trod the ling like a buck in spring." and who, daily, for the edification of the populace, gave a great exhibition of the throwing of the assegai. one of them was a woman and she could speak english. "a human being accustomed to a flesh diet and without imagination, wouldn't he be a wonder to these joyous bettors?" thought driscoll. then he almost gasped as he leaned back. he had dropped into the dime museum on fourth street that morning, having business with the proprietor, and had noted the performance of the zulus admiringly. "a human being living on flesh exclusively and without imagination almost concerning food." here were a group, all of whom had throughout their lives, until imported, lived, practically, upon flesh alone--the half-cooked flesh of the herds. flesh alone was what their stomachs craved. additionally, they had no imagination concerning food--no morbid fancies. they only wanted meat and plenty of it--and the rest be hanged! driscoll saw it all. he thought for an hour and then there came upon his face the look of a man who is going to break a jam of pine logs in some northern river or drown beneath the timber. he called at the dime museum. "gregory," said he, "i want to borrow your best zulu." "_borrow what?_" said gregory. "a zulu." "what do you mean? tell me about it." "i'll explain. you know all about the quail-eating contest, where graham failed. you've got a man who won't fail." then he explained all he had thought out. the museum proprietor--acute man--became excited: "i'll do anything you say," he promised. the next morning, driscoll was breakfasting as usual in the swell restaurant with the usual group--graham, somewhat recovered, among them. they were still talking of the recent eating exploit, when, in the midst of the debate, driscoll spoke, calmly: "i'll wager that i can produce a man who can eat thirty quail in thirty days. the committee who served in graham's case shall serve in this. the only thing that i ask is that the eating be done upon the stage in the dime museum near the corner of fourth and walnut streets, and just after we have had breakfast here each morning. i'll provide tickets for all those directly interested in the result." there arose a clamor. not a man among all the gilded young men present believed now that any man could eat thirty quail in thirty days. driscoll had deliberated and had dared. he had brought with him two thousand dollars of his remaining fortune. he got odds at first of four to one; then three to one; then two to one. he stood to lose two thousand dollars, or win between five and six thousand. there was among the zulus a stalwart young man whose assegai sank deepest into the wooden target, who was a model of strength and wild, unknowing lustiness, and who had but lately left his tribe in southern africa. little but flesh had ever passed his mouth as food. he was told, through the english-speaking woman, that there was a little bird--the sweetest in the country--one of which would be given him each morning because he had thrown the assegai so well for the white man's edification. he smacked his lips, strutted and became excited. next morning occurred a scene heretofore unknown to the dime museum. in the front seats was the cream of society, so far as young men were concerned, and all the other seats were filled, because the wise proprietor of the place had seen to it that news so important had gone abroad. no theatre in all the town drew such a fashionable audience as did this dime museum. it was a scene most edifying and altogether blithesome and lighthearted, and one having a special interest. there was not much of a pause. the zulu, accompanied by the committee, came upon the stage--the gentleman from south africa with glittering eyes and a look of hungry expectancy upon his face. then, a moment later, came in a waiter with a quail--roasted whole and temptingly displayed upon a tray. the zulu gazed at it for a minute; then suddenly picked it up by the legs; thrust the head and breast of the bird into his mouth and crunched savagely. he was delighted. a moment later, he tossed the legs away and looked for more. he had simply chewed the bird and swallowed bones and all! and so, each day, for twenty-nine days the absurd performance was repeated. it was quite unnecessary to change the style of cooking, though the breast bones were removed by order of the committee, out of a probably unnecessary regard for the digestion of this human personage brought up on meat half raw. he but clamored for more on each occasion and was pacified only through the intervention of the woman who promised that soon he was to have a feast. she was telling him the truth. driscoll and gregory had arranged upon a spectacular termination of the contest--a contest which already, as everybody saw, was determined as to its issue. through the interpreter, the zulu was informed that on the thirtieth day he was to have, not only the quail, but a large bird--one worthy the appetite of a warrior--a bird known in this strange country as turkey and very good to eat. the strong thrower of the assegai could hardly restrain himself. he was to have a feast at last! the thirtieth morning came, and the quail disappeared as usual. then, in a stately procession, came waiters--the first bearing a huge roast turkey. behind him came others with the american accompaniments to the roast turkey, and all was set before the zulu. there followed a sight worth seeing. the turkey was utterly demolished; the contents of the side dishes were consumed and the dishes themselves licked to a housewifely cleanness. for the first time in thirty days the zulu gave a grunt of satisfaction. when all accounts were settled, the fortune of john driscoll amounted to just twenty-two thousand one hundred and eighty dollars and twenty-seven cents. and so ended the second of the great quail-eating contests in st. louis. perhaps it was wrong, perhaps driscoll shouldn't have won his money in the way he did; but in st. louis there remains, as said in the beginning, much of the venturesome but always clean and honorable sporting spirit of the south, and in this case nobody was hurt, to speak of. they could afford it, and all, winners and losers, had enjoyed themselves. but facing driscoll were still two appalling situations. there were jessie and mr. cameron. here the young man conducted himself with a diplomacy which was vastly to his credit. he went to jessie, threw himself on her mercy and confessed all in detail--confessed everything. she was confused and maybe shocked; but a woman in love is kindly, and a woman in love with a man of force wants to become his wife. "how will you explain to father?" said the thoughtful maiden. "i'll arrange it, somehow," said the now confident and buoyant driscoll. he visited mr. cameron and gave satisfactory proof to the old gentleman that he was now the possessor of over twenty thousand dollars. "but how did you gain the money so soon, boy?" said mr. cameron. "i heard that you lost a thousand or two." driscoll's face sobered. "i should think that no one better than you, mr. cameron, would understand the necessity on the part of a business man of keeping secret his methods and the relations of his business affairs. pardon me--i am not yet your son-in-law." "right you are, driscoll!" was the immediate response. "you're a business man, after all!" it was not long before driscoll became the son-in-law in fact. then he told the whole story to his father-in-law. "hum! ha!" said the old gentleman, musingly. chapter xix at bay softly stafford had at frequent intervals during the day been in communication with the relief train and had received neither encouragement nor the opposite. there had been a sharp questioning of a new man in charge, a person who seemed to know his business thoroughly, but who was far from voluble in conversation. evidently the emergency had been thought such as to require the presence of someone of greater versatility than was likely to be possessed by the train crew, but from this new overseer the questioner received but little satisfaction. in fact the boss had seemed not altogether open and candid in his statements and stafford had become a trifle irritated. he put the case lightly, for the man to whom he was talking was evidently bright: "i'm not altogether satisfied with your answers. we people imprisoned here have a right to know exactly what the outlook is. why don't you come to me more like a child to its mother? we are cutting wood for fuel, and the food supply is getting low. what are you doing over there?" "are you a railroad man?" "well, i've seen a railroad." "you ought to know what this job is then. it's a pretty tough one." "i know it, but why don't you answer my questions more definitely? have you anything up your sleeve?" "possibly; my sleeves are pretty big. this i'll tell you, though, that i think we're all right. i'd tell you more if i felt sure myself. we're going to try something. that's all." somehow, this elated stafford. he felt that he had been talking to a man who knew what he was about and he became confident that release was close at hand. but was he elated, after all? release would mean that there would remain but two more days of her, for, in such event, within two days the train would be in chicago. he was in a most uncertain mood. he was restless and unreasonable. why to him should come such perplexity in life, such trial to one who had banished himself to avoid temptation? yet, here it was, thrust in his way again, and he must be once more a tantalus. he became mightily impatient as he brooded and wished that he had fate where he could punish her. just what he would do with that lady in such contingency he hardly knew. he got to speculating upon that and had all sorts of fancies. he conceived the grotesque idea that the ducking-stool would be about the thing. the association of fate with the ducking-stool seemed somewhat incongruous, it is true, something in the way of an anachronism, it was such a far cry from homer to new england, but that didn't matter. she certainly deserved the ducking-stool,--and then he could not but laugh at himself and his vexed fancies. it was a trait of stafford that, whatever the situation, he was certain in turning it over in his mind, to give it some fantastic sidelight, which diverted his attention, and that generally relieved him. the idea of having fate in the ducking-stool appealed to him just now and smoothed his mood. how would that arbitrary lady, she who had had her own way with the world so long, conduct herself under such trying circumstances, for trying he inferred they were, from old prints which he had studied with great interest in his childhood. he imagined the way in which her long hair would float out upon the water as the shore end of the board went up and she, in the chair at the other end, went down and under water, and, in imagination, he could hear her gasp a little, stubborn as she is reputed to be. how would she behave and comport herself after the third or fourth dip? would she prove amenable and, when she had got her breath, pledge herself to be henceforth and for all time a little more considerate of the comfort of humanity? for lovers especially would she exhibit a more kindly and understanding regard? if not, why, then, under she must go again! so he ambled on foolishly and to his own relief. an admirable thing for stafford was it that these whimsies so often seized upon him, equally when he was enraged or distressed, it didn't matter which. they helped to tide him over the mental emergency. happy the man who has such an odd streak in the composition of his under-nature. "still," stafford laughed to himself, "i am an abused man. i am a victim of atrocious circumstances. i'm an injured being, and i'm at bay! i'm going to turn and make the best of it savagely. i'll have, at least, the comfort of looking into a pair of eyes and listening to a voice. i'll go and talk to her." and he went into the next car and seated himself beside the far away lady, who received him kindly. he resolved to indulge himself in her companionship for a time, though against his better judgment. he knew that he was but making his trial the harder to bear. "do you know," he said, after the first greeting, "that i wish i could sing?" "and why do you wish that?" she queried. "because, if i could, i would get off the train and wade through the snow away out to that clump of evergreens you see there two-thirds of the way up the slope--which would be out of hearing from here--and i would get behind the evergreens, out of sight, and sing something dolorous." "why would you do that?" "i hardly know myself. i suppose it would be something in the mood and the way of the old troubadours, who, when things went wrong, murmured 'alack' and sought the silent places and engaged in dismal vocalism." "but don't you think it was rather foolish of them?" ventured the far away lady. "i don't know about that. it must have been a sort of relief. groaning is a great relief when you are hurt. i noticed that particularly among my workmen in siberia, whenever one of them had been injured in an accident. very fine groaners they were, too." "but what nonsense you are talking"--there was a note of more than anxiety in her voice--"has something happened? tell me, john. has anything occurred to-day to disturb you?" "nothing, madam, nothing at all. do you know what is meant by 'cumulative repression?' well i'm suffering from 'cumulative repression.' that's all. there are different kinds of the disease and mine is of the sort for which there is nothing one can take." "i don't understand you, john." "no? well, i don't seem to make myself very clear, it is true. i didn't explain 'cumulative' as thoroughly as i might have done. it's this way: suppose you were compelled to take some drug the effect of which is known as 'cumulative.' the first dose would have little effect, and so on, up to a certain time. then something would happen, and that something would be a result just the same as if you had taken all the doses at once--mighty serious, possibly. in my case i don't, as yet, know just how serious the effect is. i think--at least i hope--that i will recover. i seem to feel it wearing off a shade, but i'm not quite sure. the consequences of 'cumulative repression' are sometimes most serious. insanity has been known to come. but, as for me, 'i am not mad, i am not mad,' i'm only a little--i'm only wandering in my mind." then, all at once, his mood changed to something absolutely earnest and his look was pitifully appealing as he leaned toward her: "oh, lady leech, can you do nothing for me?" she did not answer him. she understood. she knew, as well as if he had told her in simpler words, that he had almost failed in his high resolve and that he had come to her, feverish, in a half madness, to be upheld and strengthened, or otherwise to be dealt with, as she would. she realized it all, and thought silently, struggling with herself as he might never know. but the good, both for his sake and hers, was strong within her and finally came her soft reply: "you know, john, that i would help you if i could, but you know that i cannot, that i must not, even a little." her's was a great sympathy, yet, in the midst of it all, there was something she could not understand. she had heard that of him, from china, which made this scene incomprehensible. she knew that there was not a trace of acting, that there was no craft nor design about him, and she was but lost in a maze of troubled doubt. there was her own heart. an overwhelming pity overcame her, but she could not express it. he sat looking at her, silent, sad, studying. then, suddenly, he returned to earth again; his face lightened: "what nonsense i've been talking to you! i will go into the other car and encourage the colonel in the arena," and so he left her. but there was a mist in her eyes as he went out. how he had reminded her of the stafford of old, in the days when they were careless! chapter xx love will find the way the colonel was royally in his element now. on no occasion before during all the time of detention had he played with so free a hand or felt himself so much an element of good among his fellow creatures. the psychological hour had come for him. "we should congratulate ourselves," he resonantly declared. "where else or under what other circumstances could have been accidentally assembled such a number of people so qualified to minister mentally to each other and make otherwise dead hours breathe as we who are here now looking into each other's eyes?" then, very properly, feeling that he had expressed himself rather finely, he continued, "we will not waste the shining hour. we must have other stories. mr. showman, have you anything to say?" had the colonel not known very well what he was about his last sentence would have been as tactless as it seemed to everybody cruel, and even his trusting and admiring wife looked upon him in a startled way as he thus addressed himself to an exceedingly florid man in somewhat florid garb, but with, nevertheless, an air of intelligence of the better sort and one of general understanding. he had been a not infrequent visitor and had listened quietly and with evident delight to what he had heard. the colonel had not offended him in the least by the blunt application of the word "showman." the two knew each other and, besides, the title belonged to him properly and he was not at all ashamed of it. on the contrary, he was rather proud of it. he looked at the colonel in a meditative way and took his time. he had faced audiences--though, perhaps, none quite so select, before--and finally remarked, very simply and to the admiration of everybody: "you can't expect much of a plain, uneducated showman, but i know of one story, a sort of love story, too, which a friend of mine who owns a dime museum told me. i'm in the circus business myself, so do not know as much about what you might call family details as he would, but this is what he gave me. he was tickled and used some large words: love will find the way the ossified man was in love with the fat woman. such things happen. men are falling in love with women every day and apparent absurdities and incongruities do not count. love asks no odds. the ossified man was in love with the fat lady. she weighed six hundred and eighty-three pounds; he weighed just eighty-three. it may have been that this singular coincidence, as shown on the billboards throughout the city, first drew the two together. who can tell? they became acquainted and then began one of the love affairs of the thousand myriads, with which the world is at all times occupied. the fat lady was fair to look upon. she had the tremendous advantage of being a landscape as well as a personality. she was, somehow, healthy, and her far-outstanding flesh was firm and white, despite her mountainous proportions. she rose and fell rythmatically as a mass with each inhalation of her fortunately great lungs and reminded one, in a way, of a volcano half quiescent. this, though, would be an utterly wrong simile. there was nothing fiery about her. her round face showed but a somewhat intensified benevolence. upon second thought--because she had what she deemed taste in dress and wore a variety of outside ribbon things upon her looming corsage and vast flowers upon her hat--she reminded one, billowy and heaving and with green and flowery things atop her, of the ever soft and rolling and lifting sargasso sea. she was a good girl in her way and had come from indiana. the ossified man was nearly six feet in height, was one of the best known specimens in the show world of what may be called an animated stalactite and could scarcely be called ungraceful though a slightly too robust skeleton. his joints were singularly flexible yet and his digestion and his mind were active. "stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." thus he explained the quality of the personality of the two. the wooing of the ossified man was in the nature of an innovation. he recognized the attitude in the community occupied by his inamorata and himself, not merely toward each other but with relation to all the outside world, and he conducted himself accordingly. what the ossified man did--and it is greatly to his credit--was to do what any other man of his grade would do. neither he nor the fat woman were highly educated but each had been through a school and each had read and could understand things and each had intelligence and no little sentiment. as remarked, the ossified man made his advances as would any other man of his degree. the two came to understand each other in a way and the fat woman began to feel somewhere, far away in her system, something she had never felt before. in truth she was beginning to fall in love with the ossified man. not being a fool, the ossified man knew it. he realized the fact that he had found another being of the other sex, of good sense, though out of the common in appearance, as sentimental as he, the great heart once fairly stirred. affairs drifted. he knew that he was going to propose to her and she knew that he was going to ask her to be his wife. that reflection, somehow, startled her throughout all her vast being, though a dim sub-consciousness told her that she liked him much. as for him, he resolved to stake the future upon a single poem he sent to her, confident that she would accept it gravely. and these are the few lines she received: "all flesh is grass, and grass must turn to clay; all bones must turn to dust, and we are they! since thus we turn, my own, my colleen bawn, why not unite before our breath is gone? it is the judgment ever of the sage that happiness is in the average; what better equipoise than you and i, what more assured? o, sweetheart, let us try!" the fat woman was impressed but, more than that, and better in ten thousand ways, she was delighted that the man she realized she loved had finally dared to express himself, though in this odd, sentimental way. she thought much and then--there is shade of correction added--she wrote this letter: "dear jim:--i understand your poem. i won't fool a bit. i care for you, jim, as you care for me. but we will be a joke if we get married now. can't you see that, jim? can't we get more like each other before we get married? we have both saved quite a lot of money. oh, jim, if you'll try to get thicker, i'll try to get thinner. "lovingly, "sarah." the ossified man read that letter and went out and walked up and down the streets for hours. he was the happiest and most perplexed man in all the big city. his heart at least wasn't ossified. he remembered a professor who had studied him and whom he had heard say to those about that there was no occasion for the continued ossification in such a subject, provided the stomach was all right. "i'll go to that old professor," he said, "and i'll put the case to his giblets in a way to make him salty round the eyes. and i'll write all about it to my little girl, god bless 'er!" so his "little girl" got the letter and cried largely and with vast resources and, as we say, "braced up." "he is good, my jim," she said to herself; "and i'll meet him half way, god bless him! i know a professor too, and i'll see him." so each went to a professor. professor mcflush was the doctor whose portrait accompanied an advertisement regularly in the sunday papers, and whom the ossified man had in mind. he didn't hesitate an instant after an examination of what there was of his patient. "i'll cure you in no time if you follow my directions," he declared. "my sulphuretted tablets will knock out the ossification and as for the rest it's all diet." "what diet?" asked the ossified man. "hash!" roared the doctor. "do you drink much?" "naw," said the ossified man. "well, you've got to--hash--hash and porter. hash is fattening, the potatoes in it does it. porter is fattening, the malt in it does it. them and my tablets together will do the business--seventeen tablets a day--dollar a bottle, thirty-four in a bottle. five tablets before breakfast, and for breakfast hash and two bottles of porter. dinner the same; supper the same. anything else you want eat or drink all day long. last two tablets just before you go to bed. get your prescriptions filled here. get your porter over at johnson's wholesale grocery, i've made an arrangement with him. ten dollars. report weekly. good day." and the ossified man took up his task for love's sake. it was to professor slocum that the fat woman went. professor slocum was brisk and small but he had a way with the ladies. the fat woman believed in him implicitly from the moment they met. "do you eat much?" was the first query of the professor. "yes sir, considerable." "do you drink much?" "yes sir, some ale, and water most all the time." "madam, i am astonished! keep on with that diet and you'll weigh half a ton before you die, and you'll die within six months." the fat woman gasped and turned pallid. she was influenced not only by love but by acute alarm. the professor looked upon her benignly. "madam," he said, "i can save you. my condensed food tablets and my spirituelle waters will do the business. the tablets will afford you sufficient sustenance for existence without affording any element for the increase of adipose tissue, while my spirituelle waters will gratify your thirst--the more you drink of them the better--while, at the same time, they will exercise an influence of their own. get your tablets here at this office--fifty cents a hundred--spirituelle waters here too--quart bottles, twenty-five cents a bottle. prescription: ten tablets and one bottle of the water to a meal; another bottle of the waters before retiring. drink all the spirituelle water you want during the day. ten dollars. report fortnightly. good afternoon." the professors knew their business. there could be no doubt of that. not with any sunburst, so to speak, but steadily and day by day, the ossified man increased in flexibility and tissue and the fat woman decreased in fat. there came a day when the museum manager observed the change and sent for the ossified man. "what's the matter, jim?" asked the potentate. "nothing that i know of," was the answer. "do you weigh any more than you did, jim?" "about twenty-five pounds, i believe," was the hesitating answer. "i'll see you in my office at two o'clock this afternoon." then the fat woman was sent for and questioned. "how much do you weigh, sarah?" was the first query. "six hundred and twenty-three pounds, sir," was the truthful answer. "huh!" said the manager. "sixty pounds gone sarah! i'll see you in my office at two o'clock this afternoon." an hour later the ossified man and the fat woman were engaged in earnest conversation. after a pause the fat woman remarked thoughtfully: "jim, we're going to get the g. b." "looks that way," said the ossified man. "do you care much?" "nope," said the ossified man, "only i wish we each could have gathered in our fifty per for another six months or so." "well, i don't care!" said the fat woman, lovingly and desperately. "i've saved up about six thousand and you've got about five, and the three or so can go." "suits me," said the ossified man. the meeting in the manager's office that afternoon was spirited but good-natured. "heard you'd got stuck on each other and were trying to size up together," said the manager. "about the size of it," said the ossified man. "well, it strikes me that there are two sizes yet," said the manager, "but that doesn't matter. you are knocking out two of my attractions. i'll have to let you both go at the end of the week." "all right," said the ossified man, good-naturedly. "but," he added, as a second thought struck him, "say, sarah is going one way and i'm going the other and there is no telling how far we may happen to pass. it might happen that we might want a job again. now when i come back as the fat man, and she as the ossified woman, will you take us on?" the manager roared: "yes, when you come back weighing six hundred and eighty-three, and sarah eighty-three, i'll engage you, you bet!" the fat woman listened approvingly. and now the two are on a fine farm in indiana and are happy. she still takes professor slocum's condensed food tablets and spirituelle waters, and he still takes professor mcflush's sulphuretted tablets and porter, and they are growing more and more alike in appearance, as they are in thoughts and aims, and have the best and most comfortable understanding. but they'll never get back to the museum. they wouldn't if they could. isn't it wonderful what love can do! chapter xxi a literary love affair there was laughter, naturally, over the showman's absurd, yet not altogether unsentimental story and, after its recital he stood, undoubtedly, more nearly on a social footing with the others. there were his clothes, of course, and another excrudescence or two, but these were incidentals. the wayfarers did not even yawn, but looked inquiringly at the beaming and bestowed-by-providence colonel. after all, it is doubtful if there be anything better in the world than a spinster--if she be of the right sort. of course all spinsters are not of the right sort; few of us are. when this one especially fine spinster was called upon by the colonel she did not know exactly what to do. she should have been as perfectly at ease and as possessed of aplomb as any voluptuously beautiful poser in a ball-room, yet she was somewhat embarrassed. she should not have been. she was an exquisitely beautiful woman, in the view of those who know things. with her thin nose and thin lips and general expression of cultivation and eyes in which showed loving regard and thinking, she was adorable to those upon whose eyes had been rubbed the great ointment of perception. her one hundred and twenty-five pounds of existing womanhood, neat and good, was worth far more than its weight in gold or any other metal. when called upon this is what the spinster said most bravely: "colonel livingstone, there is but one untold story of which i know and i wish i were capable of explaining to all of you how full of real life it was. yet it seems so simple and silly that it is commonplace, though it isn't. do you remember, colonel, about the great tower of the campanile, in venice and the square down upon the pavements of which the pigeons flutter to be fed? well this is a story--a true one--of something like those same pigeons and the doge who first instituted the feeding of them, five hundred years ago, or something like that, only the scene and time are different. as you know, colonel, i live in chicago, and this is but the story of the pigeons of st. mark's transferred to the corner of clark and madison streets in a city in another hemisphere. and, as i said, it is all true. this is what actually happened." a literary love affair this is a love story of two of the class who know things. margaret selwyn was a graduate of one of the bluest women's colleges between the two seas, and, more than that, she had a background of home culture and refinement, having parents of brains. she came from college with those acquirements, which shine exteriorly, and had an incurved back, and was "tailor made" from head to heel, yet having within her all that gentleness and greatness of heart which make a woman better than anything else, not even excluding the strawberry upon which the right reverend bishop pronounced such a sincere eulogy. as to the man, henry bryant, he belonged socially and in all other ways to the same class as the woman, even in brains and goodness, considering, of course, the limitations of sex. each of these two occupied a social position--if such a thing as recognized social position be defined enough in the united states--distinctly understood by the people who knew them. each was arrogant and self-sustained, and each thoroughly and admiringly in love with the other. it was wonderful how these two, each accustomed to be obeyed, and each, in a gentle way, unconsciously dominant with those about, grew close and yielding together. each recognized the masterfulness, feminine or masculine, of the other, and there came a great sweetness to the understanding. yet to these two, well-poised and mentally well-equipped, came gusts and showers of difference of opinion. the man tried to be dignified and self-contained upon these occasions, but, as a rule, failed miserably. the woman didn't even try. but these differences throughout the months of their engagement resulted in no tragedy of importance. they both had so much of the salt of humor in their composition that they recognized the folly of even a momentary antagonism, and each laughed and begged the other's pardon or rendered the equivalent of that performance. they smiled together over their mutual short lapses of realization of what it is that makes the world go round. at such times as they quarreled the man would tell her the foolish but probably true story of the irishman who came annually whooping into town at fair time in some old irish village, whirling his shillalah above his head and announcing to all the world that he was "blue-mouldy for want of a batin'." and, after this comparison, bryant would announce, in strictest confidence, to his sweetheart, that this blessed irishman never failed to get his "batin'," and that there were "others" even unto this day. and so it came, in time, that this man, in love with a woman, called her his "blue-mouldy" girl, and this came to be the sweetest title in the heart of each. with all the saving grace of the sense of proportion, which is a good part of the sense of humor, and with all their love and understanding of each other, with such characters it was inevitable that something must happen. there are laws of nature. vesuvius gets dyspeptic. certain javan islands spill up into the sky and the world has red sunsets for a while. one day, this woman, good product of a good race, sat in her parlor awaiting her lover. she was reading a book as she waited. now as to certain facts: miss selwyn was in her literary tastes an ibsenite, hardyite, jamesite, or something of that sort. bryant was a kiplingite or conan doyleite. she trimmed close to something sere, and where nerves were. he was chiefly in his literary tendencies "let her go, gallagher!" margaret, having become absorbed in her book, looked up with saddened eyes from her literary draft of wormwood and tea, with the beginning of beautifully creased brows, to note the entrance of some lusty flesh and blood. less in accord in mood and thought than were these, for the instant, never existed two people on the face of the earth, earnest lovers though they were and of about the same quality of thought and being. something had to happen. "why weep ye by the tide, ladye?" began bryant, glancing at the face of his sweetheart, and from that to the book she had laid aside. as she did not reply immediately, he continued, taking up the volume: "is it the han't that walks or the browning of the overdone biscuit that has lowered your spirits?" "i don't know what you are talking about," she said. "neither do i," said he. there they were, he, overcoat still on and hat in hand, and she sitting there and looking up at him but still enwrapped in a more or less emotional feverishness contracted from the volume in his hand. any purely objective onlooker would have required no announcement of the approaching "circus." the girl made an effort to recover command of herself. "leave your hat and overcoat with the maid," she said, "and come and sit here in the window and look at the lake, while i read to you the beautiful ending of the story i have just finished." "i will stay," bryant declared; "i was going to ask you to go with me to the park and idle among the chrysanthemums, but this will be better." and he seated himself near the window. "may i be allowed to look at you, instead of following your advice to the letter and keeping my eyes upon the cold, gray lake water outside?" he continued. "no matter what i hear, i shall be content if i can see you." miss selwyn flushed a little, but laughed good-humoredly. here the purely objective looker-on afore-mentioned might murmur over the foolhardiness of man when he meets, unawares and all uncomprehendingly, one of the bewildering moods of an impressionable sweetheart. the contented male creature rushed blindly to his fate. "before you begin, dear, tell me; tell me it is not tolstoi or ibsen you are going to read, nor yet george meredith or sarah grand!" at the last reference miss selwyn's eyes began to flash dangerously. "you know i detest her!" she exclaimed. "do you refer to all four of the writers i mentioned as of the feminine gender?" inquired bryant with an appearance of fervid interest. the fool was actually enjoying it all. seeing that her lover was only chaffing, margaret made a brave effort, settled herself in her chair and found the place in her book. "before you begin--i beg your pardon," said bryant deferentially, "but let me say that i was up late last night, and if i can't keep awake under the spell of your voice, don't blame me. wake me up at the catastrophe, when the distant door slams or somebody breaks a teacup." miss selwyn laid the volume down again, and, still smiling, answered quietly but a shade frostily: "it would take something written with a mixture of raw brandy, blood and vermilion paint to arrest your attention, i believe! your authors write with--with--an ax in place of a pen. but i can't harrow up my own imagination with their horrors, much less read them aloud!" "an exclusive régime of problem novels, plays and moralizings on pessimistic lines is bad for the mental digestion," admitted bryant in judicial tones. "poor girl! i must teach you to live in and love this beautiful, violent, sweet and good old world of ours--the world of real nature, real men and women, and real literature!" "i thank you for your indulgent, patronizing intentions," she flashed back at him. "you would feed butterflies on brawn, teach the bluebird to scream like a macaw, make the trembling, silver-leaved white birches all over into oaks." "my dear margaret--" stammered bryant, starting up, but he could not lay the spirit he had raised. "there are questions in life that cannot be settled by the stroke of a sword or ax," she went on. "your favorite writer has smirched the fair figure of childhood in his brutal pictures of boys' life. he has made an unwholesome, disgusting thing out of what should be and is healthful and fine. how can you, who read him with patience, carp at my taste for what seems to me well thought and well expressed?" "the effect of your favorites upon you to-day has not been particularly reassuring," said bryant, more stirred by margaret's tone and manner than by her words. seeing that he had angered her, and trying to stem the tide of her indignation, he still blundered most flagrantly, and within a half hour the quarrel had culminated in an avowed separation for the rest of their lives, bryant leaving the house in a state of indignant misery such as fond and over-confident lovers alone may know. not a word had been said, this time, about the "blue-mouldy" girl. the atmosphere had been too electric, the mood too tense for a laughing word. then followed silence between these two. stubborn pride on the part of the woman, proud stubbornness on the part of the man. they were earnestly and faithfully in love, but each waited to hear the first word of forgiveness. bryant did write, but in his preoccupation left his letter upon the desk unposted, and in a day it was snowed under by his unopened or carelessly glanced at mail. of course he misunderstood miss selwyn's silence and she resented his. one sunday morning margaret, with an innate grasping and running back to the faith in which she had been bred, sought help at the source which best suited her--the relief which comes from religion. it so chances that there is a shrine upon the bank of the ganges. it so chances that there is what we call a mecca. it so chances that we all occasionally seek our shrines. margaret selwyn sat in her shrine, the outgrown old episcopal cathedral on washington boulevard, and listened to her pastor, one of the great old men who have grown up with a creed, but with thought and lovingness; one who has learned how to heal wounds, the wounds of which no tongue can tell, and how to advise genially and generally as to the affairs of life. somehow, the old gentleman, with his white hair and robes, his simple, clean, old-fashioned honesty, had imparted to her a strength and faith in god which calmed and helped her. it may be there could not have been imparted to her by any one else in the world, politics and power and inherited splendor all considered, as much as could this plain old man. the white-robed boys sang their recessional, and she became perhaps clearer and more comprehensive of mind than before she entered the church--certainly more equipoised than she had been for days. meditatively alive to the quiet of this sunday noon, miss margaret selwyn, as she neared the centre of the city, stopped short and looked about her. where was she? the pavement of the street was gray-blue, spotted with white, and gleaming here and there with the iridescent living tints of bird plumage. the air was winged by soft forms, and a crowd of idlers were scattering grains of corn upon the ground to lure and keep in sight the most graceful creatures that live between the sky and earth. against a sky as blue as that of venice two snow-white pigeons were flying straight down the street toward their companions. a swarthy italian stood with the birds almost under his feet, but, save the dark face of the street-vender, the pigeons and the perfect sky, the picture involuntarily imaged in miss selwyn's mind was all away and awry. here was no stately tower, remote and solitary as a recluse in a worldly throng; no byzantine temple delighted her eye with its warm and gracious humanity of suggestion. the vast sunny space of the venetian square, with its columned coffee-houses and shops, was in spirit and in truth far removed from here. st. mark's, and the place where the dream of a moment had arisen in an impressionable mind, might have been on two different planets, so opposed were they in every outline, spirit and detail--save one: the fluttering, flying, eager, unafraid pigeons. the sun shot side glances down through the thoroughfare and really did some good on this day, because this was the day of the nazarene, and even the money-seekers on this day had abandoned in their affairs the consumption of bituminous coal. that is why on sunday, in one of the greatest cities in the world, the air is clear and the breath better. that is one reason why, on sunday, the american cousins of the "pigeons of st. mark's" come fluttering from somewhere about the city, from only the maker of them knows where, and dip downward out of the ether trustingly to the feet of the passer-by, be he thug or preacher. miss selwyn had never heard of the vast flock of doves which dwell in security among the towering buildings of the city. their wings flash across wide darkling streets all day, welcome to every careworn man who watches, for a moment, their graceful flight. they were here before her now--there, parading strutting, looking up hopefully toward the men about them, each eagerly seeking the next flip of the corn. they were--and are to-day--because of some gracious instinct in humanity, the best casual street exemplification of what is best in human nature. they dripped and dropped from somewhere almost simultaneously. there was one who strutted the most struttingly and whose only really justifiable claim was that from crown to midway of his body he had such iridescent purple as all the shell-opening fishermen of tyre and sidon never devised half-way. there was another one, a quaint little maiden, who will probably marry some english nobleman of the birds, snow-white, with strange geometrical lines crisscross about her back, and who was almost duplicated by a dozen or two others of her breed. there were two rufous things, the red of whose top and back lapsed into a white beneath, almost as exquisitely as blends the splendid red hair of a woman into the ever accompanying white of the skin beneath. there were little drizzled things, pert, like bantams, off-breeds which had introduced themselves into the community. and there was nothing but just a tossing about among those beautiful creatures upon the pavement there, nothing but an oliver twistish clamor for "more" from those who stood above them, to whom they were doing more good than they could know. on week days the pigeons fly out in foraging parties to the railway yards and the neighborhood of the huge grain elevators. they can be seen glancing above the tall buildings, far flying, specks of gleaming light, along the hollow spaces above the streets as they go and come from their feeding places. the crowded masses of wagons, street cars, carriages, horses and hurrying people keep the pigeons from the street where they are most at home together for six days. but on the seventh, when the burden of labor is lifted or a brief space from the shoulders of toiling mankind, the pigeons rally in force upon one of the most busy, prosaic, care-breeding corners in the great spreading city by the lake. and every sunday come, as surely, men and boys to feed the air-travelers and look at them with the worship all men feel for natural beauty and grace. [illustration: "he was unconscious as a child"] miss selwyn had chanced upon this unique function, the pigeons' sunday banquet. here were no appealing graces of architecture and venetian balm of atmosphere. the rough pavement on which the yellow corn was scattered was a contrast to the smooth and perfect floor of the great piazza. on one side was the inevitable american drug store, plain, matter-of-fact, yet giving, by its crimson and purple window globes, the only touch of pure color in that part of the street. across the way was a hotel. a clothing store, with its paraphernalia of advertisement, occupied another corner. it was clark and madison streets. miss selwyn saw every detail of this scene at a glance, and then her eyes were fastened upon one figure. standing among the others was henry bryant. his straight, powerful figure, commanding in presence and pose, seemed to separate him, in a way, from the men around him. but, like all the onlookers, he bought corn and scattered the grain on the ground, watching the pigeons as they clustered around his largess. he was as unconscious as a child, and as gentle, about his simple pleasure. his face was a little worn and changed by the suffering of the days of separation from her--margaret's eyes were quick to see that. that was the man from whom she had separated after a wordy war over wordy books. that was her lover over there. his whole look, attitude and occupation appealed to her tenderness. love rushed tumultuously onward, a tide of irresistible strength, sweeping away every carefully-built structure of repulse and every barrier of opinion. their quarrel was forgotten. yet the reserve of a proud nature and of custom kept miss selwyn from crossing over to speak to bryant. she walked home with a springing step. once the thought came into her mind that bryant might go away somewhere at once; that the message she was hurrying to send him might not reach him, and at the idea she felt faint and disheartened. she stopped and, for an instant, almost turned back, but, checking herself with a smile at her own impatience and trivial forebodings, she held on her homeward way again. she could see her lover, and see him as plainly as when he was in reality before her, all unconscious of her presence, half absent-mindedly and all tenderly scattering grain for the cooing, fluttering pigeons at his feet. the next morning, bryant, looking over his mail with little relish--for much of the interest in living was out of him just then--found a letter which aroused him most effectually from his mood of listlessness. it said: dear: i am "blue-mouldy for want of a batin'." come to me. margaret. chapter xxii abercrombie's wooing none but could smile upon the spinster and be glad of the little tale she told. half the world knows of the pigeons so nourished on one of the most crowded corners in the heart of a great, turbulent city, but none had thought before of what might accompany this exhibition of the fact that there is still a regard for beings of the lower and less grasping life. very pleasant was the conversation and very understanding were the comments, but the colonel, like many a commander of the past, from joshua down, noted the swift passing of the hours of day and was insatiate for more of what might be attained before it was too late. he called upon the banker. that gentleman, easy, suave and really a good specimen of the class which inclines us to save by taking care of our savings--and only rarely departing with them--was quite equal to the demand at the paying-teller's window. "i have listened," he said, "to these accounts, some of adventure, some of fancy, some of love and persistence, and it has occurred to me that even i might contribute something to the general fund. oddly enough, as coming from me, what i shall tell is a story of love and courage and persistence all combined. it is not a tale of some far country, but one of our modern life, a tale of true lovers whose union was opposed but who came together at last in spite of obstacles. i think we may term it abercrombie's wooing mr. gentil abercrombie is a fine fellow, quick-witted, and amiable, with prospects in the world, but he is not, as yet, wealthy. last spring he fell in love with miss frances dobson, and the young lady seemed not entirely oblivious of the fact nor altogether displeased with it. the affair appeared prosperous to the hopeful abercrombie until the middle of june, when the dobson family moved to their country home at a modest little watering place not far from the city, leaving the suitor in a position he did not like. a resolute gentleman, though, is mr. abercrombie, and he followed his star, taking apartments at the watering-place hotel, coming into town by train daily and returning in the evening. the young lady thus sought had the fortune to be the only daughter of her somewhat austere parents, mr. james dobson and mrs. irene dobson, each distinctly of the class not to be trifled with by any too aspiring suitor. abercrombie was admitted to the dobson residence, for he has good social standing--but his reception was not as warm as the weather. it appeared to each of the lovers early in the season that it was best to be politic, and that abercrombie was not, as yet, looked upon by the father and mother as a person with that superabundance of worldly goods and of stability of character and wisdom which should appertain to the husband of the family pride. hence it came that abercrombie made an effort whenever an opportunity offered to become what he remarked to himself as "solid with the old folks." hence it came, too, that at a certain trying time there arrived in his immediate vicinity a certain quantity and quality of disaster. it chanced that on one occasion, abercrombie, seeking, as usual, to ingratiate himself with the parents, drifted into a discussion concerning the bringing up of children and expressed himself to the effect that, in place of the usual inane though amusing fairy stories and things of that sort, children should in their youth, when the memory fairly petrifies things, be entertained with pleasant tales about natural history and in fact about anything likely to aid most in future equipment for the great struggle in the world. of natural history he made a point. well, one evening, in just what poets call the "gloaming," abercrombie, the parents, frances and young erastus dobson were sitting together upon the front porch, when, suddenly, from some inscrutable impulse, erastus broke out with the exclamation: "mr. abercrombie, tell me a story." here was a situation! it flashed upon abercrombie, that he had, as already mentioned, impressed upon the elder people the fact that, in his opinion, the youthful mind should be loaded with natural history when tales were imposed upon it. there was no alternative. here were the older people listening and expectant. here was erastus, vociferous. here was his own sweetheart, sitting in the half darkness and wondering if he were equal to the occasion! abercrombie quivered for a moment trying to collect his senses which seemed to have been, somehow, "jolted" by erastus' request, and then suddenly became so desperate and cold-blooded that he could not understand himself. "yes, erastus," he said, affably; "i will tell you a story, most willingly." then he continued: "this is the story of the boy and the bull and the horned hen. once there was a boy. it has frequently happened that there was a boy, so that it is hardly worth while referring to such a thing now, but, since we have mentioned it, we'll let it go. tum-a-row! this boy lived in the country and was kind to a hen. little did he know that the hen appreciated and remembered it, but she did! one day this boy started to cross a meadow in which was a savage bull, and the boy forgot he had on his red sweater. in the middle of the meadow stood a tree which was blasted and which looked almost like a cone. it was what a young kindergarten teacher might describe as a trunk from which the branches had been riven away in some of nature's convulsions, probably electric. anyhow, the bull started for the boy and the boy started for the tree. tum-a-row! the boy reached the tree four and one-third seconds before the bull reached the same place, and the boy began climbing and was at least thirty feet from the ground before the bull arrived. it is needless to say that the boy climbed with much rapidity. the bull followed rapaciously--yes, that's the word--and began climbing also with great rapidity behind the boy, and there was a race to what--if the term may be applied to such a dead trunk of a tree--to the topmast. there the tree sloped to a point, which the boy, climbing with avidity--that's the word,--reached easily, under the stress of circumstances. the bull, climbing swiftly after, attained a height of between ten and fifteen feet from his intended victim, and then, reaching the slope of compression, as one may say, of the dead tree, suddenly found himself without sufficient grasp and slid down, again and again, as he sought to reach the apex of the cone. the boy, meanwhile, was and properly, too, in a state of utmost fear, as the bull from time to time seemed almost successful in his upward attempts. "but there is a limit to endeavor. the bull, fatigued at last, slid downward to the ground, just as the hen, who, happily for the boy, had noted from the distant barnyard what was going on, came desperately to the rescue. the struggle which ensued was something doubtless without a parallel, or anything else in the way of similitude, in the history of single combats. it was something frightful! the bellowing of the hen, the hissing and cackling of the bull, the scattering of scales from both adversaries as they clashed together, cannot be adequately described. but the end came quickly. there came a moment, when perspiring and panting, the hen gored the bull with all her might, mind and strength, and he fell lifeless to the ground. "the moral of this story is, be kind to a hen. tum-a-row!" "why do you say 'tum-a-row'?" suddenly demanded erastus. "well, i hardly know, myself," said abercrombie. "i guess it's a sort of accompaniment. it came in an old farmer's song i heard when i was a little boy, in an old song which told about a young man who went 'down in the medder for to mow,' and who 'mowed around till he did feel a pizen sarpint bite him on the heel;' and, every little while, through the song came the word 'tum-a-row.' that's the reason 'tum-a-row' comes in so often in the story. it isn't my fault; it just seems to belong. tum-a-row!" "tell me another! tell me another!" shouted young erastus, but there came no sound from the twilight which encompassed the old people, nor from the gloaming about the sweetheart, though little did it matter. abercrombie had passed the caring point! "one more will i tell you," he said, speaking in a resonant and rotund voice, to the wide-mouthed and expectant erastus. "this is the story of the dark forest, the charcoal burners, the witch and the boa constrictor. "once there was a forest so dark that you cannot conceive of its darkness. oh! it was just a forest dark from darkville! it was fringed about with a forest which was somewhat lighter, in which things lived, but nothing lived in the forest itself; it was too black! among the people who lived in this lighter fringe of forest were some charcoal burners. you will always find charcoal burners connected with a deep forest story, particularly in the german medieval legends. the charcoal burners in those stories usually lived in some glade in the middle of the wood, but the charcoal burners we are telling about lived on the outside for the reason we have given--but they ought not really to be called 'burners,' because they did not burn anything. whenever orders came for charcoal they simply took their shovels and went down an aisle into the depth of the inner wood and dug out great hunks of the blackness, which they brought out and stacked upon wagons, and which were conveyed to vienna and wiesbaden and oshkosh and all the other charcoal commercial centers. "now all this has nothing to do with the story. these matters about the charcoal burners i have related only because it chances that from the charcoal burners themselves the real story was gained. we ought to be grateful to them for what they have told. "four or five miles east of the charcoal burners lived a boa constrictor. he was sixty feet long and had a gilt-edged appetite. i don't believe in using slang, and gilt-edged is slightly slangy, but the bald fact stands out that he had a gilt-edged appetite. he lived mostly on wild boars, but, when the supply of wild boars gave out on any occasion, he lived on most anything that came along. "now, five miles east of the boa constrictor lived a witch, and she was a witch from witchville. she was not any common witch, but one whose slightest anathema would just curl your hair. talk about brimstone! why brimstone would be just ice cream in any comparison you could make between this witch and other things in the world. she knew her business! well, this witch had three children, two sons and a daughter, nice little children, in their way. it happened, unfortunately, one afternoon, that they strayed into the forest; and this afternoon happened to be the particular afternoon on which the boa constrictor had run out of wild boars. he consumed the kids--i beg your pardon; young as you are, i beg your pardon--i meant to say that he devoured the three young children, that he encompassed them after the constrictor manner. "by and by, the witch missed her children and, induced by maternal instinct, went out looking for them, and so came to the abode of the constrictor. they had been on good enough terms and she approached him affably. "'good morning, mr. constrictor,' said she. "'good afternoon, mrs. witch,' said the constrictor. "'have you seen my children?' asked the lady. "'i have not', said the constrictor. "the witch was about to depart when a thought seemed to seize her and she turned just about half way, assuming what may be designated as a suddenly reflective attitude; "'are you sure, mr. constrictor?' said she. "'i am sure,' said he. "only a person with nerves under absolute control could have been present on that occasion and considered unmoved the changes in the witch's face. the accumulative grimness of her countenance became something startling. she spoke slowly but her voice had that hard, low, even tone which we read about in novels. "'what is the reason that you are so big in the middle?' said she. "'i am not big in the middle, your eyes deceive you,' said he. "'you are lying, mr. constrictor,' said she, 'and i'm going to make you tell the truth. i am going to make an incantation over and around and all about you that will give you some idea of what forces are at work in the universe.' "then from somewhere about her skirt, she pulled out a broomstick, and waved it five times, and said; 'abracadabra, pentagon' and some other things, and, of course, the performance had its effect and the constrictor had to tell the truth. he simply had to! he admitted the consumption of the three children. "imagine the demeanor of the witch when she learned that her three children had been devoured by the constrictor! for a little time she was speechless and white in the face, then, as reason and the control of her powers returned, the malignant look which came was something that simply defies description. her voice, as she spoke to the constrictor this time, was shrill and raucous. "'i am going to pronounce an anathema upon you,' she said, 'and i'm going to do it now. i am going to make you the same at both ends.' "a very adroit and clever constrictor was this, and he said nothing. but he chuckled to himself: 'if she makes me the same at both ends, i will have more fun than ever. with a mouth at each end, i can eat twice as many wild boars and be twice as happy.' he coiled closer to the ground with a look of affected submission, and the witch went on with her anathema. "it was a fine anathema, there was no question about it. even the leaves on the trees about first turned brown, then crackled and then smoked, as she was making her few remarks. she completed the formula and departed, leaving the constrictor to become the same at both ends, and he lay there, still chuckling, waiting for his double-headedness and double enjoyment in the future. "then came to him a sort of quivery feeling, and he knew that he was changing. it did not take more than an hour at the utmost, when that constrictor suddenly realized that he was the same at both ends, but--he did not have two heads! he had two tails! there he was, a great boa constrictor, sixty feet long, with a tail at each end. of course only one thing could happen to a boa constrictor with a tail at each end. he must starve to death, simply because he could not eat. day after day passed, and the constrictor grew less and less in dimensions, and, finally, the day came when there was only a little worm, smaller than an angle-worm. then the day came when there was no worm at all. "and that is the end of the story, because there isn't any more worm!" the last sentence of the tale was concluded. silence prevailed for a moment or two, and then there was a gasp of delight and approval from erastus. "that's bully!" he said. "will you tell me some more, some other time, mr. abercrombie?" "certainly, my boy," said abercrombie. "it is well that we should become acquainted with natural history, and in the simple tales i tell you i shall endeavor at all times to introduce such information as will increase your store of knowledge. above all, we must get acquainted with natural history." he paused. the boy had nothing to say. unfortunately, nobody else had anything to say. to abercrombie the silence seemed, in a vague way that he could not fully comprehend, destructive. there was something the matter with the atmosphere and he knew it. the gloaming had drifted into darkness, and he could no longer see either his prospective father-in-law or mother-in-law or his sweetheart. he knew only that, as an adviser of parents of the younger male offspring of the two who were also parents of his one object in life, he had flashed presumptuously in the pan, that, too, in the dimness of the gathering darkness, when people are most reflective and that he had accomplished the possibility irretrievable. the silence was broken at last by the voice of mrs. dobson. the voice was thin and didn't seem to really "break" the silence. it seemed to split it neatly. "are those your ideas, mr. abercrombie, as to the sort of knowledge of natural history which should be conveyed to young children?" "yes, i'd like to know, myself," added mr. dobson. not a laugh, not a comment, not a sound came from the corner where sat miss frances dobson. she was strictly an aside. abercrombie pondered through swift seconds. he was in what, in his own mind--so much are we addicted to the pernicious habit of thinking in the vernacular--'in a hole'. but, the man at bay has frequently proved a hero in a plain north american way. abercrombie arose to the occasion! "it may be," he said, "that in the telling to erastus of these simple tales, i have not followed precisely the practices of those generally engaged in the teaching of youth. it may be that i have not instructed him in the manner in which i might have done had i allowed a few years to lapse and my beard to grow longer and had shaved my upper lip. it may be that in the tales i have told erastus there are certain discrepancies, synchronisms, and anachronisms. my pictures may have possessed a shade too much of the impressionist character. but what of it? what i wanted to do was to give erastus a general idea of black forests, witches, and boa constrictors." silence reigned again, and reigned very thoroughly for some time. then up rose the modern young woman. no one in the room could see any one else, but all could hear. what the parents heard was the sound of light footsteps along the porch and then, after a pause; "you're a ridiculous gentleman,--don't pull me so!" what they heard also was a thoughtful and generally commendatory remark from erastus: "say, old man, you're all right. you're the stuff!" they heard no more at the time. the next morning was a fine morning--there have been lots of them--and, as breakfast was about ending, there took place a conversation between her parents and miss dobson--a conversation inaugurated by them but ended, decidedly, by her. given a young woman, the only one in the family and possessed of character, she can usually make her parents "know their place," though doing all this, of course, with kindness and consideration. miss dobson and abercrombie are formally engaged. the fortunate but alarmed young man had not realized what would happen when the reinforcements came up. chapter xxiii evan cummings' courtship there was frivolous talk and disputation and some serious reasoning, as the necessary sequence of what had been told. there was discussion as to what excuse there had been for the demeanor of mr. abercrombie, and even some quiet suggestion to the banker that, very much to his credit, he could, himself, imagine things, upon occasions such as this, and that, possibly, he might have risen somewhat to the emergency, but the chaffing was of the listless sort. the sun was not visible save from the rear end of the rear car of the train, but its rays deflected, slanted, yellow-red, along the sides of the pass calling the attention of all to the fact that it was almost supper-time. more hanging together in a wayside tales companionship? hardly! they had appetites and they dissolved as dissolve the vapors, or the friends made by letters of introduction, or snow on the top of a distillery, or your dreams, or mary when you need her, or anything else. similes are the cheapest thing on the market! the sum of it was that an afternoon had been killed without undue atrocity and now all scattered and prepared themselves and went in to supper. they enjoyed themselves together and then the ladies drifted back to the talking habitat, while the men, or at least a number of them, found the smoking compartments, either the big one of the cassowary or one of those in other coaches. there are all kinds of traveling men. this is not generally understood, but it is a fact. the impression has, somehow, obtained that a traveling man or "drummer," or whatever we should call dickens' "bagman" in the western hemisphere, is a person who is careless of the conventionalities, who relies upon a certain hardihood in thrusting himself anywhere into the place of immediate consequence or convenience. never was a greater mistake in popular opinion. there are blatant commercial travelers, of course. there will be fools in any part of the world's work. it is a matter of fact, though, that the man whose business it is to influence mentally other men and women must, necessarily, have tact and understanding and that he must be often more quick of conception and more readily responsive to the proper demand of his fellow-creatures than one less extremely educated in certain ways of the vagrant world. the man called upon was one of the greater type. he laughingly accepted the situation: "yes," he said, "i'll tell you a story, but it is so foolish that i can hardly expect you to believe it. it is merely the story of one man i knew and of how he got his wife. he did not get her in quite the ordinary way. i'll tell you all i know about him, and i've known him almost from boyhood. i'll tell you everything as it was." evan cummings' courtship i think evan cummings had the most remarkable personality of any traveling man i ever met, a personality which indicated itself especially in the closing incident of his love affair. he was a good-looking fellow, of scotch descent, with all the tenacity of purpose of his race. he was a good man to meet upon the train. when we were gathered in the smoking compartment evan was as full of spirits as the rest, but i noticed that, while taking an active part in the conversation, he never told any of the somewhat risque stories that the air of the smoking compartment too often breeds. instead, he would tell uncanny tales of scotland in the old days, tales of wizards and warlocks, and of the strange things to be seen at night on ancient battle-fields, and we always listened to him with interest. he was mightily fixed in his views and many a good-natured dispute we had with him over this or that. eh, but he was stubborn! evan was a good man of business, though, and had a host of friends. among these was the conductor of a train on which he often traveled and the friendship developed into such a degree of intimacy that one day the conductor, luke johnson, invited him out to dinner with him. evan, having no particular business on hand that evening, accepted the invitation. johnson's house was in the suburbs, decidedly. it was on the very picket line of the army of houses of the ever-marching city, out on the prairie at least a couple of blocks distant from any other house. a plank sidewalk extended to it from the more settled district near and, with its barns and sheds and vine-covered front, it did not have a lonesome look. inside evan found the house quite as prepossessing as its exterior and he found something else there more prepossessing still. johnson's family consisted of himself, his wife, his child, little gabriel, about four years old, and his sister-in-law, a miss salome hinman. evan found mrs. johnson a pleasant sort of a woman and found in miss hinman his undeniable affinity. stolid as he usually was in the presence of femininity, he felt, in the very marrow of his bones, that he was a lost man. that he succumbed so quickly was not altogether to be wondered at. miss hinman was pretty, was very slender--what a school-girl writer would call willowy or lissom or, possibly, svelte--and was wildly devoted to her little nephew, of whom she had the chief care. well, evan didn't waste any time. he contrived it so that he was in the city often and, as often, was at johnson's house, making vigorous love to miss salome. finally, he accepted a good city position with his firm and abandoned the road, just for the sake of being near his sweetheart, though he liked the road better. all would have gone well now, but for the young lady. he knew she cared for him, for she had admitted it, but she was a bit of a coquette and couldn't resist the temptation of playing a fish so firmly hooked. urge as evan might, he could not persuade her to fix a date for their marriage. she would not absolutely deny him, but she was elusive. he became desperate. something must be done. it was. one day just as evan, brooding as he walked, neared the home of his sweetheart to renew his useless pleading, he noticed little gabriel playing in the yard with a toy balloon the string of which was tied to a button-hole of his jacket and which tugged strenuously away at him. evan sat down upon the horse-block in front of the house, watching the boy dreamily, and trying to devise a plan to bring miss salome to terms, when, all at once, his planning ceased as suddenly as the stopping of a clock. the boy and the balloon had given him an awful inspiration! he returned to town. that evening evan cummings bought a toy balloon, some bird-shot and one of the tiniest of little baskets. in his room at the hotel he attached the string of the balloon to the handle of the basket. then, as the balloon with its burden rose toward the ceiling, he dropped shot after shot into the little receptacle until the balloon could no longer raise it. taking the little basket of shot to the drug store, he had the basket and shot carefully weighed. he now knew the exact lifting power of a toy balloon--it was just five ounces. he had seen gabriel weighed and knew that he tipped the scale at forty-two pounds. the calculation was easy; sixteen ounces in a pound; sixteen multiplied by forty-two makes six hundred and seventy-two. gabriel, therefore, weighed ounces: a single toy balloon would lift not quite five ounces; five goes into six hundred and seventy-two, one hundred and thirty-four times; one hundred and thirty-five toy balloons would lift little gabriel. the next day evan went to a harness shop and had a stout leather harness made which would just about fit gabriel, passing round his small body under the arms and over his shoulders, from each of which two broad straps extended upward and met in a strong iron ring. then he went out and invested in two hundred and fifty toy balloons--thus adding over an hundred for requirements and contingencies. he bought, also, a stout piece of clothesline, fifty feet long, and a thick cord two hundred feet long, which would, if required, sustain the weight of a man. the next afternoon he attached the balloons to the clothesline, not all in a bunch, but at intervals, that in the event of an accident to one, another would not be affected. at the lower end of the clothesline was a strong steel snap. at about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he knew mrs. johnson was to be absent in town, evan hired a covered express-wagon, in which he imprisoned his balloons and was driven near the johnson's place. a block or two away from there, he dismissed the driver and wagon and went on alone, the balloons tugging at him fiercely as he walked. he saw little gabriel playing in the yard, as usual, and called to him. the youth came running out and shouted in childish glee when he saw the mountain of red balloons. "would you like to take a ride, gabriel?" asked evan kindly. "yep, yep!" cried gabriel. "gimme a ride." evan carefully and securely adjusted the harness upon the youngster and then snapped the contrivance at the end of the clothesline into the ring above the boy's head. he tied one end of his two hundred feet of cord firmly to the same ring. holding on to the cord, he eased up gently and had the satisfaction of seeing gabriel lifted from his feet. at the height of thirty feet little gabriel emitted a sudden bawl such as a four year-old probably never gave before; at fifty feet his screams were something startling and when, at last, he hung dangling two hundred feet above, the string of balloons rising fifty feet higher still, the volume and loudness of his shrieking seemed scarce diminished by the distance. he swung and swayed far away up there a wonderful kicking object, the string of balloons uplifting above him like a pillar of fire, the whole forming a wonderful vision against the sky. evan calmly tied the end of the cord to the hitching staple in the horse-block, then sat down upon the block and drew out and opened his pocket knife. the front door of the house suddenly flew open and a hysterical young woman reached evan's side in the fraction of an instant. she looked upwards and shrieked out: "oh! oh! what are you doing with little gabriel! he'll be killed! oh! he'll be killed!" "no he won't," answered evan, quietly, "i can pull him down at any time. he'll stay where he is--that is unless i cut this cord," he added reflectively, as he held the blade of his knife against it. "salome, will you marry me and fix the date for the ceremony now? if you won't promise, i'll cut the cord!" "oh, you brute! oh, you murderer! i'll never-- oh--" "i tell you he's all right," explained evan. "promise when we'll be married, and i'll pull him down." the girl but shrieked the louder and, sinking down, clung pleadingly to his knees. "save him!" she cried. "he'll be killed! oh, poor little gabriel!" "i tell you he won't be killed! little gabriel has only gone aloft, to be nearer his namesake. he's almost up to where 'the cherubim and seraphim continually do sing.' don't you hear him singing himself, already? will you fix the date or shall i cut the cord?" the girl was getting calmer, though quivering all over. she only sobbed now; "he'll be killed! he'll be killed! oh my poor little gabriel!" "i tell you he will not," reiterated evan. "i don't believe he will be killed even when i cut the string. he will alight gently somewhere, as the gas in the balloons gradually exudes, and somebody will take care of him. it may not be in this county, but he will alight. when will you marry me?" the young woman did not answer. "salome," said evan, now pleadingly. "you know that you love me and that i love you. why not stop all this dalliance and coquetting? you know you are going to be my wife. will you not make it all definite?" salome looked up into her lover's eyes, then bowed her head. finally she looked up again and sobbed out: "y-e-s, only pull down little gabriel." "when shall the wedding be? will the twentieth of next month do?" "y-e-s." evan closed his pocket knife. then taking hold of the cord he began pulling little gabriel down. as that youth, still loudly bellowing, reached the ground, salome caught him up and darted into the house with him. evan paid slight attention to people who came running to see what the red thing aloft had been. he said only that he had been trying an experiment. then he gathered up the balloons and carried them into the woodshed, where they rose in a mass to the roof and stayed there. then he went into the house and had a talk with the indignant salome. it was an exciting session, but it ended peaceably. well, she married him, as she had promised, for honesty was among her virtues. she looks upon her husband as a desperate character and, so, is in love with him, of course. i'm not surprised at the whole business. it was evan all over. chapter xxiv the swiss family robertson the fact as was learned early in the morning, that there must elapse one more day before relief came, was, it must be feared, absolutely a relief to colonel livingstone. when stafford told him the situation he beamed. he was certainly at his best. he called upon the man from nowhere. the title of the man from nowhere had been bestowed upon a quiet and dignified gentleman who but smiled and listened all the time, but had said very little. during the first stress of the imprisonment, he had been one of the most energetic and helpful among those of the passengers who had shown the quality of facing a situation. he had exerted himself to some purpose from the beginning and had assisted in making more or less comfortable those who did not seem capable of taking care of themselves. he had been given the title of "the man from nowhere," because he had declared that he really had no home but was a wanderer for pleasure, with no fixed place of abode. he was a man of about sixty years of age, grey-mustached and affable. now, as he came forward, with an apparent degree of awakened interest in what was going on, he was received with applause. it was the colonel, as usual, who expressed himself: "glad to see you aroused, sir. are you, too, going to favor us with a story?" the man from nowhere laughed: "it's hardly a story," he said, "but, in listening to the brief discussion as to the degree in which we are appreciated in this world, i was involuntarily reminded of the bitter experience of a young friend or rather of five young friends of mine. they were not appreciated, and took steps accordingly. what they did was merely to segregate themselves. you will readily perceive that by segregating yourself you may avoid all the annoyance of non-appreciation. that the experiment did not, in this instance, result at once in a permanent remedy for all oppressive circumstances was, i think, due, not to any lack of proper conception in the minds of my young friends, but rather to their inexperience in certain matters of detail. in some of its aspects it was a sad affair, but i will relate the whole thing to you just as it was told me by the principal actor. it is but the simple story of the swiss family robertson when i look back across the years--i am nearly thirteen now--the vision which arises of trying adventure with my sister and three brothers seems like what i have seen somewhere alluded to as the baseless fabric of a dream, or, if not that, at least some freak of the waking imagination. yet certain it is that the five of us, john, mary, francis, herbert and elwyn robertson, aged respectively eleven, nine, eight and six years--herbert and elwyn being twins--had such strange experiences in a strange land as can never be forgotten by any of us. hard indeed to undergo were some of our vicissitudes, and always thankful am i, when the memory of that time returns, that my greater age and possibly greater force of character enabled me to become guide and mentor when certainly a counselor was needed. strangely enough, all our adventures were the indirect result of an earnest perusal of a most fascinating volume entitled the swiss family robinson, in which was related the story of a family named robinson, cast away upon a lone island in the pacific ocean. the family was a remarkable one, and the character of the father i admired especially. not only was he a man of extended general information, but one who regarded thoughtfully the circumstance that almost any condition may be improved by the diligent, and who was truly grateful for something in every chapter of the book. the mother and children each displayed traits almost as admirable. the island, too, was as remarkable as the family, since, though it was but a small place, the castaways were fortunate enough to discover almost every useful plant, bird and beast known to the torrid, temperate or frigid zones. taken altogether, the tale was such as to arouse a spirit of something nearly akin to envy in the minds of all of us save the twins, who were, of course, too young to understand. it was no wonder, since our great-great-grandfather on our mother's side was said to have come from switzerland, that the three oldest of us called ourselves the swiss family robertson and imagined many things. there came a time when the fancy became a grave reality, even to the twins. it is with no little feeling and hesitation that i approach any allusion to the causes which led to the practical expatriation of five people--in the prime of youth, it is true, but inexperienced--and their subjection to a manner of existence such as they had never imagined could be real. even now the matter so affects me that i must be pardoned by the reader for not relating the unpleasant details. suffice it to say that occasions arose when the views of our parents unhappily failed to coincide with those of mary, francis and myself, and that our conduct was held, by those who had the power, to merit corporal punishment, a punishment which, it has always seemed to me, was inflicted with far more vehemence than any possible occasion could demand. our spirits revolted at what occurred, and the three of us, who, as explained, had just finished reading the swiss family robinson, held inflamed but deliberate counsel together and determined resolutely upon a course which should give us liberty of conscience and of action. i admit frankly that, being of a self-respecting disposition, and it may be to an extent a natural leader, i was foremost in these councils and mapped out the general plan of action. increasing years have given me more philosophy and taken from my impulsiveness, but at that time i did not hesitate. in short, under my inspiration we resolved to seek a more congenial clime, where, if we did not luxuriate in all the so-called advantages of a super-refined civilization, we should at least have the more quiet and assured happiness which obtains where nature is primeval. our resolution became fixed. that herbert and elwyn, the twins, became of the emigrating party was but an incident, they having discovered our plans for departure and insisting upon accompanying us. their wish was reluctantly granted lest the clamor they would inevitably raise in the event of a refusal should reveal our plans. * * * * * not only were we determined upon the new life, but we resolved to isolate ourselves so completely from the unpleasant recent past as even to change our names, it being decided that each should select a new one for himself or herself. as for me, having lately read a story of the norsemen, i selected the name of wolfgang; mary chose that of abyssinia, and francis, for what reason i cannot imagine, adopted that of chickum. the naming of herbert and elwyn was left to abyssinia, who, after looking over a newspaper, called one krag and the other jörgensen. then began in earnest our preparations for departure. it was, of course, necessary, as i endeavored to impress upon my fellows--if abyssinia may be included in such a term--to observe the utmost secrecy and discretion in all our movements. this injunction was observed faithfully by all save krag and jörgensen, whose course was frequently such as might, i feared, attract the attention of our parents. fortunately they appeared all unknowing of our designs. * * * * * the first thing to be accomplished was the getting together and bestowal in a safe place of such stores as we could carry away and as would be most serviceable to us in an uninhabited and possibly barren region. in this difficult task abyssinia, chickum and i shared about equally. the place of concealment finally decided upon was a small shed which had formerly been a henhouse, and which stood against a board fence on the eastern side of the kitchen garden. here, beneath a heap of straw, we concealed our accumulations. i pondered deeply over what the nature of our stores should be, and i trust i may say, with a pride not altogether unbecoming, that my selections were justified by the result. slowly but surely the material accumulated until there came a time when we felt that we were fairly equipped for our departure. it was just after the beginning of july, and the weather was sultry, but, with an eye for the future, abyssinia secured from the extra household supplies four quilts, five large sheets and six jars of raspberry and strawberry jam. she contributed also a bag of salt, pepper, some old knives and forks, half a dozen tin plates and as many tin cups, a breadpan, a frying-pan with a broken handle, and two tin pails. i added a light but excellent ax, several boxes of matches, a great ball of stout cord, an enormous slab of dried beef, two boxes of crackers, a box of candles, some large potatoes, an old carving-knife, some fishhooks, a steel trap, and at least half a barrel of flour in bags not too large to be carried by chickum or me. chickum brought two jars of butter, another ax, and his bow and arrow. of course we had our pocket-knives, and abyssinia had needles and strong thread. the hour came when we only awaited an auspicious occasion for departure. it had become apparent that not a third of our stores could be removed in a single journey, and, after considering the matter most thoughtfully, i resolved that the only wise course was to determine upon the site for our new home, complete it, and to it carry our goods from time to time. upon chickum and me must necessarily fall the burden of this initial labor, and we set about it at once. our homestead sloped from the roadway to the north and was bounded in that direction by a grassy expanse through which flowed a small creek, crossed by a plank. the creek separated this green area from a wild and comparatively deserted region known as the wooded pasture. some hundreds of yards distant from the creek rose an extremely wide and dense growth of willows, and in the midst of this miniature forest, as we had at one time discovered, was a small open space, dry and bare of growth. here, after new exploration in company with chickum, i decided should be established our tranquil home. the site was not discernible from the home of our parents, nor indeed from any part of the place we were leaving except from an elevated point in a meadow to the west, and even from this station the view was indistinct. we bided our time impatiently now; but we did not have long to wait. a day came when our parents were away upon a visit, the hired girl was occupied in-doors, and the hired man busy in the cornfield where the dense growth of the valued cereal prevented him from seeing us or being seen. quietly chickum and i departed, burdened with the quilts, sheets, our axes, and the ball of twine. our journey to the willows was uneventful and our labors there were unmolested. * * * * * the plan of our shelter had already been designed by me, and we lost no time in trivial debating over details, chickum submitting without question to each suggestion of the stronger mind. under my direction we cut down eight small willows as straight as we could find, and cut from each a length of nearly six feet, four of which we sharpened at one end. these, one of us standing upon a dead uprooted stump which we rolled about, we drove into the earth at distances of six feet apart, the stakes, rising some five feet, forming the four corners of a square. the remaining four poles we tied firmly so that they extended from the top of one stake to another, and upon the frame so constructed we stretched one of the sheets, cutting holes close to the hems and through them tying the sheet to the cross-pieces. our dwelling was now roofed. the four remaining sheets, similarly tied, made the four sides of the structure, one being left partly unattached so that it might be lifted, thus serving for a door. upon the grassy floor of the house one of the quilts was spread, and there was our tented home! chickum was wild with delight and capered about hilariously, but i reminded him that the time for an exhibition of such exuberance of spirit had not arrived. much yet remained to be accomplished. days passed before all our stores were, with exercise of the greatest caution, safely bestowed within the tent. it was six o'clock one pleasant evening, when we had just finished dinner, that our parents again absented themselves to make a call upon a neighbor. our time had come. quietly all of us, including abyssinia and the twins, slipped down through the kitchen garden, across the creek, across a part of the wooded pasture and into the willow grove. there was what i may call a certain tremulousness, but no faltering. we reached our place of refuge. "welcome to this sylvan grove!" shouted chickum--quoting, i firmly believe, something he had read in a story, for chickum's ordinary mode of expression was not such as i could in many respects desire--and all entered the tent and made themselves at home. here were peace and happiness at last! we chatted and planned until darkness fell, and then, digging a hole with my knife into a potato, i inserted one of the candles we had brought and found the place illuminated finely. but we did not remain long awake. it had been a season of labor and excitement, and a sense of drowsiness soon overcame us all. * * * * * it was nearly midnight when i was aroused by an exclamation from abyssinia and the sobbing of the twins. "what is it?" whispered abyssinia, and as she spoke there came a strange, gulping cry from a marshy strip beside the creek, and then, nearer us, one more musical but quite as mournful. the creatures of the night were calling. from my wider experience i recognized their harmlessness; i knew the voices of the bullfrog and the whippoorwill, but with the others it was different. though my rest had been disturbed, i could not but explain all graciously, and soon the three were sleeping again, though fitfully. as for chickum, he had not awakened. when we awoke, morning had come and the birds were chirping all about us. we ate heartily of jam and crackers, and felt the blood coursing in our respective veins as it had never done before. how glorious the sense of freedom! how unstable, too, are sometimes the happiest of conditions! little did i imagine that bright morning as i noted idly the performance of a red-hooded woodpecker, _melanerpes erythrocephalus_, who was eating a long white grub in sections, little, i reiterate, did i imagine that before nightfall all our hopeful plans would be disarranged, and that, like some weakling tribe compelled ever to flee before an encroaching power, we must decide, in self-protection, to risk all the dangers of a wilder home. it was noon when, looking to the southwest, i perceived far in the distance our hired man working about a stump on the elevated spot in the meadow from which could be obtained the only glimpse of our white home amid the greenery. i have not, i hope, one of those minds ever open to suspicion, but i may say that it is one somewhat more than ordinarily keen in the formation of deductions. why was the hired man there, chopping about a huge stump which he could not possibly remove unaided? were we discovered? could the man have been placed there to exercise a distant surveillance over us? the idea grew upon me, and an apprehension i could scarce explain--an apprehension shared by abyssinia and chickum, with whom i at once consulted. under the circumstances, with me to think was but to act. "come," i said to chickum, "there is but one course to pursue. we must face the issue as courageously as we can. abyssinia and the twins will remain here while you and i must venture farther in search of a place where, no matter what may surround us, our isolation will be complete." to this even the sometimes thoughtless chickum assented promptly. "i am ready, brother," was his answer. "let us start at once." little preparation was required. we provided ourselves with crackers and dried beef and set forth immediately, i carrying one of the axes and chickum arming himself with the carving knife. the country for quite a distance, as we found, was partly bare, though there were occasional small oaks and tangles of hazel and blackberry bushes. as we advanced, though, the trees became taller and grew more closely together, and finally, as we ascended a gradually sloping ridge, we found ourselves in what must have been almost the forest primeval. we knew not what we should discover. the shadows were deep, and the wind made a constant sighing overhead. descending the ridge upon the other side, and pursuing our course far to the northwest, we emerged at last upon a small open glade through which tumbled a noisy creek and near the centre of which grew a few small elms, four of them, as i noted, forming the angles of a square. we advanced and looked about us. from the glade there was an opening in but one direction, to the northeast, through which could be seen far away part of a hillside field. my heart beat fast. i recognized the advantages of the site at a single glance. "here," i said, "shall be our home!" chickum assented gladly and we took up our long homeward march, reaching the tent in time for the evening meal. we were informed by abyssinia that the day had been uneventful save that krag had stooped too closely in examination of a bumblebee upon a clover blossom. one of his eyes was closed, but he appeared in his usual spirits. i have ever admired the wonderful recuperative powers of youth. abyssinia told us, also, that the twins had devoured one entire pot of our limited supply of jam. * * * * * for two days chickum and i labored in the distant forest upon the erection of our new and more substantial home. sheets would no longer suffice for roof and walls. we cut strong cross-poles and tied them from tree to tree, and, finding great heaps of hemlock bark cut for the tanneries in a small abandoned clearing some distance from our glade, we brought all that we required of the great slabs and, leaning them against our cross-poles, made sides to the dwelling which promised to be wind and rain proof. the roof was constructed of the same material. we now had a home solid and roomy and offering pleasant contrast to the frail tent amid the willows. laboriously our stores were carried in repeated journeys over the long route, and three days later all of our little company were contentedly at home in hemlock castle, a name suggested by abyssinia, who declared that, like the people on the pacific island, we should certainly have names for the objects and localities about us. the open space in the forest was christened haven glade, the creek received the title of skelter walter, and the deep, wooded land about us was known as darkland. we were now most happily established. our only possible anxiety, and that as yet a light one, related to our food supply, which was gradually diminishing. but we had plenty of flour, and abyssinia now began making bread. thoughtful and far-seeing as i had proved myself in the earlier preparations for our flight, i had forgotten one thing. i shall never cease to reproach myself with not having requested abyssinia, while we were still under the dominion of our parents, to ingratiate herself with the hired girl and acquire at least some rudimentary idea of the art of breadmaking. as it now appeared, she was, though hopeful, absolutely unacquainted with the manner of preparation of this so generally popular article of food. we elders held a council on the subject and each expressed an idea. abyssinia thought that to merely mix some of the flour with water and then put the dough in the frying-pan was all that was required for bread. chickum asserted that he had seen the hired girl mix a little salt in the dough. i, personally, was confident that butter was added. it was resolved to experiment on a small scale, and abyssinia took up her household duties, i must admit, with bravery. some of the flour was mixed with water and salt and a little butter and put into the hot frying-pan. it soon browned upon one side and was then turned over with some difficulty because of its extraordinary adhesiveness. when finally extracted it resembled nothing i had ever seen before, but was certainly baked. it was buttered and we all ate. the food was tenacious in quality and its flavor proved exceedingly novel to us. chickum, later, complained of pain. but we had no other bread, and after i had reasoned calmly with all upon the merit of resignation, we accepted the situation daily. what a wonderful organ is the human stomach! i am not exaggerating when i relate that the days now passed with blitheness. to our food was added an almost unlimited supply of wild gooseberries and blackberries, and the mandrake apples were ripening. there were deep pools in skelter water, and there, with the hooks my foresight had provided, we caught many of the fish known as the common bull-head, which we wrapped in clay and cast into the open fire. when the clay appeared well hardened, we drew it from the fire, cracked it open, and therein found the fish, cooked to a turn, and even a delicacy when eaten with butter and pepper and salt. how inevitably does intelligence, when in stress, arise to the demands of circumstance! one day abyssinia came running in, jubilantly crying: "bees! bees! i've found a hive of wild bees! let us tame them, as the people did on the island, and so have all the honey we can eat!" this assuredly was glorious news, and we all accompanied abyssinia to the scene of her discovery. there were the bees and their home. suspended from the swaying end of a beech bough, hanging so low that it was only four or five feet from the ground, appeared a great oval object which looked as made of grayish paper. there were orifices in the bottom about which the insects were humming in great numbers. they seemed somewhat longer than domesticated bees, and had yellowish rings around their bodies, the difference in appearance from the ordinary honey-gatherer being, i assumed, due to their environment and different mode of life. i at once resolved to secure the hive and bring it to haven glade, where it would afford a most desirable addition to our daily fare. i determined that the only way to accomplish this was to come at night when the bees were at rest, cut off the limb above the hive, and so carry it to our home. this was easily accomplished. the end of the limb where it had been cut away was inserted in a hole made through the bark of our rear wall, and there, on the outside, hung the hive for the honey-making. some days passed and the bees appeared to be working industriously, no one going very near the suspended hive lest they be disturbed. it chanced, however, that we had one morning an exceedingly early breakfast, and chickum, who always had a taste for sweets, suggested that, as the bees were not yet astir, he go out, cut a hole in the side of the hive and secure a lump of comb for our delectation. impelled by curiosity, i followed, observing chickum's operations from a distance. chickum, using a pocket knife, cut around a piece about six inches square from the side of the queer hive, then removed to look within for the honey. never shall i forget what then occurred immediately. how remarkable are some of the traits of the insect world! from the opening that chickum had made there burst, fairly in his face, a whirling, venomously buzzing cloud of the great bees. he leaped backward and fled along the creek. very fleet of foot has chickum always been, and i have never felt it humiliating to be defeated by him in our friendly races, but never before had i seen accomplished, even by him, such an amazing burst of speed. his career, so far as i may infer from pictures i have seen, resembled that of the antelope of the arid wastes, but the bees kept pace with him. with each leap chickum gave vent to the remarkable cry of "hep! hep!" at first i thought him shouting instinctively for help, but it was not that; it was, i have since concluded, but a spasmodic exclamation, the result of his alarm and pain and of his violent physical exertion. i followed, first calling to abyssinia to bring the twins from the house, for i knew the flight must be a brief one. suddenly, chickum, in his desperation, plunged into one of the pools of the creek and sank down until only his nose was visible. that organ, as i could see, received at once most violent attention from the hovering pursuers, but by splashing water chickum finally drove the bees away and they returned scatteringly to their desecrated home. when chickum emerged from the creek his appearance was such that had i not been witness to the transformation i could scarcely have identified him. each eye was closed so that, as he walked, he was compelled to hold the lids of one apart with thumb and finger, and his nose, but for its hue, resembled some monster puff-ball of the fields. that day our forest home was temporarily abandoned, and when night came i removed the hive with the utmost care a long distance into the forest. days later i found it abandoned and, examining it, found breeding cells, but not a trace of honey. i recognized at once and, as is always my way, admitted to myself that i had erred. the hive was not that of the wild honey bee, _apis mellifica_, but of the aggressive tree wasp, _vespidæ_. i could not understand why i had been so mistaken. i had been most carefully instructed in natural history, and miss clitherose, my teacher for several terms, had been kind enough to speak of my remarkable aptitude in that direction. i had acquired not only the common but many of the latin names of the soulless creatures, and, indeed, rather preferred the latin. i well remember the day when i puzzled even miss clitherose, who prided herself somewhat on her acquirements. i asked her to give me the old latin names for turkey and potato and she failed in the attempt. little did she comprehend how i had reasoned that as there had been no turkeys nor potatoes in the old world there could have been no latin names for them. but i digress. [illustration: "a dozen or more nests were found"] time passed and all went well until one afternoon, looking through the one small opening to the glade which gave a view of the distant hillside field, i saw distinctly the form of a man. he was chopping, and something about the figure and its movements reminded me irresistibly of our hired man, eben westbrook. what could it mean? happy am i to turn to a subject more exhilarating--to a novel incident in our forest life. one day chickum and the twins went berrying in the direction of our former home, venturing--as we rarely did--even as far as the wooded lot. they were in the midst of the hazel and blackberry bushes when there was a sudden cackle and flutter in the undergrowth, and a cry from jörgensen which brought chickum hurriedly to the scene. what he saw caused the impetuous youth to shout with joy. there, beneath a bush, was the nest of a hen, _gallina americana_, and in it were no less than seven eggs. berrying was suspended promptly, and all the eggs save one were transferred to the pail, and then began a wild search for more. it was well rewarded. a dozen or more nests were found, the spoil of which was added to that already secured. it was a great discovery. a prouder trio than entered hemlock castle that evening, bringing their burden of eggs, could not be conceived by any sort of person, nor could any imagine a more enthusiastic reception than was accorded them. not only were we now relieved from immediate danger of a food famine, but the variation in diet was good for all of us. there was a most riotous consumption of eggs for days, until a startling tendency toward biliousness, exhibited by little krag, induced me to counsel greater moderation. so many eggs, coupled with abyssinia's bread, were necessarily trying to the system. it was now that chickum developed a great idea. he proposed to capture a number of the fowls, bring them to haven glade, and there establish a hennery. the proposition was received with general approbation, and next day the construction of the hennery was begun. it was not a difficult task which faced us. since the fowls must have gravel and water, it was decided that the hennery should extend a little into the creek, and close beside its sloping bank the structure was erected. there but remained the capture of the fowls, and chickum was riotous over the prospect. he announced his ability to catch a dozen chickens in a single day, and with the assistance of krag and jörgensen he made good his boast, the three running down into the bushes and bringing home just the number of hens he had promised. our life continued in its placid way until one night, when a tremendous commotion in the chicken-house caused both chickum and me to rush out to the rescue. chickum had seized the carving-knife as usual, and i a handy bludgeon. as we neared the place some dark-colored animal clambered hurriedly up the side of the enclosure, and as its head appeared through a hole in the roof i dealt it a heavy blow and it fell stunned. chickum descended through an opening in the roof and the animal was put out of its misery. it resembled a miniature bear, save that its color was grayish and that it possessed a long and remarkably ringed tail. i at once recognized the common raccoon, _procyon lotor_, and made an address to the others upon its many curious traits and habits of life. one of the hens was found killed. a day or two later there entered from the water side an enemy which we saw on two or three occasions but could not destroy nor capture. it proved to be the fur-producing animal known as a mink, _putorius vison_. within a week we had not a single fowl alive. all had fallen before the rapacity of this bloodthirsty creature. hunger stared us in the face! how nearly am i approaching now to the end of this narrative of trial and adventure! how vividly recall themselves to me the scenes of one fateful afternoon! there had not been a storm since before our occupancy of hemlock castle, and almost a drought prevailed throughout the country. but a change was near at hand. there came an afternoon, airless, close and heavy until near evening. then white clouds appeared in the west, growing rapidly into woolly mountains. soon these assumed a darker hue, and a great wind arose before which the sturdiest trees were bent, while an awful roar resounded through the forest. a darkness came upon everything, and we huddled in the shelter of hemlock castle, even chickum alarmed, abyssinia crying, and the twins in an agony of terror. the rain began to fall in such torrents as i had never known before. now the wind increased almost to a hurricane, and a sudden blast carried away the roof of our house as if it had been a thing of paper. in a moment we were wetted to the skin. the creek became a spreading torrent which swept away the ruins of our house just as we had barely escaped from it. in the darkness we clambered blindly toward the ridge, when i heard a loud shout near us and recognized the voice of eben westbrook. never did human voice sound sweeter! "hurry!" he shouted, "hurry home!" and came rushing up to seize the hands of krag and jörgensen and take the lead. wet and bedraggled we hurried on, over the ridge, into the open, across the hazel country, across the wooded pasture, across the creek, up through the kitchen garden, and into the house by way of the kitchen door. a fateful moment had arrived. i felt something in my throat, but i did not shrink. i had decided what i would say. i would naught extenuate, but would fall back upon the theory of the sacredness of human rights. my address was not to receive a hearing. our parents were about sitting down to the evening meal, and, to my surprise, our plates lay all in their accustomed places, as if we had not been absent for a day. my father looked up and nodded cheerfully and mother only said: "you'd better all go up and get dry clothes on before you eat." the hired girl peeked in from a side of the kitchen door and drew her head back suddenly with a gulp. eben westbrook maintained what i have heard called in relation to others an impassive countenance. we went up, changed our clothes, and all came downstairs together. what a meal it was! there was not much conversation, though father mentioned something about the beginning of the school term. how krag and jörgensen did eat! but oh, the incomprehensible apathy of parents! chapter xxv the lowry-turck entanglement the interesting story of "the swiss family robertson" told and the usual comment made, the colonel, still beaming, turned to the young lady. "will you please tell us something?" he said. and her reply to him was very simple and graceful; "i can at least tell you about the 'lowry-turck entanglement,' for i was familiar with the circumstances." then she continued: the lowry-turck entanglement apropos of the affair of harvey lowry and angeline turck, as also apropos of many other affairs of similar nature, it is very much to be feared that one of the proverbs is unreliable. "necessity is the mother of invention" comes off the tongue glibly enough, but why "mother"? what rules the camp, the court, the grove, and what makes the world go around? what but love, and is not love, when personified, a male? and has he not been the cause of more inventions than have all others combined? certainly it was he who suggested an invention of the lowry-turck love affair. he is necessity disguised; and he is not a mother. of course love need not grumble. he is no worse off than are other fathers. if a boy becomes famous in the world the fact is attributed to his noble mother; if he becomes infamous, the community says, "like father, like son"--which is hardly fair. fathers are useful. not only did every person who ever invented anything have a father, but without the father romance would be robbed of one of its most useful and steadfast figures. these remarks, prefacing a love story, may be didactic and ponderous and prosy, but they are true. it is true, as well, that, though this is a love story pure and simple, mr. turck, the father in the case, may, in a sense, be looked upon as among the characters who belong to the world of romance, for he was the very personification of one accepted type of parent in love stories, being perverse, tyrannical and hard-hearted, looking upon lovers as the ranchman does on wolves, and resolved to keep his daughter to himself indefinitely. he had a red face, tufts of side whiskers which grew out nearly at right angles, and a bellowing voice which would have made his fortune as skipper of a sailing craft in noisy seas. it was, perhaps, such men as mr. turck who brought the father into disrepute before the first romance was written, and there is little doubt, too, that it has been such daughters as angeline turck who have innocently aggravated the father's already uncertain temper and thus made his name the byword it has become--in fiction. angeline, at the time this affair began, was seventeen and completely sovereign over the heart of harvey lowry--to quote from one of the young gentleman's letters to the young lady herself. they had been in love six months, according to angeline's computation, seven, according to that of harvey; but naturally, he had been first to feel and feed the flame. harvey, though successful in his suit, was not, in personal appearance, the ideal lover for a girl of angeline's age--that is, he was not tall, nor dark, nor haughty of mien. on the contrary, he was short, fair and round-faced, and had a thoroughly business-like demeanor. he looked like a young man whose soul was all in the profit on a next shipment of barrel-hoops, or something, when, in truth, he had endless romantic fancies. in his sentiment lay his charm, and it was to this quality that, as she came to know him well, the fair angeline had completely yielded. there had been a declaration of love and no refusal, but as yet no formal engagement existed. that, it was mutually understood, must come later, the delay being attributable to certain obstacles of a financial nature. meanwhile the time passed most pleasantly. there were meetings where harvey said things calculated to touch the heart, and there was much letter-writing. it was this last which wrecked the air-castle. one evening when angeline's parents were alone, mr. turck startled his wife by demanding suddenly: "what's that young lowry coming here so much for? i don't like it!" mrs. turck replied mildly that she supposed mr. lowry came chiefly to see angeline. she saw nothing very wrong in that. he was said to be a steady young man, and, of course, angeline must have harmless company occasionally. "i don't care whether he's steady or not. he's coming here too much. don't tell me anything about 'harmless company!' he's after angeline, and i won't have it! i'll look into this thing!" and mr. turck gave utterance to a sound which may be indifferently described as a determined snort. mrs. turck understood it, and looked for trouble of some sort in the near future. she had reason. the evening before, harvey, after leaving the house, had kissed angeline's hand at the garden gate. it had been at this electrical moment that mr. turck looked out of the sitting-room window, instead of attending to his newspaper as he should have done, and noted the two forms showing dimly through the gathering shade. he did not distinctly see the kiss, but something in the movement was vaguely reminiscent to him. his suspicions were aroused. he had called harshly to angeline to come in and go to her mother, and she had obeyed, while harvey melted away into the summer night, after the manner of lovers who have attracted the paternal eye. neither of the two was much disturbed. there was a glow in the heart of each, a glow too deep to be affected by an ominous word or two. yet this episode had led to mr. turck's outbreak before his wife. the first blow fell early. before two more days had passed mr. turck had broken out at the breakfast table and had forbidden angeline to have any further relations of any sort with harvey lowry. she must not speak to him. there were tears and quite a scene. even the subdued mrs. turck ventured to say a word, and asked what angeline could do when meeting harvey on the street? to this only the curt reply was given that "a dignified bow" was enough. it was rather hard. the old gentleman did not know it, his meek wife did not suspect it, and angeline would never have believed it, but the truth is, if angeline's life had depended on the making of a dignified bow, it would have been short shrift for her. it must be regretfully admitted that in the village of willow bend the bow, as practiced by maids alike, was such a casual bob of the head as conveyed not the remotest conception of any dignity. it may have been a fact that this arcadian bob was subject to modification among the elders, but that does not matter. the father, looking upon angeline's meek face and recognizing the accustomed submission in his wife's eyes, felt that he had done a fit and becoming morning's work, and drank his coffee calmly, while angeline trifled sadly with her spoon and looked dumbly out of the nearest window. that evening lowry called, and was told by the servant maid who met him at the door that he could not enter. the young man understood well enough that this was under mr. turck's direction, and went away less dispirited than he might have been. the next day mrs. turck, who feared to do otherwise, brought to the lord of the house a tinted piece of folded paper, which proved to be a letter from harvey to the again suspiciously rosy angeline. this dangerous piece of love's fighting gear had been detected by mrs. turck's eagle eye among the trifles on her daughter's work table. a charge direct, tears, expostulations, confession, and the delivery of the missive over to the enemy had followed swiftly. the hair stood upon the paternal head in disapproval as mr. turck held the pink letter between his thumb and forefinger and read it stridently aloud. after all, there was little in it to excite either anger or apprehension, for it was only an expression of hope that the writer could see angeline that evening at a little party at the home of a mutual friend, but, as with venomous insects, its sting was in its tail, for it was signed solely with these three letters: "i. l. y." now, even mr. turck did not need to be told what the letters he described as "those infamous characters" signified. the world knows them. his wife, too, flushed when he showed them to her, and then, for once bridling a little at the "infamous," she reminded him that there was a time when mr. turck himself, as a matter of custom and daily habit, wrote those very characters at the end of all his letters; but, though for a moment embarrassed by this allusion, the husband only sniffed. angeline had a bad half hour over the "=i. l. y.=," and the end was submission almost abject, for mr. turck would brook no half-way measures. the girl promised neither to write to nor read any letters from the young man so disapproved. in a sharp communication from mr. turck, harvey lowry was made to know the unpopularity of his epistolary efforts in the turck household, and for a day or two apparently bowed his head to the paternal will. but who may comprehend the ways of a lover? one morning not a week after the "i. l. y." affair, mr. turck saw another suspicious-looking envelope in the bundle of letters he carried home from the post-office at luncheon time. he looked hard at angeline's face when she opened the letter at the table and noted there was an expression of confusion and surprise. without a word, he stretched out an authoritative hand, and, without a word, angeline gave him the small, open sheet of heavy cream colored paper. this is what he saw, drawn with pen and ink, on the fair page: [symbol: full] only that and nothing more. it was now that angeline's persecutions began in earnest. she was questioned, and threatened, and bullied, and coaxed, but she would not tell the meaning of those four lines drawn upon that virgin page, and sent to her in an envelope addressed in the handwriting of harvey lowry. in truth, the poor girl did not know, and could not guess, what the thing meant, herself. denial tears, supplication--all were of no avail. mr. turck would not believe his daughter. he held the drawing upside down, sideways, and then almost horizontal, as one does in reading where the letters are purposely made tall and thin, but he could make nothing of it, and raged the more at his incompetence. "it looks a little like a side plan of a room," he muttered to himself, "but it isn't complete. have the fools arranged to run away and are they planning a house already?" the idea was too much for him. he seized his hat and went forth for advice. mr. turck was in the office of baldison, a contractor and builder, within five minutes. "here, baldison," he bellowed as he came in, "what is this? is it part of a plan of a house, or, if not, what is it?" mr. baldison was a cautious man, and, taking the paper, he examined the connected lines long and deliberately. his comment, when he made it, was not entirely satisfying. "it might be part of a side plan of one story," he said, "but it ain't finished. there's only one brace in, and the cross beam is lacking. if it wasn't for the left-hand upright, i should say it was part of a swing-crane, but the pulley isn't strung. i don't know what it is. who made it?" but mr. turck did not go into particulars. he left baldison's place and studied out the problem in his own office; he went out again and asked in vain the opinion of a dozen men, and he went home that evening baffled and in a frame of mind of which the less said the better. within twenty-four hours angeline was packed off to the misses cutlet's boarding-school in distant belleville, to be "finished," as her mother described it. the irate father used other and far less becoming words. this shifting of the scene when, to her, so much of importance was involved, was a most serious thing to angeline. but it might have been much worse than it proved at the school. plump bessey payton, another girl from willow bend, was there, and it was easily so arranged that the two occupied adjoining rooms. they had been friends for years, and the renewed companionship was much for angeline. it aided in partial distraction. and now this story, which has been--from an ordinary point of view--little more than a comedy, develops into something very like a tragedy. it was so to a young girl, at least. the misses cutlet had been instructed to keep a sharp eye open, and report, as well as they might, upon the quantity of angeline's correspondence. they had little to tell. angeline received few letters, and none frequently from any one person, so far as could be learned from the envelopes addressed to her. the parents were content. and angeline really had no correspondence with harvey lowry. she was a young woman who would keep her word, and she did not write to him, while from him came no message save an occasional envelope containing only a slip of paper upon which appeared the mysterious symbol. but was not that enough? did it not indicate that she was still in his heart, and that he would be always hers? those lines must have a meaning, and though she could not translate them, she felt it was only because harvey had forgotten that he had never given her the key. what of that? she knew instinctively that the story they told was one of faith and faithfulness. how delicate of him, and how thoughtful that such loving reminder should come at times, and how wonderful it was that he should have invented such a thing for her dear sake alone! her love grew with the months, and so, unfortunately, despite the letters with the reassuring figure, did her unhappiness. it is perhaps unreasonable that we should laugh at the loves of the young, at what we call "calf love" in the male, and a "schoolgirl's fancy" in the maiden, for the springs of the heart do not always deepen with the years. well for youth is it that it owns such wonderfully recuperative forces of mind and body; sad would it be to the elders if, without such recuperative powers, their feelings were given such abandonment. youth's hurts are sometimes serious. angeline was growing from the subjugated girl into the suffering woman. other young women, she reasoned, were allowed to love and to marry the men of their choice. why should she be made so cruel an exception? she idealized the absent, as the loving, so often do. in her mind, harvey lowry had grown from one for whom she cared more than for others into a hero without a flaw, one thoughtful, considerate, self-denying and altogether noble. the sentimental vein in her nature broadened and deepened, and she placed a greater value on the sweet reminder of the mysterious figures in the letters. and all for her! how constant he was, and how hard the lot of both of them! she became feverish and impatient. her studies lost all interest, her cheeks became paler, thinner, her manner more languid. it could not last. so the months went by until the end of the scholastic year was close at hand. angeline would soon be in willow bend again and with her parents. she would meet harvey lowry again--that was inevitable. what would the near vacation bring to her? she asked herself. she was growing stubborn now. the portentous figure of her father no longer loomed so highly in her eyes as formerly, and she was the decided woman, with a woman's heart and will, and a woman's rights. what might be the summer's history! accidents--as thoughtful people are much given to remark--have sometimes great effect on the affairs of human beings. one day as angeline, visiting her friend, stood looking at her still agreeable image in bess' mirror, she saw, stuck in the frame, among cards, notes and photographs, a square of yellowish paper. the coloring seemed to have come from age, but of that angeline made no note. all she saw or knew was that the paper bore this mystic sign upon it: [symbol: box] for a moment or two the girl stood motionless. power of speech and movement were gone. then, "bess," she called tremblingly; "what is this?" and she held out the paper for inspection. "that? oh, that is from harvey lowry," said bess composedly. "but, oh, bess," cried the girl excitedly, "what does it mean?" "can't you guess?" was the reply. "no, i can't," was the slow answer, "and--and i've seen it before." the careless bess was aroused now, and there was a flash in her black eyes. "how dare harvey lowry have sent one of those to any one else?" she broke out impetuously, but her excitement was only momentary. she began to laugh. "well, it was a good while ago, after all." and so her anger vanished. angeline was recovering herself, though with an effort. "but tell me--tell me what it means," she demanded. "why, you stupid girl!" was the reply. "i guessed it in the first ten minutes--and once we signed all our letters with it. now, see here," and she took paper and pencil and drew a perpendicular mark, thus: [symbol: vertical] "that is 'i' isn't it? well then, i'll put on this mark," and she added a line horizontally, making this figure: [symbol: ell] "that's an 'l' you see. next, to make your 'y,' you put on this"--she made two added marks--"and you have this: [symbol: full] "there's your 'i. l. y.' sign!" angeline was stunned. never was a dream dispelled so suddenly and harshly. not for her had that mystic figure been devised, but for another, and it had been utilized a second time, as if there were no sacredness to such things! it mattered not how much harvey lowry might be interested in her now, she was but a sort of second-hand girl. anger took the place of her unhappiness. "delicate and thoughtful," indeed! to send those reassuring notes to her was now but a cheap impertinence! she had been accustomed, in her pity of herself, to quote something from shakespeare which seemed to her to have a peculiarly sad and fitting application: "not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owed'st yesterday!" here were poppy and mandragora and syrups enough, all administered in one rude prescription, as to the efficacy of which there could be no shadow of a doubt! somehow the brooding and disappointed woman seemed to melt away now, and there reappeared the impulsive girl again. it was an angry girl, though. her first grief over--and it lasted but for a day--she resolved upon an epistolary feat of her own. she wrote three letters. the first was to harvey lowry. it was not quite, but nearly, as school-girlish as she might have written a year earlier, being distinctly of the "'tis better thus" variety and "coldly dissecting," as she afterwards said in confidence to a bosom friend. in it she bade her admirer an eternal farewell, notwithstanding the fact that they must inevitably see each other every day in the week as soon as she returned to willow bend. this labored epistle she placed in another, of a meek and lowly tenor, to her father. both of these she inclosed in a letter to her mother. it is needless to say that upon receipt of these letters in willow bend the turck family fairly glowed. the old gentleman sent angeline's letter to harvey, accompanied by a stiff one of his own, and sent to belleville a substantial addition to his daughter's quarterly allowance. as to harvey lowry, who has been much neglected, his own story deserves some attention now. when he had read the two letters he was a most perplexed young man. it had never occurred to him that to use his "i. l. y." device a second time, or rather with a second girl, was anything out of the way, for, with all his sentiment, harvey was not insistent upon the finer shadings in the affairs of life, even when appertaining to the heart. he had really cared for angeline, but he did not become a soured and disappointed man. despite the "dissecting" letter, he and angeline often met and spoke in later times, and when, finally, she married, and married well, there was none more gratified than he. time tells in the village as much as it does elsewhere. nothing could extract quite all the romance from the ingenious harvey. after fluttering around the village beauties for a time he ended by marrying a sweet-tempered, freckled country girl, with whom he lives in great content in a small house, crowded now with jolly, freckled boys and girls. and here comes relation of something which shows how hard it is to eliminate the once implanted sentimental tendency. to this day, when the father of the freckled family has occasion to write to the mother, he invariably signs his letters: [symbol: full] chapter xxvi the pale peacock and the purple herring the young lady was much applauded. colonel livingstone looked into stafford's eyes, and was hesitant. yet he still had something of the old masterly way about him, and he spoke out openly and very frankly. there is something about the united states army officer that is worth while. he rose to the occasion. the manner in which he rose to it was worthy of his occupation and rank. he said: "you have done things, my boy. you have bossed this train. you have brought to us a great engineering and overbearing quality." and the colonel almost blushed in an affectionate sort of lapse. "and yet it may be that you expect to get away from me, mr. stafford. you have got to tell your own story before we escape from here through this soon to be open road that you have largely made for us. tell us the story, mr. stafford." there are times when a strong man may be crushed, but it is rarely, save by thought of a a woman. stafford looked slantwise up the aisle, and then with a look that was tell-tale in his eyes as he cast them toward her, where she was sitting three or four seats away. he told the story of the pale peacock and the purple herring this is not really more the story of the pale peacock and the purple herring than it is of john and agnes, but that does not matter much, for the first account encompasses the second, in a way. what is chiefly curious is the difference, in point of view, between the peacock and herring, and the other two. once there was a peacock. never before was so beautiful a peacock as she. she was snow-white except as to her head and tail. her appearance was something wonderful. from her head down to her shoulders the hues blended and flashed in iridescent green. whenever she moved herself in the slightest degree there appeared a lighting in color passionately vivid. from about her neck and breast there shone what is known as a lambent flame which at times became tempestuous. so the neck and shoulders melted into the snow-white of the body, a restless glimmering ebbing into a milky way. it was just so with the tail. well, this peacock was unlike other peacocks. she was not--eh?--she was not morbid, but she was solitary and reflective and intensely emotional and sentimental. of course she had two feet and had a voice, but the less said of them the better. she would wander up and down by the lakeside and think of all that might be. she scarcely dreamed that there was to come to her what was her secret heart's desire, but in time it came. she met the purple herring. with each of them it was a case of infatuation at first sight. now the purple herring was almost as much of an exceptional case as the pale peacock. he was the only purple herring in all the great lakes, and was practically the king of the herrings, and was respected as such. personally, he had in his nature many of the traits of the pale peacock. he, too, was emotional, faithful, and impassioned. they loved. here was a most unfortunate situation. naturally, the purple herring could not get along very well upon the land, and, naturally too, the peacock could not flourish in the water. it was not exactly a case of platonic love; it was a case of hopeless love, in a way, and yet, not altogether hopeless, for they were happy. it came to this, that they made the best of things, and that the peacock, day after day, would wander along upon the sands which the water lapped, while the herring would swim along beside her, and they would exchange tender confidences, and that, to amuse her, he would tell her tales, many tales, of the wonders of the vasty deep of the lake. he told her why the fish flies came in autumn and smeared the windows and made slippery the sidewalks of the great city; of how they lay in the mud at the bottom of the lake, like little short sticks, and then finally burst open and came to the surface and floated away into town. he told her of his talk with mrs. whitefish, and of how she did not think the spawn was getting along as well as usual. he told her of a thousand things, and they were happy. they often talked too, this united yet effectually separated pair, of what they saw upon the shores of the placid lake, whose creamy sands, outside the city, sloped down to the water's edge from green fields and waving groves. many people walked along the sands, and children played and romped there all day. at sunset the purple herring began to look with special interest for the lovers who came in pairs and sat until late, talking, and sometimes in blissful silence while they listened to the soft lapping of the waves upon the shore. one day the purple herring told the pale peacock about one of these pairs of lovers, the only pair, he said, which were not happy. "and i can't imagine why they are not, either," said the purple herring. "nor can i, although i have not yet heard all you know about them," said the pale peacock. "how two lovers who may live together forever, who are not kept from each other by such a fate as separates you and me--how men and women who love each other can be unhappy, is more than i can conjure up by any stretch of fancy!" "her name is agnes," began the purple herring, "and when i first saw her she was walking slowly along the shore, back and forth, on a stretch of beach bordering the great park at the head of the lake. the sky was red after sunset, and in the southwest hung the new moon, with a great star over it. she was a beautiful lady, but she looked perplexed and a little sad even on that first evening. i did not notice the perplexity and sorrow on her sweet face at the time, but afterward i remembered it. "suddenly her face was all lighted up by some light that was not of the western sky, nor of the little bent moon, nor the great star. her eyes shone, her cheeks became pink like the inside of a pink shell, and i looked where her eyes were turned. i saw a man walking rapidly toward her, and i thought, 'only another pair of lovers!' "but this was no common pair; i could not leave them, they were so strangely attractive. their voices thrilled me as i heard them. i could feel all around the vibrations of deep emotion, electrical, disturbing, and enchanting. the lady began their conversation: "'the day has been so long!' she said. 'and our time together is so short!' the man replied. "they did not touch each other. they did not even take each other's hands. they only walked slowly along the shore, side by side, yet i and all the world had but to see them to know that they were lovers. "'agnes,' the man said, 'how happy the men and women are who have a home together! i would not care how humble the roof was that sheltered you and me. how glad i would be to work for you, to plan, and in every way live for you--even now i live only for you!--but what a joy it would be if it could all be with you!' "'do not speak of it, john,' the woman said, and her voice trembled. "'how many there are,' the man continued, passionately, 'how many there are who are chained together, straining both at the chain! they would be free, and cannot. their dwelling-place is no home. they fret and sting each other, while you and i--" "'john!' the lady interrupted him. "'forgive me!' he said, his tone suddenly changing. 'i can see you but for a few minutes, and i proceed to make you miserable! forgive me! tell me about yourself--what you are thinking, what you are reading. has the white rose blossomed in your garden? how is my friend rex, and why didn't you bring him with you?' "she answered first about the dog, rex, and then their talk grew uninteresting, or it grew late, so that i became sleepy; i don't know which, but soon they parted, and, would you believe it? the man didn't even kiss her once, nor touch her hand! "i saw this strange couple many times again during that clear bright june weather, and sometimes i heard their talk. there was always something about it that made me think of heat-lightning, with a mystery of earnestness even in their light banter and play of talk. "you must have observed that these human creatures often mean things they do not say, and yet contrive that the sense shall show through their misleading words. these two often talked lightly and laughed together, but there was ever an undercurrent of feeling of such deepness and power as i could not comprehend; its mystery almost irritated me. "one day--it was at night--not a living soul was to be seen on the sands as the two came walking toward me. they came swiftly as if they would walk into the water, but stopped there at its edge--and i listened, fascinated by their tense faces, and deep low voices. "'we must do what is right,' the man was saying. 'honor binds you, and it binds me. we must not play with fire. i have taken the step which parts us.' "'so soon!' said she. "'none too soon!' the man protested. then he burst out, as if he could not keep what came like a torrent from his lips. "'help me! help me! we must decide and act together! i cannot leave you without your help!' "the lady turned her face from him for a moment. she looked away across the water, and the tears which had started to her eyes seemed as if commanded not to fall. pale she was, pale was her face, and with the look of ice with snow upon it. her voice, when she turned to him again, did not seem like her voice--the sound of it made him start. "'you are right,' she said, 'good-bye. god bless you!' "'agnes!' the man cried, as she turned away. "'go,' she answered. "the man looked at her as if to fix her image upon his soul forever, and said, repeating her words: 'good-bye, god bless you!' "then he walked quickly off into the park, and away, never looking back. the lady sank down on a seat by the water's edge. for a long time i watched her, and she did not move. when, finally, she arose and walked away, i felt that i was seeing her, and i also had seen the man, for the last time. and so it was. i have watched for them in vain. the man has gone to the ends of the earth. that i know by the look on his face and hers. she will never see him again, nor will she walk by these waters where she used to walk with him. but why? that is what puzzles me!" "what fools these mortals be!" said the pale peacock, without the least idea that any one else had ever before made that remark. pale death with even tread knocks at the threshold of rich and poor. "pallida mors æquam pulsat," etc. one day the purple herring died, and the pale peacock suffered as suffer those who love and are bereaved. little cared she for longer life, and she wanted to pine away. she went to a policeman on the corner, and said: "tell me how to pine." "what now! what now!" said the policeman and he gave her no assistance. but she must pine. she wanted to pine away. she wandered on and met the cream-colored cat, and to her she told her tale. now, the cream-colored cat had herself learned to pine, having lost her loving mistress, and, being of an affable and affectionate nature, she at once revealed the secret of pining to the pale peacock, and they joined forces and pined together. and they pined, and they pined, and they pined. they pined until they became a sublimated substance--(just what a sublimated substance is does not matter in this story)--and they pined along until they became something so intangible they were almost like a little fog; that is, they were like a young fog, for as a fog gets older and begins to dissipate, it gets thinner, so that the younger a fog is, the thicker it is. finally it becomes a vapor. and they became what may be called an evanescent vapor, until all was lost in the empyrean. and the souls of the pale peacock and the purple herring were at last commingled. perhaps it was so in the end with the souls of john and agnes. chapter xxvii the release as stafford concluded his fanciful, dreamy but, seemingly, from his manner, most earnest story, the far away lady gave him a single appealing glance and then arose and departed for her own car. as she passed he saw that there were tears in her eyes. they did not speak nor did they meet again that day, but he was resolved to breakfast with her in the morning. morning opened brilliantly and as he entered the dining car, at the time he knew she would be there, he saw that the sun which had but just climbed lazily above the mountain tops, was engaged in the task of gilding her hair. he advanced with more courage than he had on the first occasion. "good morning, the world is in a good humor to-day, is it not," was his comment as he took his seat. "have you noticed that the sun, whose business it is to indicate the world's moods, has leaped through the window and is playing with your head when he isn't dancing on the table-cloth?" she looked up smilingly, but before she could answer, there came an interruption. the door of the car opened and there stalked up to them the big conductor, owner of the stubby red moustache, with a look in his eyes which indicated that he had swift remarks to make. he broke out promptly: "mr. stafford, you are wanted at the wire, and, you bet, there's something doing." pleasant to the looker-on, as to them, are the relations and understandings regarding the little side issues and incidents of life between a man and woman of intelligence and education when they are in love with each other, even though that love must be repressed and unexpressed. the interjection of the conductor was delightful to the woman in this case, because it was an involuntary compliment to the man opposite her at the table. it was the breaking in of a fine hireling upon the man of brains and accomplishments, the call upon him for aid in this time of casual need. stafford's heart danced as he caught the look, because he recognized its full significance. and then as he rose he grinned, because he saw that the conductor was evidently in trouble. his face indicated that. there was one appreciative look into the face of the smiling woman and then he went out to deal as he might with the existing condition of affairs. he rather enjoyed these frequent interviews with the coming saviors. they had a smart operator at the other end of the wire and, as he had learned, the boss of the rescuing train was assuredly a railroad man of might and much acuteness. they had, as already told, indulged in a verbal brush or two. connection was made and the first thing stafford got was: "can't you chumps do anything over there?" "do anything!" was stafford's reply. "do anything! we are a dead train, lying helpless, with our nose stuck into four hundred thousand million feet of packed snow! what are you doing, yourselves, with all the engines you want and a snow-plow, and all the men you want? it strikes me that as butters-in you are about the worst existing." and then from the boss of the rescuing train stafford listened to clicked language the recollection of which was ever afterward among the delights of his life. it referred to his personal character and to his ancestry and to a large variety of things besides. it was an admirable effort, an oration trimmed with red exclusively. and stafford, understanding that something would, naturally, be expected of him in return, cut loose with his own store of expletives. his four years' absence from the country had left him somewhat deficient in modern americanisms, but, during that time, as became a man handling lazy coolies, he had acquired a stock of orientalisms that were not altogether without merit, and these he launched at the gentleman with whom he was engaged in conversation. evidently the man at the other end was delighted, for this was his reply: "i don't know who you are who appear to be running things over there, but you seem to have some stuff in you." "that's all right," said stafford, "but we've got some curiosity over here. what have you got for a snow-plow, anyhow--a mowing-machine, or a reaper?" "we'll show you, my child! oh, we'll show you! and i've got some mighty good news for you. things are doing. we've thrown away the trinket we've been trying to use, because we've just got a new snow-plow from the east. she's a monster, and a beauty of the new style. why, she just lives on snow--wants a mountain of it for breakfast, two for dinner, another for supper, throws away what she doesn't eat, and throws it a mile! she's eating her way toward you now, and she's eating mighty fast. she was hungrier than usual to-day. watch our smoke, that is if you can see it above the snow she throws, and we're making lots of smoke, too. we'll save your sinful bodies, if we can't your souls, this very day. get ready for moving. we'll be with you somewhere between one and four o'clock. good-by." stafford gave a whoop--he couldn't help it--and imparted the good news to those about him. in no time it was all over the train, and then, to the accompaniment of satisfied exclamations, there was bustle and a gathering together of things everywhere, for during the long wait there had been much scattering of personal belongings. this was a business soon accomplished, to be followed by a period of excited waiting. it was almost precisely three o'clock when the prisoners, listening like those at lucknow, heard, faint and far beyond the snowdrifts, something like the piper's blast. it was the distant triumphant whoop of a locomotive. nearer and more loudly it approached and, presently, in the distance, could be perceived dimly a column of smoke. the advance was not rapid, as a matter of course, but neither was it very slow, and, at last, the whooping monster was in sight, or, rather, not the monster itself, but a cloud of smoke in front of which, swirling, and dense, was a roaring snowstorm. the end was nearly reached. the relief train, its engineers still overworking their whistles, came on, the snow-plow still doing its fierce work, until the two trains stood there close together, the nozzle of the locomotive resting against the snow-plow lovingly. there was a scramble of people from the train so long imprisoned as there was also from the rescuing train, and there followed a general time of hand-shaking and congratulation. stafford had the pleasure of meeting the train boss with whom he had been talking in the morning, and took a fancy to that rugged and accomplished civil engineer and railroad man at once, as evidently did the other man to him. then came business. the boss explained the situation: "you are in our way. we have work to do in behind you, and we can't pass you. we've got to get you back to the siding, about ten miles from here. we'll have to haul you, i suppose. have you any coal?" "not ten pounds," was the answer of the engineer of the rescued train. "used it all up, and mighty carefully, too, for heat. been using bushes for wood. another day and there'd have been trouble. lucky it hasn't been very cold." "yes, we expected that, and can supply you. we've a flat car load along. we'll haul you back to the siding and get the coal on there. it's the only way." the coupling was made, the slow retreat of the rescuing train to the siding, taking over an hour, accomplished, as was the transfer of coal and water, with great difficulty and much work of trainmen, and, at last, the train from san francisco was itself again. it moved forward, its passengers cheering the train on the side track which was also pulling out, but toward the west. the episode was over. upon the rear platform of the last car as the train drew eastward stood, all alone, the big blonde porter. the train was whirling toward denver. there was a great reunion after supper, presided over by colonel livingston, of course, to celebrate, as the young lady expressed it, their providential escape from the largest island of juan fernandez in the world, but the far away lady was not present. stafford wondered, and was restless and disappointed. as time wore on, he could not endure it very well, and, withdrawing quietly, went forward to her car, adjoining. what he saw as he entered--and the sight gladdened him, for he feared that she had retired--was the lady sitting alone by the window, still, and apparently dreaming. he advanced and seated himself beside her. she looked at him and smiled, but said nothing. "why are you not in the cassowary with all the rest?" he asked. "they are rejoicing." she made no answer to his question: "i hope you are happy, john," she said gently. "i heard of your marriage to the american girl at the legation in st. petersburg, and i prayed that"--but she never finished the sentence. "wh-a-t!" gasped stafford, "married! i--what the--"--and he almost forgot himself, this man fresh from handling coolies--then more gently and most sadly: "agnes, you should have known better! oh, you should have known better! there was a stafford married there, it is true, a relation of mine, a cousin. it was through him i made my russian connection--but, agnes, how could you! did you think there was room in my heart for another woman, and so soon? but women are strange creatures," he concluded bitterly. she could not answer him at first, though the light which came into her face should have represented courage; she could but murmur brokenly: "forgive me. you must do that--but, oh, john, what could i think? it all seemed so assured. and i was half insane, and doubting all the world. and now, now you have made me very happy. i cannot tell you"--and she failed, weakly, for words. every thought and impulse of the man changed on the moment. a great wave of tenderness swept over him: "forgive you? of course i do," he said impetuously, "i can understand. poor girl, you must have suffered. who wouldn't at the unveiling of such a man?" then came the more regardful thought: [illustration: "we shall meet at breakfast"] "but how is it with you, agnes? is life as black as ever?" "my husband died two years ago," she barely whispered. the eyes of those who have been long imprisoned cannot, at first, when freedom comes, see in the ordinary light of day, much less when it is glorious sunlight, and it was some moments before the souls' eyes of these two became accustomed to its splendor. even then, no word was said. they were alone. he but gathered her closely in his arms and kissed her without stint. he had been starving long enough. so he held her for a time and, when he released her and spoke at last, it was but to say in a voice by no means modulated: "agnes, i cannot talk, and you know why. i am going away now. we shall meet at breakfast. i but thank god." and so he left her. chapter xxviii love's insolence the easy impudence, the loving insolence, the large, feudal lord air of proprietorship, of the man who has just come into possession of the one woman is sometimes a development beyond belief. reprehensible, certainly. stafford had not slept much. all night he had lain awake, trying to realize what it was that had come to him, the beneficence of providence, the magnitude of what earth has sometimes to give. it was only with dawn that he slept at all, and his dreams were good. as for her, the far away lady, who shall tell what thoughts or dreams were hers? he came into the dining car that morning, refreshed and exalted, and overlooking and sweeping as an eagle in his first morning swing from his eyrie. he was splendidly intolerable, this triumphant lover who had recovered his equipoise and was himself of the years ago. any lofty simile would do for him. he came stalking in like a king to a coronation, with but one redeeming feature to the look upon his face, an expression which resembled gratitude. and who was it that entered the car a moment or two after he had seated himself at the breakfast table? could this flush-faced, slender creature, bright and almost challenging of eye, be the far away lady, she of the sad and dreamy look! it was she, certainly. dr. love, you are a wonder! all the other physicians of the world, all the health resorts of the world, can neither advise nor have effect toward swift recuperation in comparison with you unhampered! they are but as vapors, or as the things which are not. the greetings of the morning were exchanged--it was nearly noon, by the way, for they had lain long at denver--the breakfast was ordered and then he leaned back and looked in her face, smilingly: "where shall we live?" he asked blandly, as if it were but a resumed conversation. "have you fallen in love with lotus-eating in southern california, or are there other regions, still?" did my lady lately, so "sober, steadfast and demure," blanche or start at this daring, overbearing opening? not she. she may have blushed a little, but well she knew the ways of her whimsical, perplexing lover. her eyes flashed back at his with the tender, quizzical look in them and she laughed. then a soberer expression came, and she spoke earnestly and thoughtfully: "i have heard homesick people, living among the oranges, speak longingly of a place they called 'god's country.' i think we should make our home somewhere in 'god's country,' do you not?" "yes, dear," he exclaimed delightedly, "but where and what is 'god's country?' we hear about it, but its boundaries seem undefined. i take it that each individual has his or her ideal. i am confident, though, that ours are the same. is not that so?" "to me," she spoke bravely, "'god's country' is, first of all, where you are, and," she added reverently, "of course god is everywhere." "bless you," he said, "but, go on. let us consider what we two think the essentials for our own 'god's country.'" "it must be a country where the grass grows, where sod, turf, close-woven grass, cover the ground," she answered promptly. "the raw, unkempt plains and hills of the arid regions are not for us, nor is the stormless life of the land of oranges and grapes. we want, first of all, the good green sod, and, next, trees, waving, luxuriant elms and oaks and ash and beech and all their kindred, and their vines as well, wild grapes and ivy and bitter-sweet." he smiled. "you have begun with the command in genesis, instructing the earth to bear, and so on, but i should go one step back in the epic of creation and say, let us live by the waters where they are 'gathered together unto one place.' we must have a great body of water near us and, we must have rain." "yes, in summer, rain; in winter, snow. i want the four seasons." "i don't know where we are to find four, that is an absolutely complete four," he said. "we can rarely boast a spring in its entirety. it seems to exist only in the dreams of the poets, or in england. i saw a real spring in england. but there are some pretty fair imitations of it, i'll admit, in many of our states, notably, for instance, in michigan and wisconsin." adroit, time-serving man! "well, we can get along without an elaborate spring," she laughed, "if we can have a june, a real june, once a year." and so they considered deliciously until it was decided that "god's country" for them, implied a green country in summer and a white country in winter, with vast water near, if possible, and that from maine to the western mountains it existed, all without prejudice to other "god's countries" for other mortals elsewhere born. straightforward, reckless, trusting confidence, was it not, this conversation between the man and woman thus rejoined, but he was of the sort who do things, and she was a woman given fully. besides--though in a world which ended--they had dreamed before. this matter of great importance settled, there was silence for a time. he looked upon her with devouring eyes. at last he broke forth: "now i want to draw my breath, but find it difficult. i am going to lean back and study you and try to think of the world as it has rearranged itself. i have not grasped it all yet. it is odd; it is great! i have you and you can't get away from me now! it is wonderful, this sudden possession, the possession rightly, even in all the conventional, in all that the weakling centuries dictate. no wonder that i am dazed. ever as the world revolves, come new revelations of thought and of all existence. i dreamed that i knew things, but i didn't. "what are you going to do about it, dearie? my heart is like a kettle in which everything is boiling, and it is foaming over the top with love for you. can you not help me? what are you going to put into the kettle to stop this unseemly boiling? i don't want you to pour in cold water, or take the kettle off, or put the fire out. oh, well, let 'er boil! i am afraid, my dear, that you will have to take care of me most of the time. i'm irresponsible. "let us talk about something practical, my dear woman," he rambled on. "you look at me with your great eyes, and you know what the inevitable is. you know that you and i must face the world and all its dragons together after this. what fun it will be! have you any suggestions to make? by the way, i like the trick of the top of your garments, the arrangement about your throat. you have tact and taste, and sense, my dear, yet you lack a mountain of judgment and discretion. you have intrusted yourself to me, reckless person! now, cut loose and tell me something. i think that expression 'cut loose' is one of the best of all our americanisms. tell me something." what could the woman say? she was puzzled over this wild, fumbling-thoughted lover, with his commingled gleams of fact and fancy. but ever to the more admirable of the sexes comes divination. there came into this gentle woman's mind a sudden radiance of comprehension. she knew what he was seeking. he wanted her, with all the selfishness of love, to be foolish with him. and this is what she said: "i don't know. i only know what i think of his heart and soul, of the resources and qualities of one man in the world and that i am but the dependent woman--and i am most content, dear." then she became more venturesome and spoke more definitely and practically, as she knew he wished her to. she looked him squarely in the eyes: "make that place for us across the lake, the place of which we dreamed. never mind now about the town house. that will take care of itself, but the dream place, the 'shack,' will not. when you were working with your coolies in another hemisphere i hope and believe you had your dreams about me, hopeless as they may have seemed. i want to tell you, great heart, that men do not dream all the dreams. is it unwomanly, is it not just to you and as it should be that i should say to you now that the woman in america"--and her voice was tremulous--"was dreaming quite as constantly and sadly as the man upon the russian steppes." she was looking at him steadfastly and in her eyes were tears and the light which gleams only when the dearest of all fires is burning, a light reflected and intensified, if that were possible, in the eyes of him who was leaning silently forward and hardly breathing. she had gratified his wish. she had "cut loose." they looked out upon the kansas prairie, across which the train was scurrying. there were occasional houses, far apart, but the notable objects of the landscape were gaunt windmills which in midsummer drew water for the herds of cattle which even at this season could be seen huddled, more or less comfortably, here and there. the wind had swept bare great patches of pasture land and some of the cattle were browsing contentedly upon the dried grass left in autumn. there were many herds of them but the simile of "cattle on a thousand hills" did not apply, for there were no hills. the travelers looked out upon what was but an illimitable white blanket, with dots upon it. they looked upon a great country, but it was not for them. they left the dining car and visited the cassowary, where were still assembled a number of the group for whom through the days of imprisonment the luxurious sleeper had been a gathering-place, but they did not linger there. they sought the sleeping-car of the far away lady where they lingered until night fell, for what they had said to each other was only the beginning. they had much to tell, and when stafford slept that night there came to him no vexing or distempered dreams. he had come to a full realization of his new world and all its points of compass. to this strong, almost turbulent character a great peace and content had come. though he was lying in the berth of a sleeping car there were in his ears, vague and incomplete words of the hackneyed but pleasant benediction: "sleep sweet within this quiet room, * * * whoe'er thou art, * * * no mournful yesterdays * * * disturb thy heart." chapter xxix at last stafford waited for the far away lady in the morning--she was to come to breakfast at ten o'clock--and met her as she entered the cassowary. they went into the dining car together, and, as they seated themselves, she noted the added buoyancy of his look and was prepared for anything. the breakfast ordered, he leaned back and asked complacently: "what do you think of clocks?" the far away lady looked at him in mild amazement: "are you not a trifle vague?" she asked. "is not that like what i have heard you call too much of a 'general proposition'? how can i answer you when i do not know what you mean?" "oh, well, maybe it was only a sort of 'general proposition,' but it was in earnest. this, my dear, is an important subject. they have clocks in houses, do they not? now, it so happens that i am mightily interested in a home and, so, am necessarily interested in clocks. this home is not yet made, but it is as sure as anything within man's mortal scope may be, and clocks are part of the general theme. my dear lady, help me out." she looked upon him indulgently in his lunacy. she understood, as she had the day before, though now the understanding was simple, since she had the key to his mood. besides, even in the exuberance of his feelings, he was apparently, not quite so royally driveling, as on the occasion of his first outbreak. her look grew almost motherly as he checked himself suddenly and informed her that he was pinching his arm to be sure that everything was true. "yes," he continued, "there is a great deal to clocks. they are wonderfully cheering and companionable. their ticking, after a little, never annoys you, and you somehow, come to really need it and to feel a loss when the clock is stopped. it is, in a way, like the sound of the cricket on the hearth. while it is ticking you feel as if you had something alive and friendly about you." "i like clocks, too," said the far away lady, smiling into his foolish face. "i had two clocks in china," went on the beaming stafford, "and i had them with me wherever i was stationed. the transportation of such things was a nuisance, but they paid their way. one was a pretty clock with a softly beaming face, who struck the hours with a delightful chime. the other was a little alarm clock, and he was noisy and tough. he was a profligate. he became confidential with me, but there was always a certain reservation. our souls never got absolutely close together, but he was a bulwark and a brother. he was all there. the charming clock with the chime i called st. cecelia, and the little tough clock i called billy. sweetheart, you can hardly imagine what a comfort the two were to me. away off there in the gray wastes of a vast territory, an engineer solving his problems practically alone, longing occasionally for companionship and finding it not among the alien russian assistants or among the flat-faced celestial laborers--well, then i'd go in to st. cecelia and billy, and she would console softly and billy would tick and swear with me in the most intimate companionship and understanding, and brace me up. why, my girl, that clock was my right hand man and my adviser. i don't suppose he really advised, but he was somehow, always on deck. billy and st. cecelia are both in my baggage now." "billy appeals to me," said the lady. "did he always awaken you?" "no," admitted stafford, "i was usually awakened by the racket of the coolies. their clatter and chatter made them worse than sparrows. it wasn't billy's utility as an alarm clock which endeared him, but a sort of personal affection which developed in me because he really deserved it. we were drawn together. st. cecelia and i respected and admired each other, but billy was such a flagrant fellow and whooped it up so when he struck that i got rather to lean upon him when i had anything approaching the blues. i had them, sometimes," said he more slowly and looking at her earnestly, "but billy always sounded a note of reckless plunging ahead and hopefulness." here he stopped talking, apparently seized with a sudden inspiration. then, after a moment, he went on in the most casual manner: "by the way, dear, why can't we have billy in the kitchen of the shack? his hands show clearly against his face and he'd be excessively good to boil eggs by." the fair countenance of the woman became suffused and the depths of her eyes were suddenly peopled beyond all the vision of any fate-reader's crystal. all the nymphs of love and sweet regard were there. she, like him, had been dreaming much of the shack since their parting of the night before, and the knowledge that he also had been thinking of it, was something wonderful to her. he, too, then had been having fancies about the shack, the dream home by the side of the water, the vision of the past, the certainty, now, of the future. they would never abandon that idea. and now there came to her--she could see nothing else--the miserable scene of the years past, the shore and the blue lake waters and the man with bursting heart drawing a picture which was at the time indeed a fantasy, talking bravely, seeking to hide his own suffering and make hers less, to gloss over the hard aspect of the parting,--and failing miserably. she reached her hand across and put it in that of stafford: "we will have billy and st. cecelia both," she whispered. now these were not young people in their 'teens nor in the early twenties, yet they said and did what is now being told of them. is the gold of the world, are all its great passions and vast affection, but for the callow! "there be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four," saith the venerable and justly popular author of proverbs, and he concludes and crowns the list with "the way of a man with a maid." he might have made the same comment regarding the way of a maid with a man, but either way is insignificant in comparison with the ways of an intelligent man and woman in the full flux and prime of life, and who have learned. there is a difference indescribable between youth and those who have come to the understanding comprehension of what is the greatest thing in the world. they own the consciousness of its magnitude, a knowledge which the others lack. talk about love-making! theirs is the unconscious, intense and honest art of the old masters. he dawdled on in his day dream: "you know about the dogs, don't you?"--she nodded--"and we'll have chickens, of course, far from the house and garden, snow-white leghorns, since they lay voraciously--'voracious' is the word--and eggs are the spice of life. there'll be other things to eat, too, and in sunny cleared places in the wood there will be the most voluptuous asparagus and strawberry beds in the world, and, as for the eye and nose, your own flower garden, near the shack,--have we not talked of it, somewhere, before?--what a garden that will be! i know it already, because i know your fancies. no park gardening there, but the natural beauty and abandon of nature with a friend at hand. i can shut my eyes and see the roses and the dahlias and the hollyhocks and the old-fashioned pinks and the lilacs and all the old flowers and shrubs and a host of the newer ones which have won a deserved place since plymouth rock and jamestown, and there is in my nostrils a blending of perfumes that makes any mention of araby the blest seem puerile, while the desert that 'shall rejoice and blossom as the rose' will be but as a sand spit compared with our responsive but untamed estate. "and," he continued, "there is a fad of my own which i have not yet mentioned. i am going to be a benefactor of mankind--i suppose it was in me and had to come out--and our jungle home will afford the opportunity for carrying out my beneficent designs. i am going to make a domestic bird of one of the most desirable of birds existent. i refer to the quail, the bird that whistles on country fences and doesn't on toast. i'm going to get a lot of them and treat them as if they were and had always been part of the family. they shall have a great wire-covered range and all conveniences of an outdoor home, and i'm going to keep on raising them and experimenting and trying until i have a really tame quail, one with atrophied wings and a trusting heart. that we'll do, dear, and coming generations shall rise up and call us blessed." she looked upon him still indulgently. it was all concerning their life across the lake, and slight wonder was it that she was at one with him in his dreaming, he the man of action, the man with the sense of humor and perception of the grotesque, who always laughed at things,--that he should thus idle so happily in fancy with the shack and its surroundings, well, she felt in its fullness love's compliment to her. she knew the keynote of it all and but encouraged him with speaking eyes. he was looking out of the window now but he turned to her in a moment: "it seems to me," he said, "that we are already getting a little of the flavor of our own country. i'll be imagining the pines of saginaw next. look out upon that expanse of snow."--the train was tearing down through the des moines valley now--"that is snow, real snow, no tremendous, swirling, threatening drifts, no dead expanse with bare, bleak spots, but instead, a great soft mantle, protecting the germs of the coming crops and the ally, not the enemy of man. how white it is, as it has a right to be. it means well. it is cold, but it is second cousin to the seeds and to our own kind of spring. it is well connected." there was something to the lover's dreams and vaporings. the quality of earth and air was changing imperceptibly but surely. the spirit of the lake region was abroad and had wandered even into iowa. the shadows of the telegraph poles, slanting eastward, became longer and longer. stafford, abandoning reluctantly his pictures of the future when the two should be together, laughed quietly: "will you always be so patient?" he asked. she laughed as well: "i'm afraid, big boy, that there does not live a wise woman who cares who would not be always patient listening when the theme was such and the object such. did i not say that ponderously and nicely?" she added. and he but laughed again. they made their way to the cassowary, for there were many hand-shakings and genial partings in progress there and the two were, necessarily, a part of the scene. more than one lasting friendship had been formed in the luxurious cassowary. evening was near. already the pillar of cloud by day looming above the shore of the great lake was plainly visible. the slower way through the city was made, the train came to a stand-still and upon the ears of its inmates broke all the varied station sounds, the calls of starters, the clangor of engine bells, the trucks and the shouting of cabmen outside. stafford assisted the far away lady--the far away lady no longer--to alight from the platform: "the harshness is over," he said. "we will never part again." "never," she said, and then, "it has been a long time." she had brightened her grey traveling dress with a rose-colored ribbon at her throat, and her cheeks were rose-colored, too. "i would have come sooner, had i known," said the man. and they went out into the world together. the end transcriber's note: the author used symbols which are not displayable in text. full: a small vertical line (forming somewhat of an uppercase "i") a small horizontal line on the right bottom (thus forming somewhat of an uppercase "l") a small vertical line closing the right bottom (thus forming a square box with no top line) lastly, a small diagonal line from half-way up the right vertical pointing upper-left (thus forming somewhat of an uppercase "y") box: all of the lines of the "full" symbol, surrounded by another box vertical: a small vertical line (forming somewhat of an uppercase "i") ell: a small vertical line (forming somewhat of an uppercase "i") a small horizontal line on the right bottom (thus forming somewhat of an uppercase "l") generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: our host.] a flight in spring in the car lucania from new york to the pacific coast and back during april and may, , as told by the rev. j. harris knowles new york seven hundred and fifty copies privately printed for frederick humphreys, m.d. no. copyright, , by j. harris knowles dedication _to the lucanians_: "the king and the queen" "the apostle and the angel" "the fairy princess" "juno and psyche" "the gypsy queen" "the princess" "minerva and jupiter" "mercury," and "the spanish count" these random jottings of our happy "flight in spring," are affectionately dedicated by their friend "the pope" contents i page the circumstances of the flight.--the start.--the car "lucania."--the kitchen.--the cook.--the poetic dinner.--our accommodations.--visitors at newark.--improvised theatricals.--philadelphia, wilmington, baltimore, washington.--the approaching war crisis ii on through the south.--thomasville, georgia.--dr. humphrey's winter home.--southern flowers.--the old plantation.--war declared.--they leave to-day iii departure from thomasville.--pet superstitions.--montgomery, alabama.--the capitol.--the public fountain.--montgomery to new orleans iv new orleans.--surviving traces of spanish and french occupation. --jackson square.--cathedral of st. louis.--the cemeteries.--melancholy perspectives.--audubon park.--graves for sale.--the french market.-- mobile and new orleans as seen nearly thirty years ago.--st. charles hotel.--a dinner at dr. mercer's v impressions of new orleans.--its harbor.--the levee at night.--southern texas.--its forests, flowers, and birds.--the prairie pool vi san antonio.--work of jesuit missionaries.--street ramble.--the old cathedral.--evenings in our car.--a mission car.--the tired clergyman with his renewal of vigor.--the alamo.--the siege sustained by colonel travis and his men.--the tragedy.--hymn of the alamo.--the western texas military academy vii in desolate places.--beauty everywhere.--railway engineering.-- analogy in the conduct of life.--el paso.--the sand storm.--human grasshoppers.--the placid night.--rev. dr. higgins.--juarez.--rev. m. cabell martin.--strangeness of our mexican glimpse.--the post-office.--the old church.--the padre's perquisites.--the prison.--el paso again.--cavalry going east for the war viii leaving el paso.--deming.--the desert.--the armed guard.--the cacti and other flowers.--the yuma indians.--avoiding kodaks.--rossetti's "sister helen" ix los angeles.--our beautiful anchorage.--first impressions.--sunday morning in a garden.--st. paul's church.--pasadena.--the diva's car.--journeying to san diego.--first view of the pacific x san diego.--the bathing-house.--alarming disappearance.--the mystery solved.--carriage drive to mission cliffs.--coronado beach.--the museum.--the hotel.--high fog xi san diego to santa barbara.--the old mission.--the inner cloister.--the afternoon ride.--the lady of the blue jeans.--samarcand xii leaving santa barbara.--delay at saugus.--viewing the wreck.-- brentwood.--the mission mass.--the social afternoon.--the garden and the homing pigeons.--the grape-shot.--the chinaman's pipe xiii san francisco.--bustling traffic.--railroad employees.--the flagman.--the palace hotel.--the seal rocks.--sutro residence and baths.--the presidio.--sentinels.--golden gate park.--the memorial cross.--san francisco and edinburgh compared.--the cable cars.-- chinatown.--the opium den.--the goldsmiths' shops.--across the bay to tiburon.--the bohemian club xiv departure for san josé.--palo alto.--advertiser.--leland stanford, jr., university xv through santa clara valley.--arrival at san josé.--old friends.-- semi-tropical climate.--an excursion to the stars.--the lick observatory.--our journey there.--sunset on the summit.--with the great telescope.--the tomb of james lick.--the midnight ride down the mountain xvi sunday at san josé.--the big trees.--the fruit farm at gilroy.-- hotel del monte.--the ramble on the beach.--the eighteen-mile drive.--dolce far niente xvii oakland ferry-house and pier.--the russian church.--off eastward.-- crossing the mountains.--hydraulic mining.--stop at reno.--nevada deserts.--ogden.--the playing indian xviii salt lake city.--the governor of utah.--the zion coöperative store.--thoughts on mormonism.--the semi-annual conference.--the eisteddfod.--the mormon temple.--organ music.--panoramic view of valley.--statue of brigham young.--excursion to saltair.--departure from salt lake city xix glenwood springs.--the pool.--the vapor baths.--through the cañons.--leadville.--colorado products.--cañons in new york xx colorado springs.--ascent of pike's peak.--the view from the summit.--the descent.--the springs at manitou.--treasury of indian myth and legend.--the collection of minerals.--glen eyrie.--the garden of the gods.--victor hugo on sandstone xxi denver.--the union station.--the departing trains.--the beauty of denver.--dean hart and the cathedral.--the funeral service.--seeing denver xxii through kansas.--kansas city.--the cattle yards.--the bluffs.--the fight between the merrimac and the monitor xxiii st. louis.--beautiful residences.--forest park.--the levee.-- alton.--old friends.--legend of the piasa.--the confluence of the rivers.--the union depot.--the car of the international correspondence schools.--crossing the bridge xxiv through illinois, indiana, ohio.--columbus.--the beautiful station.--church service.--nearing home.--parting thoughts.--our amusements.--to ethel asleep.--a parting wish.--pilgrimages of patriotism a flight in spring i the circumstances of the flight.--the start.--the car "lucania."--the kitchen.--the cook.--the poetic dinner.--our accommodations.--visitors at newark.--improvised theatricals.--philadelphia, wilmington, baltimore, washington.--the approaching war crisis. it seemed like a dream to be invited to join a party on a private pullman car for an extended tour of close on eight thousand miles, all in these our united states! yet such was the opportunity which was generously offered us in this springtime of . it was to be "a flight in spring" of most intense interest. the journey was to embrace in its continued circuit, from new york back to new york, points as widely separated as new orleans and san francisco. it was to traverse many states and territories, and was to be accomplished with every adjunct of unstinted comfort and refinement. the expected morning when we were to start on our journey came at last, with that subdued wonder in it that the dream, so unlooked for, was really to be a fact. bags and satchels were all packed, and with that happy feeling which always comes to the tourist when, all ready, he is safely ensconced in his cab, we sped to the twenty-third street ferry for the pennsylvania depot in jersey city. never did the great hudson river look so beautiful or new york so magnificent in our eyes as on that early morning of april th, when, through and beyond it all, we could see in imagination the great journey before us, all made more radiant by a munificent hospitality which had made it for us a fact--"a flight in spring"--which we had often thought of, but never hoped to see. to start off on such a journey, with a six weeks' vacation in view, even if undertaken all alone and in most prosaic economy, would be an event; but when one was met by pleasant friends and ushered into an independent, self-contained flying home on wheels, it was indeed something ideal. our car, the "lucania," was a happy combination of well-devised space and comfortable arrangement. let us recount its good points. we may as well begin with the foundation of all well-regulated homes, the kitchen. what a _multum in parvo_ that sacred spot was! it held quite a substantial cooking range; it had lockers and cupboards, and glistening cooking utensils of most approved fashion. already our _chef_ was at his work, affording, in his own person, with all its good-natured plumpness, a hint of the good things he could evolve from the interesting scene of his labors. he was the best possible specimen of a negro cook, handsome, fat, and jolly. he filled almost completely his little kitchen; his plump and shining cheeks looking like the very best and most exquisitely finished parisian bronze. set off by the background of his cooking utensils and other objects of his serious and responsible calling, he presented a picture worthy of a painter. i felt, as i looked at him, that he was a genius in his way. his subsequent work did not belie my instant instinct of his powers; for, on a day long to be remembered, as we were speeding across one of the most arid spots of our journey, somewhere in arizona, he served up a dinner worthy of a poet; then i felt proud of him. that day the outer air was stifling. our car was speeding through vast stretches of yellow, heated sand; the sun poured down in full force; every window was closed to keep out, as far as possible, the all-pervading dust. a weary gloom spread over the liveliest of our company, and even dinner was dreaded, as the time approached for that necessary function. at last the meal was announced, and we all reached the dining-room in a weary, limp condition, when a surprise awaited us. the artist of the galley, our negro cook, got in his poetic work. i felt his fine touch at once when i saw that there was to be no soup that day. instead, we had some delicate fish, served with most refreshing cucumbers on ice, the sparkle of which, in the dim shaded light of our room, looked like dewdrops. every course thereafter had a suggestion of coolness about it, gently hinting at our languor and its needs, so tenderly known and intelligently relieved. slices of fresh fruit and iced coffee ended a repast, with the thermometer at well over degrees, and yet every guest at ease and at rest. i voted from my grateful inwards that, if i could afford it, i would gladly give our good cook a bronze replica of his own bronze face, as a humble token of my appreciation of his noble art. among the further perfections of our land yacht were separate and secluded apartments for our married friends and other privileged parties, and ample berths for less favored mortals; there was also a spacious dining-room, and a generous lounging place at the end of the car, where after-dinner chats could be indulged in and mornings happily passed while watching the landscape as it seemed to fly past us and vanish in the ever-changing distance. but let us return to the events of our first day's trip. the marshes of the hackensack valley were soon crossed, and at our first stop, at newark, we rejoiced to find the rev. dr. frank landon humphreys and his sweet wife, who were to make us glad with their company as far as washington; and certainly this was done. there were quips and jokes without number from the ever versatile doctor; and roars of good-natured fun, which he provoked, made us oblivious of the naked landscape, as yet with little more than a hint here and there of the coming springtime. we had summer along with us, however, if good nature and pleasant chat can symbolize the warmth and comfort of that happy season. the ladies' bonnets and wraps, discovered by the reverend doctor in one of the staterooms, made impromptu material for much rapid-change dramatic performances, exquisitely absurd, and altogether entertaining. on we sped, with our jolly company, through new jersey, rich and populous; on to philadelphia, our great city neighbor, which, however, seems to most of us as far distant and unknown as mars or the moon. yet what a happy home place it is to those who dwell therein, and know the many advantages of its vast area, and consequent freedom from tenement drawbacks and other evils which we know too well. on we went through old wilmington on the delaware, with its red brick sidewalks and black lounging denizens; on through baltimore, famous for good living and beautiful women; until in the afternoon we reached washington and looked with admiration at the stately capitol in the distance, with its splendid and graceful dome, and gazed with a sort of awe at the far-off washington monument, that huge white obelisk, so gigantic, so spectral, so magnificent, but which is yet so chimney-like in its immensity as to be almost forbidding, if not revolting, to the æsthetic sense. i presume, though, that a nearer approach to the vast structure would overawe us with its colossal appearance. i have been told that the effect of that unbroken shaft near by, eighty feet wide at its base, and mounting skyward without a break, in perfect plainness, for five hundred and fifty-five feet, is almost supernatural and overwhelming. the very sight of the capitol could not but bring to our hearts the great crisis which was there impending. the huge dome seemed, as it were, to cover in the great brain of the nation struggling with the question, "is america to engage in war? is the nation which stands most for peace and humanity to enter on a career of aggressive arms?" it seemed an added wonder to our "flight in spring" that we were entering thereon at such a momentous time. but life flows on in many currents; and no matter what great crises may occur in human affairs; duties, and even pleasures, have each their place, and draw us after them in either work or play. ii on through the south.--thomasville, georgia.--dr. humphrey's winter home.--southern flowers.--the old plantation.--war declared.--they leave to-day. soon after leaving washington the night came on, but ere darkness settled down upon us, we had already seen the fresh verdure, and the trees and flowers in full, radiant bloom. night closed in as we whirled on through the southern land. we took the atlantic coast line, passing through many historic spots, well worth a stay; but our destination was thomasville, georgia, where we were to join our good host, dr. humphreys and his family, and rest with him at his winter home for a day or so, before starting on our full trip from new orleans, by the sunset route, directly west, for los angeles. our stay in thomasville was delightful. we found ourselves at home in the broad ample residence of our good host. the house is a large, one-story, double structure, standing in its own spacious grounds. a large hall, more than ninety feet long, runs through the midst of it. there we spent two days with our host, enjoying every moment of our stay. flowers and roses were on every hand, and great trees with grateful shade, and the songs of many birds, and the pealing laughter of young folk, and the quiet happiness of those who loved to see others happy all about them. the poetry and sentiment of the time, the place, the occasion, seemed to me to be symbolized in a lovely bouquet of wild flowers presented by thomasville friends--colonel and mrs. hammond--to our dear host and hostess, as a tender floral _bon voyage_. it was truly a thing of beauty in its rich and unstudied simplicity, made up of a great spray of wild pink azalea, and another of a flowering ash called old man's beard. the silver threads of the latter fell over the exquisite color and finished form of the azalea, and all was overtopped by a branch of flaring crimson honeysuckle. it was both magnificent and dainty, all at once, and had the added beauty of most utter simplicity. it was merely a handful, plucked at random, from the abundant beauty of the rich southern forest. i fancy, however, that an ordinary eye might have passed by the exquisite possibility of the southern blooms, and that the unerring taste and tender sentiment of the givers were necessary factors in procuring such a perfect floral offering, so appropriate and so beautiful. we had another great treat while at thomasville, in a drive out to a southern plantation of the old-time type. how sad and silent, though, it all seemed! it was like a charmed castle, waiting for the arrival of some one whose footsteps should quicken all to life again. there it stood, all ready for an awakened hospitality, at a moment's notice. we wandered through the great parlors, the spacious bedrooms, and out on the shaded balconies and verandas, peopling all, in imagination, with the home happiness for which it seemed so well prepared. the ample portico, with its great pillars; the luxuriant trees; the stately, silent house, and the tangle of roses and creeping plants made a picture long to be remembered. it did not seem quite right to romp and frolic in such a place, but such is the limit of our nature that one always loves and longs for contrasts; that is the reason, doubtless, why we awoke the echoes with many peals of ringing laughter and good fun. the ever-present kodak had its own share in our comedy, and brought away a shadow of our sport in the picture of "rebekah at the well." the time came all too quickly for our departure from thomasville. even in our short stay we were charmed by the visits of many friends, among them some old acquaintances of other places and other times. we met, too, the genial editor of the "daily times-enterprise," and found our departure duly mentioned in the issue of saturday evening, april , . it contained also the stupendous announcement of the certain opening of the war with spain, which appeared in these startling head lines: united states army ordered to coast fifty thousand volunteers to be ordered out next senate still in continuous session but they are warming up.--money calls wellington a liar.--the queen regent contributes $ , to equip army and navy.--official denial that european powers will interfere.--spain says she will never evacuate cuba.--uncle sam buying more war ships. separated from the above, with the telegraphic detail following, was another head line which read: "they leave to-day." any one would, on a hasty glance, suppose that these words referred to the movements of the united states army, but they did not; they were spoken of _our departure_, on that afternoon, for new orleans and the pacific coast. here is what followed the startling line, and as it introduces our party in full and by name, we give it _in extenso_: "they leave to-day." "dr. frederick humphreys and his party will leave to-day for an extended tour on the pacific coast. "the following is the _personnel_ of the party: dr. and mrs. frederick humphreys, the misses hayden, mr. j. f. hanson, rev. dr. d. parker morgan, of the church of the heavenly rest, new york, and mrs. morgan; canon j. harris knowles, of st. chrysostom's, one of the chapels of trinity church, new york; the misses harding, of new york; mr. frank p. payson and miss sanford, of brooklyn; and miss jayta humphreys and mr. frederick humphreys, of new york, the latter two being grandchildren of dr. and mrs. humphreys. "all the party, except dr. and mrs. humphreys, the misses hayden, and mr. hanson, arrived here on thursday, in the private car 'lucania,' a palace on wheels, in which the tour will be made. "dr. humphreys spent yesterday in showing his guests some of the attractive drives and scenery in and around the town. and they could not have had the guidance of one more familiar with this charming winter resort, or one more competent to tell of its many attractions. the good doctor has been a great friend of thomasville, and all our people will cordially join us in the wish that he may spend many more happy winter months at his pretty home on dawson street. he has done much for the place, and it is duly appreciated by all classes of our citizens. "the party will leave in the 'lucania' this afternoon at . . the itinerary will embrace the following principal points: new orleans, san antonio, el paso, los angeles, san diego, santa barbara, san francisco, monterey, san josé, ogden, salt lake city, glenwood springs, colorado springs, denver, kansas city, and st. louis. stops of more or less length will be made at all these points. new york will be reached on the th of may. "it will be a most delightful, interesting, and instructive outing. we trust it may be made without a single mishap, and that the party may all reach their northern homes in safety, and that when memory calls up its scenes and incidents, thomasville, clothed in its fresh garments of spring, with its countless flowers, its balmy air and blue skies, will have a place in the picture." we can hear the cheery voice of our editorial friend, captain triplett, in all these lines, full of kindness and good feeling. iii departure from thomasville.--pet superstitions.--montgomery, alabama.-- the capitol.--the public fountain.--montgomery to new orleans. it seemed as if we were commencing our journey in dead earnest as we were leaving thomasville. our party was complete, and we were all settled in our special places for the trip, our luggage and bags all in ship-shape order. the day, too, was saturday, the th; hence our real beginning was not, after all, on the fatal " th," when we left new york. some of us had little pet superstitions about numbers. sixteen, however, seemed to satisfy all parties. it was composed of seven and nine, and had also in it two eights and four fours. here was completeness and perfection, besides the mystery and infinity of the sacred seven and the thrice perfect nine. on our way from new york, had we not also a bad omen? the end extension step of our car got ripped off at one of the stations; and as we were also shunted about a little at thomasville, just before starting, rip went the other step. there was suppressed gloom at these accidents; but the said gloom was all dispersed when, some hours after, we were detained by a broken bridge. "there," said one of the ladies, "that is the third accident since we left. we are all safe now." although the third accident was to a bridge, and not to our car, it, however, answered all purposes, and set us completely at rest. how inevitable those little superstitions are, and how hard it is to despise them, or, as we say, rise above them! we sometimes laugh at them, but we cherish them all the same, and fain would show our more exalted wisdom by the mirth they give us. unlucky days and numbers, together with signs and omens, and all such, are open questions with me. i should be sorry to be incapable of a little superstition, so called, now and then. indeed, i rather believe it is all a phantasmal flickering of the abyss of mysteries with which we are, at all times and in all places, ever enveloped. off we are, then, from thomasville, with waving handkerchiefs and pleasant farewells from the dear friends we leave behind. our journey lay through a rich country, the whole effect like an english landscape--luxuriant trees, and a verdant, undulating surface, glowing with flowers, and here and there, opulent with cultivation. we had hoped to have reached new orleans in time for church service on sunday morning, but the broken bridge prevented all that; and when we reached montgomery, alabama, we were too late, even there, for attendance at morning service, and were inexorably scheduled to leave for new orleans early in the afternoon. our stay gave us an opportunity to get a sort of silent silhouette of the old capitol of the confederacy. a sunday sleep was over the business portions of the town, broken only by the pathetic persistence of those who will run to the store, and look at the mail, or do something or other, from the mere fact that the average business man, in the average town, does not know what on earth to do with himself when not at work. he will hang around even on sunday at his place of business, for it is less wearisome there than anywhere else. some of us saw at montgomery the spot in the capitol, marked by a star in the pavement, where jefferson davis stood when sworn in as president of the confederacy; others of us in our stroll saw the public fountain, with its bronze tablets of: "this side for colored people," "this side for white people," and also a tablet, of possibly universal application to blacks and whites alike: "no loafing round here." we also noticed a rather startling announcement at the y.m.c.a. hall: "the devil will be fought in four rounds here to-night." our afternoon and evening ride from montgomery to new orleans gave one the impression of all manner of possible wealth and progress. it seemed a rich, fertile country, needing but the influx of capital and labor to make it a paradise. there may be dragons lurking in swamps, or demons in the upper air, ready to hurl fiery darts at daring man in his promethean efforts. but dragons can be starved by drainage, and atmospheric disturbances of storm and tornado, no doubt, do more good than harm in the long run. it was well on in the night when we got into new orleans, but we enjoyed the quiet of the sunday, even on our speeding train. we felt the beauty of the great level stretches of flat land, mingled constantly with the gleaming waters of lake and bayou and morass, all looking more and more mysterious as the light faded away into the night. iv new orleans.--surviving traces of spanish and french occupation.-- jackson square.--cathedral of st. louis.--the cemeteries.-- melancholy perspectives.--audubon park.--graves for sale.--the french market.-- mobile and new orleans as seen nearly thirty years ago.--st. charles hotel.--a dinner at dr. mercer's. the train moved along leisurely over bridges and trestle work, and through flowery forests, until, we scarcely knew how, we found ourselves at our temporary destination. one could see very little of new orleans in the short space of our stay, but we made the most of it. the city itself, in its historic and social aspects, is one of the most interesting in america and the least american. it has on it yet the traces of former spanish and french ownership and occupation, but the equestrian statue of old hickory in jackson square, still known by its ancient name, the place d'armes, crowns all the past with the american idea. the monument of general jackson is directly in front of the cathedral of st. louis of france. we entered this edifice and noted the reredos back of the high altar, emblazoned with the arms of st. louis and the record of his virtues. while we were there, a large class of boys were being catechized, in the french tongue; again and again the answers would come in loud monotone. we noted, also, with interest, the unmistakable gallic type, in head and eyes and hair, of the restless young scholars upon the benches. some of our party took carriage drives, and some preferred the ubiquitous street cars. in various ways we each sought our pleasure. we went to the cemeteries, with their overground, oven-like tombs, necessitated by the water-soaked condition of the soil. the french burial places had that sombre effect which straight lines and extended alleys ever produce. why this disposition of line should so impress the mind is very curious, but i have always found it so. one feels it at versailles, as well as in the most up-to-date of places, like chicago. the vanishing points of long distances, where, as it were, one can never hope to reach, produce in the mind a kind of sorrow; while the curve, which conceals the unseen, urges on to pursue and attain to that which is beyond. audubon park, which we visited, and the arboretum produce more pleasing effects by the winding walks and constant variety of beautiful trees and flowers. it is rather a doleful thing to make even the very best kept cemeteries places for lounging pleasure. in the incongruity of such a situation, the frequent little green lizards flashing over the marble tombstones were a diversion. we caught one of them, and it was most curious to see it change color in its nervous alarm. from the most vivid green it became a dull blood red, and then brown, panting as if its heart would break; and not until it was well away from us did it return to its normal emerald tint. it must be confessed that the ludicrous ever lurks near one in such places, and often, also, that which is sadder than sad. for instance, in the midst of the silent sombreness of the french cemeteries it was a dreary incident in the drama of life to see the placards of "for sale" on monuments whose occupation was gone, for they who were enclosed therein were, for some cause or another, to be ousted from their rest. after we left the cemeteries some of our party had an _al fresco_ lunch under some live-oak trees, where an honest german catered to our wants with the well-known products of the fatherland. it was hot even there, but we wiled away an hour or so of rest in most satisfactory fashion. we did the french market early in the morning, but possibly we were not early enough; for the whole place, display, and everything there seemed tame and commonplace. i found, however, pleasant study in some of the people, especially the poor, but aristocratic looking women with blue jean sunbonnets on, market baskets on their arms, and wearing dresses of most uncrinoline proportions. we visited the new "st. charles," where we all had dinner. the stay at this hotel brought back to mind the time, so long ago, when i first saw new orleans. it was in january, , shortly after the close of the war of the rebellion. we were at the consecration of bishop pierce, at mobile, alabama, and visited new orleans ere returning home. what memories came to me of the journey south through the historic battle-fields of the "lost cause"! i remember the long stretch of burnt locomotives standing on the tracks at mobile; of christ church, where the consecration of dr. pierce was held, with its decoration of orange branches in fruit and flower; of the brilliant reception held at the residence of our hostess, mrs. perry; and the drawing-room, filled with flowers and elegantly dressed women; while a wood fire, all aglow, gave us a reminder that we must make believe it was winter, because it was january. then there was the steamboat ride from mobile _via_ lake pontchartrain, and thence to new orleans. the city has changed much in these years. we stayed then at the old st. charles, surely an old fire trap, as events proved, but stately for all that. the culmination of each day was the hotel dinner; and a daily parade, well worth seeing, was the progress of the ladies across the huge rotunda, through the lounging crowd, to the dining-room. all that is now gone, and the new st. charles gets along without this primitive and, i must say, pleasing display. a memory also abides with me which i surely may rehearse. it was a dinner given to visiting ecclesiastics and lay dignitaries at the hospitable home of dr. mercer in canal street. if i am right, he was a bachelor; he lived in great elegance in his own house. the dinner was thoroughly southern, and so intended. i still have pleasing reminiscences of the gumbo soup; and a boned turkey, boiled, and stuffed with oysters, ought not, and can not, ever be forgotten. it was pallid, but palatable, in its moist modesty, and a cut right through its entire circumference was something to be brought away as a grateful remembrance, safely disposed within the inner man. v impressions of new orleans.--its harbor.--the levee at night.--southern texas.--its forests, flowers, and birds.--the prairie pool. we left new orleans at . p.m., on monday, with visions of broad, unpaved streets embowered in trees; of stately mansions in enclosed gardens; of the huge levee, which, like a giant laid at length, pushes its shoulders against the ever-threatening flood of the mighty mississippi. our ladies, too, had additional memories of the shopping districts; of ill-smelling open drains which offended them; of ravishing summer goods of cotton and silk from the looms of france; of exquisite bijouterie tempting to one's purse; of great square paving blocks which seemed made to float; and over all the remembrance of the yellow flag of spain, of the lily of france, and of the awakened bravery of the eagle of america, strangely rousing up to war, and we hoped to conquest. the great river at new orleans is ever an object of interest. the huge three-sided bend which forms the harbor has a width varying from , to , feet, and a depth of from to more than feet. this great body of water has at times a current of five miles an hour. it is the aggregate of a river system extending more than , miles. you may put together the amazon, the nile, the ganges, and all the river systems of the earth, and they would scarcely approach the magnificent showing of the father of waters and its tributaries as it flows on by new orleans to the sea. as we looked back from our ferry-boat over the levee, luminous with its electric lights, at the huge bulk of the wonderful river over which we were passing, and then thought of all we had already seen in the few short days of our trip, and of all that was yet before us, we felt that rest in our dear "lucania" would be welcome, and that we could well afford to sleep through louisiana and wake in texas. when we woke up after our night's ride from new orleans, we found ourselves in the southern part of that wondrous state, texas. one is not surprised that its vast extent should have awakened in its first adventurous settlers the dream of an independent "lone star empire." how could it be otherwise then, before the time and space annihilating forces of steam and electricity had been discovered and applied? now all is different. the great pulses of life and trade throb all through the world, in a wondrous fashion, of which our fathers could not even dream. everywhere is now a centre to touch all else with influences. it was lovely in the fresh morning light to look out over this jocund land. this is how it impressed dear mrs. morgan, and i transcribe directly from her diary, kindly placed at my disposal. "tuesday, april th.--up early; a most exquisite morning. we pass through luxuriant forests of live oak, magnolia, and other trees of various kinds, draped in some places with southern moss, in others with beautiful creepers, among them the rich wistaria in full bloom. "a heavy storm during the night left all the foliage sparkling with raindrops; and the songs of the birds and the odors from the refreshed earth added to the charm. it was a day of delight. sat almost all the morning on the piazza in rear of the car in a state of beatitude. "after the forest came sugar plantations--one of , acres, off which the owner last year made a million pounds of sugar. the cane, as we saw it, just coming up, resembled corn in its early growth. we also saw immense tracts of cotton, and then came the prairie, a seemingly boundless expanse of green, gemmed with lovely wild flowers. there were acres of beautiful blue larkspur, crimson phlox, varieties of poppies, and other yellow flowers, besides many that i failed to recognize as we rushed along. here, too, the mocking-birds perched on the wires and sang to us, and the poet of the party was inspired to write his lines on 'a prairie pool,' one of many which we passed on our way." i here give the little poem to which mrs. morgan refers. the fatigues of the day before were yet upon me, and i ensconced myself near one of the windows to have a silent, quiet little spell all to myself. it was while thus abstracted, that one of the many pools, left by the recent storm, looked at me with its sunlit face and said as follows: the prairie pool within my heart i hold the skies, whatever hue they seem to wear; in tempest gloom, or sunlight clear, their storm and shine alike i prize. i lonely am, and motionless, and yet, what great things come to me! the planets in their mystery, sun, moon, and stars, the great, the less. deep in my heart i hold them all, their quiring voices cheer my lot; all motionless in one lone spot, yet god's full heaven in sight and all. and creatures great and creatures small, find comfort in my fixed abode; it may be man, or bird, or toad, i share my life with each and all. for all are dear to heart of god, and each can serve where'er he be; whether in life, full, rich, and free, or bound as i, by prairie sod. vi san antonio.--work of jesuit missionaries.--street ramble.--the old cathedral.--evenings in our car.--a mission car.--the tired clergyman with his renewal of vigor.--the alamo.--the siege sustained by colonel travis and his men.--the tragedy.--hymn of the alamo.--the western texas military academy. after a glorious day along the southern line of texas, at some points being very near the mexican frontier, we reached san antonio at tea time. soon after, we were all ready, just in the gloaming, for a leisurely stroll through the streets of the beautiful and interesting town. san antonio had among its spanish founders some jesuit missionaries, and these wise fathers set their indian converts at once at good works which took practical shape in the deep water courses which still line the streets at each side to this day, and bring to every man's door water for irrigation, an absolute necessity in this dry climate. this accounts for the wealth of roses which embower the trees and houses. it is a paradise of sweet, flowery shrubs, and the air is vocal with the songs of the happy birds. "never," says mrs. morgan in her diary, "never have i heard such a wealth of bird music as here. here, too, i first saw the mexican red bird in its wild condition." it has quite a charm to saunter round in a strange town, and mingle all unknown in the crowd. thus we went in and out among them. the shops we found were attractive, especially those of the saddlers and harness makers, where the ingenious and practical shape of the goods, and their rich ornamentation in mexican style, were quite interesting. just at dusk i entered the old cathedral, a relic of spanish times. the choir had in it the bishop's throne, and stalls for choristers. there were some paintings, also, which looked as if they might, in a better light, be worth seeing. but there was one thing there that possessed more interest than aught else. it was a body, waiting for burial, covered with a pall, and placed at the head of the centre aisle. it was a message from another world, a _memento mori_, which could not be thrust aside. how solemn it looked! and one thought of the long night watches, and of those who would remain by its side until the light of the next day should dawn, the mass be said, and the grave receive the clay until the vivifying morning of the resurrection. leaving the cathedral we again mingled in the crowded streets, brilliant with electric lights, really now to be met with everywhere. in our stroll we saw the outside of the alamo, which has quite a history. all had to wait, however, until next morning. here i may mention that our evenings on our car were always evenings at home. we had many a pleasant hour together in fun and frolic, in story-telling, in playing games, such as consequences and nonsense verses; in occasional singing, and music on the reed organ, part of our car belongings; but whatever we engaged in, we always brought our day to a close with family prayers and the singing of one or two hymns, as an act of devotion. when our closing hymn rang out from our car that night, at the depot grounds in san antonio, doubtless many were curious to know just what we were. since my return from our "flight in spring," it has occurred to me that much real pleasure and spiritual profit could be had by a mission band of clergymen making just such a tour as we made, but with the special end in view to hold services for one or more days at the points visited. i think the clergy would hail such a mission with gladness, judging from the hungry way in which dr. morgan and myself were constantly importuned to "stay over and preach." one dear old brother made such a pitiful appeal, and seemed so feeble, that dr. morgan defied the injunction of his vestry not to use his throat while away, and disregarded even the appealing advice of his dear wife, and did actually preach. the doctor said that, of course, i would do the same at night. of course, i had to consent. then a miracle took place: our dear old brother seemed to have a new lease of life the moment his two sunday sermons were off his conscience. he was so spry that on sunday afternoon he suggested a sabbath day's drive among some orange groves, which we took behind two spanking bays, the ribbons being held by our erewhile feeble brother, now in all the vigor of hearty old age, warming up to the exciting drive. on and on we went until i suggested that it would be well to turn back, as i wanted a little quiet time before church to gather my thoughts together before preaching. in the blandest way the old gentleman told us he had lost his way, and was looking for a place to turn back. i thought we never should get home; but i made the best of it, and brooded all the return way on recent events at the philippines, of dewey and his watchword: "keep cool and obey orders," and at night i gave a patriotic sermon on the text: "but thanks be to god which giveth us the victory." i felt sure that if we remained over until next sunday, our dear brother would be again as feeble as ever, and that in our charity we could not but preach, even though we might suspect. we did not leave san antonio until after five o'clock the next day, and that gave us a little more pleasurable time there. it is such a flowery, bright, and cheerful place, that it quite attracted us. in the morning i went to the alamo and gave that thrilling place an hour or so, and it is well worth it. it has been the scene of a determined bravery of which any country might be proud, and there, also, a deep tragedy took place which has in it the true spirit of the daring and the heroic. on the exterior the alamo has quite an ancient appearance. the front, with its characteristic spanish look and round-topped gable, is plain and massive, with quite a handsome entablature over the arched entrance, consisting of four fluted columns, on good bases, all supporting a horizontal cornice which extends over the main door, and over a recessed niche at each side for statues. it has all, a grandiose effect, quite interesting. passing in through the door, you find yourself in a well-proportioned church, long since disused as such, and now owned by the state and occupied as a museum, filled with relics of the fearful scenes which took place within the sacred place. here, in the year , a band of texans fortified themselves against the attack of general santa anna and some four or five thousand mexican soldiers bent on their destruction. the siege was laid, and the commanding officer in the alamo, colonel travis, determined to withstand it to the end. the same spirit filled the hearts of his brave men. he endeavored to arouse the energies of the texans without to come to his relief, but for some reason they did not. jealousies and bickerings among other leaders is hinted at as the cause. the letter which the brave colonel sent tells his story in his own words. here it is: "commandcy of the alamo, bexar, february , . "fellow-citizens and compatriots: i am besieged by a thousand or more of the mexicans under santa anna. i have sustained a continued bombardment for twenty-four hours, and have not lost a man. the enemy have demanded a surrender at discretion; otherwise the garrison is to be put to the sword if the place is taken. i have answered the summons with a cannon shot, and our flag still waves proudly from the walls. _i shall never surrender or retreat._ then i call on you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and of everything dear to the american character, to come to our aid with all despatch. the enemy are receiving reinforcements daily, and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. though this call may be neglected, i am determined to sustain myself as long as possible, and die like a soldier who forgets not what is due to his own honor and that of his country. victory or death! "w. barret travis, "_lieutenant-colonel commanding_. "p.s.--the lord is on our side. when the enemy appeared in sight we had not three bushels of corn. we have since found in deserted houses eighty or ninety bushels, and got into the walls twenty or thirty head of beeves. "t." when the commandant issued this letter he had not accurate information of the exact strength of the besieging force, but it would have made no difference with such a man. when the full power of the besiegers was known, and the lines of attack became closer and closer, colonel travis assembled his men in the alamo. relief was not in sight, but the generous nature of travis would not permit him to assign any other reason for this but the probability that his friends had been already cut off by the enemy. after an impassioned speech to his men, referring to the failure to get relief, he thus concludes: "then we must die. our business is not to make a fruitless effort to save our lives, but to choose the manner of our death. but three modes are presented to us. let us choose that by which we may best serve our country. shall we surrender, and be deliberately shot without taking the life of a single enemy? shall we try to cut our way out through the mexican ranks, and be butchered before we can kill twenty of our adversaries? i am opposed to either method.... let us resolve to withstand our enemies to the last, and at each advance to kill as many of them as possible. and when at last they shall storm our fortress, let us kill them as they come! kill them as they scale our walls! kill them as they leap within! kill them as they raise their weapons, and as they use them! kill them as they kill our companions! and continue to kill them as long as one of us shall remain alive!... but leave every man to his own choice. should any man prefer to surrender ... or attempt to escape ... he is at liberty to do so. my own choice is to stay in the fort and die for my country, fighting as long as breath shall remain in my body. this will i do even if you leave me alone. do as you think best; but no man can die with me without affording me comfort in the hour of death." the little pamphlet called "the origin and fall of the alamo," which i bought within the walls, is my authority for what has preceded. i quote from it also the following simple, but telling story of what followed the speech of colonel travis: "col. travis then drew his sword, and with the point traced a line upon the ground extending from the right to the left of the file. then resuming his position in front of the centre, he said: 'i now want every man who is determined to stay here and die with me to come across that line. who will be the first? march!' the first respondent was tapley holland, who leaped the line at a bound, exclaiming, 'i am ready to die for my country!' his example was instantly followed by every man in the file, with exception of rose ----. every sick man that could walk arose from his bunk, and tottered across the line. col. bowie, who could not leave his bed, said: 'boys, i am not able to come to you, but i wish some of you would be so kind as to move my cot over there.' four men instantly ran to the cot, and each lifting a corner carried it over. then every sick man that could not walk made the same request, and had his bunk moved in the same way. "rose was deeply affected, but differently from his companions. he stood till every man but himself had crossed the line. he sank upon the ground, covered his face, and yielded to his own reflections. a bright idea came to his relief; he spoke the mexican dialect very fluently, and could he once get out of the fort, he might easily pass for a mexican and effect his escape. he directed a searching glance at the cot of col. bowie. col. david crockett was leaning over the cot, conversing with its occupant in an undertone. after a few seconds bowie looked at rose and said: 'you seem not to be willing to die with us, rose.' 'no,' said rose, 'i am not prepared to die, and shall not do so if i can avoid it.' then crockett also looked at him, and said: 'you may as well conclude to die with us, old man, for escape is impossible.' rose made no reply, but looked at the top of the wall. 'i have often done worse than climb that wall,' thought he. suiting the action to the thought, he sprang up, seized his wallet of unwashed clothes, and ascended the wall. standing on its top, he looked down within to take a last view of his dying friends. they were all now in motion, but what they were doing he heeded not; overpowered by his feelings, he looked away, and saw them no more.... he threw down his wallet, and leaped after it." i will now let the mexicans tell how they made the attack and also the result to them, giving extracts from official documents and from the recital of sergeant becerra, a mexican: "a terrible fire belched from the interior. men fell from the scaling ladders by the score, many pierced through the head by balls, others felled by clubbed guns. the dead and wounded covered the ground. after half an hour of fierce conflict, after the sacrifice of many lives, the column of gen. castrillon succeeded in making a lodgment in the upper part of the alamo to the northeast. it was a sort of outwork. this seeming advantage was a mere prelude to the desperate struggle which ensued. the doors of the alamo building were barricaded by bags of sand as high as the neck of a man; the windows also. on top of the roofs of the different apartments were rows of sand bags to cover the besieged. "our troops [the mexicans], inspired by success, continued the attack with energy and boldness. the texians fought like devils. it was at short range--muzzle to muzzle, hand to hand, musket and rifle, bayonet and bowie-knife--all were mingled in confusion. here a squad of mexicans, here a texian or two. the crash of firearms, the shouts of defiance, the cries of the dying and wounded made a din almost infernal. the texians defended desperately every inch of the fort; overpowered by numbers they would be forced to abandon a room. they would rally in the next, and defend it until further resistance became impossible. "gen. tolza's command forced an entrance at the door of the church building. he met the same determined resistance without and within. he won by force of numbers and great sacrifice of life. "there was a long room on the ground floor. it was darkened. here the fight was bloody. it proved to be the hospital. a detachment of which i had command had captured a piece of artillery. it was placed near the door of the hospital, doubly charged with grape and canister, and fired twice. we entered and found the corpses of fifteen texians. on the outside we afterwards found forty-two dead mexicans. "on the top of the church building i saw eleven texians. they had some small pieces of artillery and were firing on the cavalry and on those engaged in making the escalade. their ammunition was exhausted, and they were loading with pieces of iron and nails. "the alamo was entered at daylight; the fight did not cease till nine o'clock.... "gen. santa anna directed col. mora to send out his cavalry to bring in wood. this was done. the bodies of the heroic texians were burned. their remains became offensive. they were afterward collected and buried by col. juan n. seguin." sergeant becerra said: "there was an order to gather our own dead and wounded. it was a fearful sight. our lifeless soldiers covered the ground surrounding the alamo. they were heaped inside the fortress. blood and brains covered the earth and the floors, and had spattered the walls. the ghastly faces of our comrades met our gaze, and we removed them with despondent hearts. our loss in front of the alamo was represented at two thousand killed, and more than three hundred wounded. the killed were generally struck on the head. the wounds were in the neck or shoulder, seldom below that. the firing of the besieged was fearfully precise. when a texas rifle was levelled on a mexican, he was considered as good as dead. all this indicated the dauntless bravery and the cool self-possession of the men who were engaged in a hopeless conflict with an enemy numbering more than twenty to one. they inflicted on us a loss ten times greater than they sustained. the victory of the alamo was dearly bought. indeed, the price in the end was well-nigh the ruin of mexico." the tragic heroism displayed in the alamo caused intense excitement in the united states, and, indeed, throughout the civilized world. lovers of liberty knew that the men were inspired both by their love of freedom and the consciousness of the horrible fate which would await them if they fell alive into the hands of santa anna and his men. the pamphlet tells us that: "an englishman named nagle had the honor of originating the 'monument erected to the heroes of the alamo.' it stood at the entrance of the capitol at austin. this building was burned in , and the monument suffered injury. on the top of each front were the names of travis, bowie, crockett, and bonham. the inscription on the north front was: 'to the god of the fearless and the free is dedicated this altar of the alamo.' on the west front: 'blood of heroes hath stained me. let the stones of the alamo speak, that their immolation be not forgotten.' on the south front: 'be they enrolled with leonidas in the host of the mighty dead.' on the east front: 'thermopylæ had her messenger of defeat, but the alamo had none.'" after seeing the alamo and penetrating its historic recesses, i was in no mood for much further sightseeing. some of our party drove to a most interesting mission on the outskirts of the town, others contented themselves with a distant view of it from the street cars. the weather was too hot for much further exertion, and it was with a sense of restful enjoyment that we reclined in our car "lucania" as we speeded westward in the evening hour. we got a charming view of san antonio, a mile or so out from the town, glowing in the radiance of the setting sun, and looking as neat, thriving, and attractive as we found it in our experience. it seemed to deserve the added splendor of the sunset glow; and as a light of historic glory, and of a fame which can never set, we here insert a few striking lines called the "hymn of the alamo." hymn of the alamo by captain reuben m. potter, u.s.a. rise! man the wall--our clarion's blast now sounds the final reveille; this dawning morn must be the last our fated band shall ever see. to life, but not to hope, farewell; your trumpet's clang, and cannon's peal, and storming shout, and clash of steel is ours, but not our country's knell. welcome the spartan's death-- 'tis no despairing strife-- we fall--we die--but our expiring breath is freedom's breath of life. "here on this new thermopylæ our monument shall tower on high, and 'alamo' hereafter be on bloodier fields the battle cry." thus travis from the rampart cried. and when his warriors saw the foe like whelming billows move below, at once each dauntless heart replied: "welcome the spartan's death-- 'tis no despairing strife-- we fall--we die--but our expiring breath is freedom's breath of life!" they come--like autumn leaves they fall, yet hordes on hordes they onward rush; with gory tramp they mount the wall, till numbers the defenders crush. the last was felled--the fight to gain-- well may the ruffians quake to tell how travis and his hundred fell amid a thousand foemen slain. they died the spartan's death, but not in hopeless strife; like brothers died--and their expiring breath was freedom's breath of life. among the many pleasant incidents of our stay in san antonio was the meeting with some of the students of the west texas military academy, of which my young friend the rev. a. l. burleson is the rector. they were splendid young fellows. it was a regret that i could not visit the school and pay my respects to one who bears the honored name of burleson. to look at those young students was a delight; and to know that the seed sown at racine, under de koven, where the rev. mr. burleson graduated, was here, in this great southwest, bearing such good fruitage, was a delightful memory to bring away from san antonio. vii in desolate places.--beauty everywhere.--railway engineering.--analogy in the conduct of life.--el paso.--the sand storm.--human grasshoppers. --the placid night.--rev. dr. higgins.--juarez.--rev. m. cabell martin. --strangeness of our mexican glimpse.--the post-office.--the old church. --the padre's perquisites.--the prison.--el paso again.--cavalry going east for the war. after leaving san antonio, the night soon shut out the landscape from our view, and the next morning revealed to us a rather forlorn region. this is how it impressed mrs. morgan. i quote from her diary: "we awoke to find ourselves in a desolate portion of country, bare prairie, stretching away towards craggy hills whose irregular outline is very picturesque, and the soft blue and purple shadowing on them is beautiful. droves of cattle wandered about, feeding on the sparse dried grass, which is the only forage the poor beasts seem to have." even the most unpromising places have some compensation in them, for the beauty of the distant mountains was worth seeing, and the natural cured grass of the prairies has wonderful sustaining power. in fact, it is a hay crop wisely scattered everywhere, needing neither storehouse nor barn, always on hand--or at mouth, one might say--for the strolling droves. we passed during our morning's run some splendid pieces of railroad engineering. we were constantly rising above the sea level, every mile bringing us up to the mountain heights. this rapid ascent was managed by a most circuitous route among the foothills, winding in and out, and doubling again and again upon our track. a railway map gives one an idea of almost straight lines from place to place. how different is the reality! it seemed to me a symbol of theory and practice in real life. a proposition in business or in morals seems as simple and inevitable as that two and two make four; but many are the twists and turns that must be taken in all departments of life before the end in view can be attained. by these necessary zigzags and retracing curves we made our advance, higher and higher. the sparse vegetation revealed our increasing altitude, the trees became few and stunted, and the wild plants more limited in variety. we descend again as we pass on, until toward evening we reached el paso. here we landed in the midst of a fearful sand storm. we were met by a dear old friend of former days, the rev. dr. higgins, whose first impulse was to tell us that it was not always thus in el paso. we should hope not; for it was fearful. the wind blew at a dreadful rate, sweeping along with it dense clouds of sharp sand which gave one a sense of being lashed with whipcords. in the midst of this blinding dust and sand, obscuring the light, people moved about like huge grasshoppers. a contrivance of transparent celluloid, fitted like glasses to the eyes, extending from above the eyebrows, down well on the cheeks, gave people this absurd insect-like appearance. it was gruesome and comical at once. several of our party invested immediately in these most necessary appliances, in order to get round a little in what looked like a forlorn town; but ere an hour or so had passed we found the storm gone, and all in placid peace, while the stars shone down through the clear night with true southern brilliancy. the next morning dr. higgins was once more with us, and was delighted to act as guide to our younger contingent, who did el paso thoroughly, and went also across the river, the rio grande del norte, into the mexican town of juarez. some of the party met with a sad experience on their return, when they had to pay so much a pound tax, and _ad valorem_ besides, on a mexican blanket whose gay stripes had taken their fancy in a shop at juarez. my cicerone was the rev. m. cabell martin, rector of st. clement's, el paso, who drove me in his buggy over the frontier to juarez and showed me all that was to be seen. it is astonishing what a change one sees in little more than a few yards of distance. once across the bridge from el paso, and you are in a new atmosphere. el paso is like a new england town, after all; a little rough here and there, a little strange it may be, like the strangeness of the city pets, the alligators, who sleep in luxurious laziness in the public square; but yet it all was in our ways, and we were at home. but in juarez all is different. as we drive along, two men by the roadside making adobe looked as if they might have been with the israelites in egypt at the same business. with their naked legs they were kneading up the black muck, which, when of the proper consistency, they deftly moulded into form for the great master workman, the sun, to dry at his leisure and pleasure. the streets of the town seemed bare. the shops were in most cases without windows or exterior openings, save the entrance door. the booths and stalls in the streets for cheap eatables, vegetables, pottery, and odds and ends had a wild, gypsy grace about them, all water-colors, ready to be painted, just as they were. we saw the post-office where juarez kept up the government and existence of the republic of mexico during the whole of the maximilian invasion. it was a close point to the united states for escape and liberty if he was molested. when maximilian received his death-shot, juarez went on with his presidency, taking no notice whatever of the usurpation as if it never had place. this man, of pure indian blood, was certainly of heroic mould, and a stanch lover of light and liberty. we looked into the church, a most interesting old adobe building, with walls of immense thickness. the interior was a well-proportioned parallelogram of good height, with a grand wooden roof of carved beams of a dark hue, possibly black with age. we were told that the work had been all done by native workmen in ages past. part of the doors in the same style, like aztec work, had been ripped away and thrown outside to make way for a jimcrack gallery for singers. we longed to bring those old doorposts with us, and looked up with gratification at the roof as yet safe in its distance and old magnificence. the church walls had been all done up in whitewash, and the altar was adorned with saints and a madonna decked out in real laces, satins, velvets, and jewelry, possibly real also. the effect of it all was bizarre and a trifle depressing. we saw the arena for the sunday and _fête_-day bull fights, and also the square behind the church where the mexican padre indulges in his form of church sociables and grab-bag business. he does it by letting out the spaces of the square to all sorts of three-card-monte men, and other catchpennies of that ilk, from december th, through the christmas holidays, until the following _fête_ of the epiphany. it is said that the padre gets his percentage on the profits also. poor man, he must have some compensation, for his lot is such that, under the laws of mexico, he, or any other padre, cannot walk the streets in clerical garb, but must disguise their calling in the ordinary dress of a civilian. the padre in question, i was told, usually appeared in the dress of an ordinary peon. we took a peep into the prison, and were instantly assailed by the prisoners behind the bars and in the open court within the gates, offering us for sale trinkets they had made. the mexican prison rules do not oblige the jailers to provide food for their prisoners, so they must in some way hustle for themselves, buy from their jailers, or depend upon the charity of others. an officer in full uniform lounged on a chair near by the outer door, and soldiers in canvas uniforms were on guard with military rigidity, with arms in their hands. it was like a bit out of the middle ages, or a scene from the opera, where brigands and regulars have varying fortunes of conquering and being conquered. it was nice to drive back over the rio grande del norte again into the home land; to have a chat with the united states custom house officer; to show him our purchases worth about fifty cents american money, for which we had got eight or ten pieces of pottery from a street vender, and then after our chat to be told "it was all right." when we got into el paso we saw the first touch of real war in the shape of a regiment of cavalry bound for new orleans and cuba. there were shouts and hurrahs as they moved off in their train, but not the noisy enthusiasm which one might expect. our american people are not shouters, they are too serious. there is a silence about their most excited conditions which a stranger can hardly understand. viii leaving el paso.--deming.--the desert.--the armed guard.--the cacti and other flowers.--the yuma indians.--avoiding kodaks.--rossetti's "sister helen." we left el paso with pleasant recollections of all the kindness we received there, and once again we travelled into the night. ere that, however, we had ample time to note the rapidly increasing desert character of our surroundings. the whole thing was like a salvator rosa setting for wild adventure and daring lawlessness. i am confident that any one owning a horse there, and not overburdened with moral sense, would almost unconsciously become a desperado. may we not imagine that man is apt to develop within himself the characteristics of those animals who find a subsistence in such places? there the sly coyote, the panther, and wildcat inhabit; there, too, the rattlesnake and other venomous things have their life; and may not the environment which produces such creatures have like effect upon men who grow up or dwell there? such were my reflections when at deming, where we made a wait of twenty minutes, i saw an armed guard mount our train to be all ready for possible train robbers. one of the guards was a sweet-looking, mild-mannered man, quite young; but the conductor told me that that sweet fellow was the one who did the business, by a sure shot, in the last recent train-robbing escapade. it seemed all a matter of course, to fit in nicely with the landscape, and did not trouble us in the least nor disturb our tranquil rest. the morning found us all safe and unmolested, which was rather a disappointment to some of our ladies who wished especially to encounter a train robbery or hold-up. the ideal highwayman is ever held to be gallant to the ladies, even when depriving them in good old-fashioned way of their jewels. the desert of arizona, through which we were speeding, had the same pale and tawny look of dry, rocky, and alkaline soil; but nature is never idle anywhere. here we were entertained with whirling processions of immense cacti, some thirty feet high, which seemed to dance past us in grim, grotesque fashion as we rode along. some species were gorgeous in blood-red blossoms, an admirable contrast to the pale, bell-shaped flowers of the yucca plant. at yuma we had a vivid evidence of what care and irrigation can do even in this arid waste. the station enclosure was a mass of brilliant beauty. there were red, pink, and white oleanders. there were pomegranates in full bloom, with their rich yellow blossoms. an enthusiastic german whom i met was quite enraptured with the sight of palms and flowers, and declared that the railroad company ought to establish oases such as this, but larger, at frequent intervals, well furnished with casinoes, music, hotels, and all the appliances of monte carlo. one can imagine that in this perfect air, and with such luxurious surroundings, a lotos sort of life might be enjoyed for a resting spell now and then. the platform of the station was lined up with indians having various trinkets for sale, more or less authentic. the rich tint of the indian complexion, especially among the younger women and children, exactly harmonized with the bright light and vivid surroundings of the desert beyond and the flowers near by. there was a graceful indian madonna there, with her chubby baby boy, that any artist might covet to paint. our kodaks were unable to snap them off, for the moment the drop of the camera was on them the indian mothers gathered their brood under their shawls and wraps, just as a hen would gather her chickens under her wings from a hawk. there is a widespread superstition among primitive people that some evil may be wrought to a person by working enchantment upon his or her likeness or image. this is fearfully brought out in dante gabriel rossetti's poem, "sister helen." the poet discovers to us, in some ancient castle, sister helen and her little brother. the child speaks and the sister replies in this fashion: "why do you melt your waxen man, sister helen? to-day is the third since you began." "the time was long, yet the time ran, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother,_ _three days to-day, between hell and heaven!_) "but if you have done your work aright, sister helen, you'll let me play, for you said i might." "be very still in your play to-night, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother,_ _third night, to-night, between hell and heaven!_) "you said it must melt ere vesper bell, sister helen; if now it be molten, all is well." "even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother,_ _o what is this, between hell and heaven!_) in this weird fashion the poem moves along. the whole story of the wronged sister helen and her false lover, upon whose waxen image she works her spell, is told us, until at last, the waxen image consumed, the child with his pure, innocent eyes sees the wraith of the dead man cross the threshold of the apartment where they are. the child exclaims: "see, see, the wax has dropped from its place, sister helen, and the flames are running up apace." "yet here they burn but for a space, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother,_ _here for a space, between hell and heaven!_) "ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, sister helen? ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" "a soul that's lost as mine is lost, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother,_ _lost, lost, all lost, between hell and heaven!_) as we looked at the indian women cuddling up their babes from the shot of the camera, we saw an evidence of those deep and widespread superstitions which make the whole world kin. after leaving yuma we soon cross the colorado river, and ere darkness set in upon us we could see the ordered lines of vines and olives, of apricots and oranges, in rich and cultivated california, whose many wonders both of nature and of man were soon to open more fully before us. ix los angeles.--our beautiful anchorage.--first impressions.--sunday morning in a garden.--st. paul's church.--pasadena.--the diva's car. --journeying to san diego.--first view of the pacific. we reached los angeles at nightfall, and it was a fitting entrance to that enchanted spot. through the shadows, as we approached, we caught glimpses of the beauties that awaited us when light should dawn. the station was bright and cheerful, and the anchorage for our car was in a delightsome spot, withdrawn in a garden from the noise and confusion so inevitable in the regions of the iron horse. night as it was, we made a little tour of inspection ere turning in for sleep. emerging from the depot, the first thing that confronted us was a giant palm, towering up in the darkness of the night, yet glowing with electric light, which brought out its tropical foliage splendidly. its graceful and splendid form made a beautiful initial letter to the bewitching chapter which los angeles presented for our future inspection. sunday morning came to us in our smiling garden like a benediction. the place was small in itself, but so well laid out that it had the full effect of spaciousness. it was glowing with roses, pansies, stocks, and any number of other flowers. a gorgeous bordering of a species of ice plant with splendid magenta blooms was especially effective. all this profusion was accented by beautiful trees--the pepper-tree, the red gum, and several species of palm. there was also near by a collection of arizona plants in all their grotesque shapes, and a most interesting group of hieroglyphic rocks brought from some mountain place, having on them prehistoric inscriptions of lines and rude figures, suggesting the ogham records found in ireland and other parts of europe, usually attributed to most primitive times. it was my privilege to assist at the service at st. paul's church, where the bishop of los angeles preached. the unwinterish conditions of this climate were well suggested by the out-of-door passage of choir and clergy from the choir-room to the church. the service was well rendered by a choir of men and boys. in the evening it was my lot to preach. it was delightful to join in the worship of the church, and to be as much at home among brethren on the shores of the pacific as if we were thousands of miles away, on the other side of the continent, near another sea. we spent our next day at los angeles and neighborhood in democratic fashion, going by street and electric cars in various directions. we went out to pasadena, where a chicago friend gave us a pressing invitation to stay over and visit his villa built on the old spanish model. his kind hospitality, so hearty and unexpected, we could not accept. we had, like most tourists, to press on. now california, of all places, is a region to tarry in. it is too huge, too complicated, too strange to be done in a flying visit, although a flying visit is well worth having. the clear atmosphere makes you imagine you could take an easy stroll over to the mountains, but a day would not suffice to reach them. you think you have exhausted some place or other, but you find that you have only skimmed over the surface. we left los angeles with regret in the afternoon of our third day there. we were sorry to leave our pretty garden anchorage, where we had for a near neighbor the distinguished madam melba, travelling on a concert tour in her private car. the diva had quite a suite in attendance. the only music that we heard from its sacred interior was from her colored _chef_, who, while his mistress was on the concert stage, made the garden, where we were wandering about in the moonlight, vocal with her piano and his by no means unmelodious voice. there was a touch of the comic in this sentimental proceeding quite irresistible. our memory of los angeles and the whole _entourage_ of that garden spot will always be a vision of palms and flowers, of beautiful homes embowered in roses, of orange-trees in fruit and flower, and of a far-extended city whose future must be as magnificent as its present is beautiful. we spent a delightful afternoon on our journey southward from los angeles to san diego and coronado beach. we passed through the distinctive orange belt of southern california, and the golden fruit was in evidence on every hand. oranges lay on the ground. the groves were like gardens of the hesperides with glittering yellow fruit for all mankind. they were ready in trains side-tracked for transhipment across the continent; they were in warehouses, where we could see through the great open doors the busy packers at their work; they were everywhere, until the eye almost tired of them, and the formal rows of the orange groves, and the bare earth underneath always kept ploughed up for advantage to the coveted crop. in other places we passed enormous herds of cattle, fat and well liking, giving one an idea of the huge proportions of ranch life on this great pacific coast. our route brought us for the first time really close to the great ocean which we had never seen. when one comes on the first view of any great object there is always a thrill of expectancy. we had left the great atlantic behind us, and we were speeding on rapidly to the shores of the pacific. we knew that in a few moments it would burst upon our sight, but just then a dense, soft, and chilling fog surrounded us. it seemed a great disappointment to have such a hindrance to our sight just at that time; but, it was all for the best, as we soon discovered; for when we did see the mighty deep, nothing could be more sublime than its veiled magnificence. there was a fog, it was true, but it was a vast veil of pearl-tinted tissue, and out of it rolled the huge breakers, like giants at play, whose locks were white as wool, and their great pale arms entwined in majestic sport. we were passing on high bluffs close to the shore. the curious and precipitous clay banks were worn into fantastic shapes. here and there we could see, far down, fishermen's huts and settlements, and occasional villages. oil wells, also, with their hideous cranes and well machinery closely jostled together in eager greed, offended our sense of the picturesque, with their uncompromising utility; but on and beyond all was the mighty deep, muffled by the mist, and looking more mysterious and magnificent with its great dashing breakers than if we were viewing it under the light of the brightest day. with the attendant symphony of this deep shrouded sea, we reached san diego. x san diego.--the bathing-house.--alarming disappearance.--the mystery solved.--carriage drive to mission cliffs.--coronado beach.--the museum.--the hotel.--high fog. our ride of four hours from los angeles to san diego was rather warm, and after our arrival we cared to do little more than lounge about the station in the evening. near by was a most inviting bathing-house, beautifully fitted up with all sorts of appliances for comfort, not the least of these being a superb swimming-pool, whose tempered waters were sending to us insinuating invitations to take a good plunge and enjoy the charms of their dark, silent depths. it was too soon after eating, and we put it all off until next day. when we men folk returned to our car from the adjacent bath-house, a feeling of gloom and melancholy settled down upon us. the "lucania" was silent and lonely, save for the servants. not another soul was visible. the ladies had all disappeared! here was an alarming state of affairs. those who had wives, were as though they had them not, and those who had not wives, were as though they had. we were all alike disturbed and miserable at the unaccountable absence of our better halves. what had become of them? we seemed to be quite on the outskirts of san diego. the wide streets, stretching away in darkness, looked terrible and forbidding. who could tell what desperado might not have made away with them? it would be a mere matter of a sudden stoop down from a horse, perhaps, a seizure by a pair of strong arms, a wild ride over the boundless plain, and misery would settle down upon us as another mysterious disappearance had to be recorded, and remain possibly forever unexplained. we called a council of war, so to speak. we determined to investigate, and boldly plunged into the unknown town in search of our lost ones. every man we met had the possibilities in him, to our excited imaginations, of a double-dyed cut-throat; every saloon was a gate of hades; but we bravely pushed on. we found ourselves soon in rather an attractive street. shops were gay with life. the ever-present electric lamps gave us their cold glitter and their fantastic shadows, until at last, joyful sight, we saw all our ladies shopping to their hearts' content in a chinese curio shop, where a great, bland, round-faced chinaman, like a six-foot baby, was all smiles and attention to the purchasing crowd. we joined them as if nothing had happened, and remained with them until we saw them safe back. all the preceding is summed up in one of the ladies' diaries briefly thus: "we arrived at san diego at p.m. after tea the ladies of the party started out to _see the town_, visited two curio shops, and went back to the car before nine, and received a very severe scolding for going off by ourselves." the italics in the above are mine. i think the ladies served us right, for we should have awaited their pleasure; but who could have dreamed that they wanted to do anything more than rest after their fatiguing ride? the comical side of the whole thing is this: that our ladies, in their little independent cruise in san diego, were as safe as if they were in any eastern village. san diego is, in fact, a typical american town of the better class, nurtured by boston capital, so largely invested in stock of the santa fé railroad, whose western terminus is at san diego, which is also peopled by new englanders, who have duly brought with them to the pacific slope, a full and perennial supply of their steady habits. in our one full day in san diego we saw much to interest us. a carriage drive took some of us over mission cliffs, others went round in the great, double-decked tram cars, and all took in the vast extent of san diego, as it lies on a huge, sloping shelf over the pacific, giving constant prospects of the mountains and the sea. we also visited coronado, the city so called, the beach, and the hotel. the city, on the great peninsula between san diego bay, a beautiful expanse of water, and the great ocean beyond, has, of course, what every western effort has--a future. the beach, where the great rollers of the pacific dash in, was magnificent; but one cannot safely bathe thereon. the water is heroically cold, and the surf too fierce and heavy for ordinary mortals. the sea water, warmed, tamed, and confined in a bath-house, is what is safest to take. i quite sympathized with one of our ladies who declared to me that she was never more disappointed in her life than with the beach at coronado. "why," said she, "i thought i could gather shells and sea-weed, and pick pretty pebbles; but there is nothing." well, she was right in a sense. perhaps it was because that particular spot was harried over and over by visitors _à la_ coney island, so that it was bare of all those curious things "cast up by the sea;" or perhaps it was that the huge surf constantly tumbling in raises the sand perpetually, and buries all objects, whatever they may be, rapidly out of sight. one of our party, who wished to improve the occasion and also give me a treat, paid fifty cents a piece for himself and myself to gain admission to a museum on the beach, said to be a wonderful collection of interesting things in natural history. i noticed rather a startled look upon the lady caretaker's face as the money was paid. i may here say we found the doors open and a sign at the entrance giving price of admission. we might have pushed in without the formality of a cash payment, but the dignity of our cloth forbade. my friend really made an effort to summon the caretaker from some inner recess. she took our money--his money, i should say--with a startled air, and we entered. well, the less said the better about that museum. no wonder that our payment to get in was startling. we who had seen kensington, the crystal palace at sydenham, the british museum, the world's fair, and about one hundred and twenty years of life between us, were greeted with shabby plaster reproductions of this, that, and the other; with jute-haired, manufactured monsters and other absurdities; the only thing that really commanded our respect being an american coon tolerably well stuffed and set up. we left disgusted. my reflection to my friend was that in such localities the best things were always "free shows," as i pointed out to the boundless pacific; the hard, firm sand of the beach; and "the white arms out in the breakers, tirelessly tossing." but the melancholy of the museum had yet an outside chapter, for there were cages of wild beasts--miserable captives--and some wretched monkeys, whose capacity for the pathetic grief which was stamped upon their poor faces, turned one's thoughts inward to the tragedy of all life. the hotel was one of the many "largest hotels in the world," and is really a wonderful place. the great interior court, with glass roof covering in a collection of tropical trees and plants, was all a thing of beauty. into this magic place quite a number of rooms opened. the dining-room, the ballroom, the verandas, the sun-parlors, the public rooms--all were vast, grandiose, and what one might say "perfectly splendid." i pity the taste of any one who could stand all this splendor, with its crowds of people, for any length of time. it seemed rather deserted when we were there; too late for one season, too early for another. this, and a certain shabby want of repair here and there, made the place seem somewhat sad. it is no easy matter to keep up a show place of such huge extent, with the hungry air of the great pacific ever whetting its teeth upon every atom of its vast and profusely ornamented surface. while at san diego, we noticed a weird effect common on the pacific coast, resulting from certain curious atmospheric conditions. the heavens at times are hung with a great veil of what is called "high fog." this bank of vapor shuts out all the upper sky. between it and the earth is a stratum of hot, dry air, down through which the collected moisture above can never descend. it has to float off to the distant mountains. it has to be caught by their rocky arms, and turned into rain or snow, and then descend as rivers to the dry and dusty plains beneath. when we were starting out on our carriage ride in the morning, as i noticed this lowering mass of vapor above us, i asked the driver if it was going to rain. "lord," said he, with an amused and bored shrug, "it will not rain here until next november!" it must have a queer effect upon people to be constantly held in the vise of such inevitable and square-cut atmospheric influences as these. xi san diego to santa barbara.--the old mission.--the inner cloister.--the afternoon ride.--the lady of the blue jeans.--samarcand. our car moved off from san diego in the early morning, before breakfast. we enjoyed that meal _en route_ for los angeles, returning there by the way we came. after a delay of a few hours in the lovely city of rose-covered homes and embowering trees, we began our journey to santa barbara, which we reached well on into the evening. our course brought us soon again to the ever-attractive shores of the great tossing ocean, ever full of mystery, and provocative of brooding thoughts. when we arrived at santa barbara, it was toward evening, so tea and a stroll filled up the close of our day of travel. the next morning found us ready for a full day of what turned out to be exquisite pleasure. a drive to the old mission of santa barbara, with a prolonged stay within the charmed shade of the old cloister, filled the forenoon. the antiquity of more than a hundred years seems an eternity in such a new land as this, and hence the old mission seemed old indeed; but it had the lustre of the dim past also, for our guide was a monk of st. francis, and his religious dress carried us back for over six centuries to sunny italy and the cradle of his order, assisi, where st. francis dwelt. santa barbara mission is one of the best preserved of the many old spanish religious settlements yet remaining in southern california, and its style gives the norm of all the rest. it has a certain grandiose air suggestive of spanish magnificence, and reminds one of those stately creatures one meets so often in spain, who ask for alms with high-toned elegance, and return thanks with the manners of a prince. such was santa barbara. before the chief entrance of the chapel was a grand flight of steps, with a generous platform capable of giving standing-room to any church ceremonial or gathering of worshippers. it was made up, it is true, of small mason work and stucco; but the effect was there, and that effect was good. entering the chapel, we found ourselves in a stately, flat-roofed building of considerable height and length. there were several altars at each side, and a number of religious pictures, quite of the murillo school, and a pieta in plaster, just as one finds michael angelo's great masterpiece in st. peter's. beyond all, was the high altar, rather poor and shabby, but pathetic, nevertheless, in its earnest purpose, with its hanging lamp telling of the sacramental presence within the tabernacle. the tomb of the first roman catholic bishop of california is at the epistle side of the altar; and close by, on the outside, are other graves. a lay brother took us all over the place. we rang for him at the entrance door in the cloisters, and found him a sweet-faced, cheerful, humble man, delighted to please us and be our guide. we were shown the little museum with some splendid old service books, those huge folios which, before the present cheap reproduction of modern small volumes, stood in grand state in the centre of the choir, and all placed themselves around and sang from the noble and precious pages. there were relics, too, of the times when the indians were in their primitive condition, the child-like pupils of the patient franciscans. it was not much of a display, but its very meagreness made it pathetic. our lay brother took us into the second enclosure; that is, within the convent proper, where no women are admitted, except in most special cases, and as a mark of honor to noble ladies. some of us felt quite elated at the distinction thus given to us as men, but the ladies pooh-poohed at our airs, for from the neighboring tower they could look down and see into the whole place, and declared there was nothing specially in it. well, there was not, but there would be if they were there. we went also into the well-kept cemetery, where a great crucifix kept solemn watch over the sleeping dust of the departed. it was all beautiful with flowers, a lovely place of peace and rest. one cannot help respecting those missions which are so frequently met in california. they represent an immense amount of patient, humble, and persistent labor. we all took a great, four-horse vehicle in the afternoon for an excursion to sycamore cañon, to which spot, however, we never got, and did not regret it a particle. we stopped at an orange ranch half-way, and there we stayed. we wanted to have an "orange wallow," as i called it, and that we got under the trees of a superb orange orchard, where the ground was lush with grass and a general air of luxurious opulence was on every hand. this verdure results, i understand, from the higher elevation of the place, which catches the "high fog" from the pacific. the moisture of this vapor condenses on the trees and plants, taking the place of rain, and, to a great extent, of irrigation. as we were winding our way up the steep ascent, with its ever-increasing view down the valley and over the pacific, we could not but be elated and inspirited with our surroundings. we were, it may be said, a rather noisy crowd. in this happy state on we went. as we journeyed, we noticed a woman dressed in blue jeans busy at work in her garden. she seemed too busy to notice us. the ordinary rustic curiosity to see the noisy newcomers was entirely absent. she never once looked our way. in ten minutes or so we were, in various groups, returning from the farmhouse where we had gotten permission to have all the orange wallow we wanted. then we again met the lady of the blue jeans; but this time she was looking at us with an amused expression on her face, and when one of our company, yielding to an impulse of gallantry, lifted his hat to her, she pleasantly returned the salute, and called out to us, from the height on which she stood, in a clear, ringing voice, "won't you come up and see my roses? come, and you will find more surprises." of course, we climbed the hill, and soon found ourselves in a veritable fairyland. we were on a spur of the mountain which spread out in a plateau covered with beautiful turf. rich trees surrounded it on three sides, while on the other it was open to the sea view, revealing to us the curving beach of santa barbara, miles away, with the white breakers dashing upon the shore. the great deep beyond was dim and empurpled with the haze, while all around us was a garden glowing with fruits and flowers of kinds that were rare and beautiful, and for the most part strange to us. after enjoying all this under the guidance of our hostess, who bestowed la france roses and american beauties among us with liberal hands, we were invited into her house. this was a rambling, one-story structure, beautifully planned, and filled with treasures of art from many climes. the lady of the place gradually let us know in the most simple way that she had travelled far and wide. she was at home in india, and had passed through the principal countries of the world. we spent a good long time in this charmed spot. we were offered refreshment, and left with a sense of gracious hospitality offered in a most graceful way. her blue jean working dress, for she lived almost at work in her garden, became her well. the only consciousness she showed that she might have wished it otherwise was as she prepared to escort us to our brake; she discarded her sunbonnet and donned coquettishly a little white one of muslin, which, there was no denial, became her better than that she wore at her lovely work. we waved her farewell as we descended from "samarcand," the name of her beautiful place, the site of which she herself had selected, planning also her home and all its beauties of tree and flower and fruit. the poet of the party put his impressions of the whole affair in verse, and here it is: samarcand santa barbara how can we speak the glad surprise which met us on that morning ride-- the glory of the boundless skies, the mountains in their stately pride! and greater yet the misty deep, which, huge and vast, swept out afar in dreaming beauty, silent sleep, which storm, it seemed, could never mar. but better than the boughs which hung with golden fruit and blossoms sweet, and better than the flowers which clung, were words which there our hearts did greet. they said, "come see my roses red;" they came from frank, sweet face, and eyes which gleamed with happy mirth, and said, "come here for further yet surprise." we climbed the mount, we grasped the hand, we looked upon the gracious face; we saw the wealth of "samarcand," the place, and lady of the place. fit setting for so warm a heart seemed orange grove and mountain side; of nature's best she seemed a part, yea, more; of all, its greatest pride. too soon the time to part drew near, the farewell words at last were said; but memory ever will hold dear her home, herself, her roses red. xii leaving santa barbara.--delay at saugus.--viewing the wreck.-- brentwood.--the mission mass.--the social afternoon.--the garden and the homing pigeons.--the grape-shot.--the chinaman's pipe. we had yet one more sweet glimpse of santa barbara as we left in the early morning hour. it was soon hidden from our view, but not from our memory, where it will ever abide, a place of sunshine and flowers, where the old and the new stand face to face--the old ocean and the everlasting hills, and the fresh young life of california, with its exuberant surroundings and genial hospitality. our next point was brentwood, which we hoped to reach ere the close of day, but a wreck on the line ahead kept us for hours waiting at a place called saugus until the track could be cleared. saugus was as forlorn as a muddy beach at low tide, but some of us made the most of our unpromising surroundings. the uncertainty of the moment of our departure kept us ever within sound of the warning whistle of the engine, so that our little rambles in the woods adjoining were rather nervous and fitful, but yet better than nothing. after all, it is a comfortable thing to be safe away from a wreck, and a detention for our security from accident ought to bring gratitude rather than fretfulness at all times. in due time "all aboard!" was sounded, and then off we were, climbing up into the mountains. it was a continual feast to look at their ever-changing forms, and watch the curves and twists of the railroad as it scaled their heights. we reached the wreck, the cause of our delay, and even in our rapid glimpse of it we could see the havoc which had been done in that one "smash up." sacks of flour were hurled hither and thither, their contents scattered on the rocks; cans of fruit were shot about like war-like projectiles; and the eccentric heaping of engine, tender, and freight cars gave us an idea of the impetus of the force which caused the whole disaster. fortunately no lives were lost. it was sunday morning when we reached brentwood. it was a scattering village of detached houses in the midst of a vast plain through which the railroad ran, straight as an arrow, from horizon to horizon. the somnolence of sunday and of nature hung over all, giving little promise for the twenty-four hours we were to stay there; yet unpromising as it all seemed, we passed there a very enjoyable time. we were left to our own devices all day, for dr. and mrs. humphreys and the members of his family, went off in the early morning, to visit some relatives ranching in the foot-hills of the encircling mountains, which enclose the vast plain, on which brentwood stands. how beautiful and ever-varying those mountains were! they told us new stories from morning until night--now a romance of purple and gold; again, a story of less heroic character, as they stood out plain and clear in the sunshine; and again, a tale of deeper mystery, as the night shadows gathered upon their sides, and the moonbeams gave a strange brilliancy to their higher peaks. brentwood and all its belongings was before us for the sunday. after an exploring tour, we found two churches, a campbellite and a methodist. they did not look particularly inviting, although the hymn singing in one by the sunday-school children touched us. we still strolled on and came upon a group of people busily engaged taking flowers into a long, blackened shed which we were told was the town hall, and that there a dominican monk was to hold services that morning. a fine-looking young german of the tall, black type was busy arranging the rude temporary altar, and a number of ladies and others were assisting him. my german friend offered us an introduction to father burke, the monk in question, but we declined, not wishing to intrude upon him before his mass. the hour for service came, and we were on hand, with a varied crowd from the town and country adjacent, quite a goodly number. there was a large, white curtain hung back of the altar as a sort of reredos. it did not reach the floor, however, and as the platform was rather high, we had a preliminary view from almost the knees down of all the necessary preparation and vesting, more interesting than edifying. but the service itself,--in the character of the congregation, the mothers with their babies, the young, restless lads, the old people of other days and other climes, and the young people of california growth,--all made up a most interesting study. the music was quite good, being provided by some visitors from san francisco; two ladies, whom we afterward met, having voices of excellent tone and real culture. an _ave maria_ and the _sanctus_ were especially well sung. father burke gave an offhand sermon, well arranged and thoughtful, suitable for christians of any orthodoxy whatever. it was good to hear him. my german friend, after service, again invited me to call. it turned out he was the tavern-keeper in the place; so after our pleasant midday dinner on the "lucania," we all adjourned to the hotel, where in the parlor were the choir of the morning service, several other ladies and gentlemen, and, taking his ease and enjoyment, also father burke. we spent more than two hours in the happiest way. stories were told and songs were sung, and libations of the best california vintage were offered us, all ending with "the star spangled banner," sung by all standing. i say all standing, for two ladies, said to be spanish sympathizers, remained seated glumly on a sofa, but were good-naturedly drawn to their feet by a laughing companion, and made to assume the virtue of patriotism if they had it not. by this time the train was due, and father burke, the lady singers from san francisco, and their friends had to leave us, obedient to the imperial mandate, "all aboard!" my german friend again came to our assistance in the way of amusements, and invited us into his hotel garden. it was a humble little enclosure, but in the centre, coming up through some rock-work, there was an iron jet which he let on, and made a fountain of for our pleasure, quite refreshing to look at. the distant mountains, too, which appeared so far away as one looked from the open plain, seemed here strangely near and picturesque, when seen through the arched openings of the enclosing trees. our friend also had a surprise for us in some homing pigeons of rare excellence, of which he was specially proud. he showed us his pet prize winner with its eyes and carriage like a genius. he went in among them, and seemed so tender with them, and interested in them, that it was all a thing of poetry of the highest kind; the great tall man and the fairy-like shapes and motions of his beloved birds. he took out of the cote the very best of the lot, and gave it to one of our young ladies to let fly outside, so that we could see it circle round and round, and then make for its home again. by this time it was toward evening, and we could descry in the dim distance the return of dr. humphreys and his family, as their carriages wound along the plain back again to brentwood. night brought us a silver moon, which added new beauty to all our great surroundings of plain and mountain, and we could look back over a day filled to overflowing with interest and pleasantness, the half of which is not told; but we must at least mention the grape-shot which was picked up on the railroad track, and which set us thinking of how it got there. was it fired from a spanish cannon in early days, or by settlers in some indian difficulty, or marauding trouble, or when? we must also tell of the happy chinese laundryman whom we interviewed under the light of the moon, the very picture of placid, contented comfort, as he smoked a huge pipe with stem two feet long. poor soul, all in his loneliness, coming out from his little hole for a breath of fresh air and a touch of that great nature which is ever so good to us all if we will but let it. our chinaman told us that his pipestem was especially valuable, that it had the excellent quality of making the smoke cool, and that such stems, being made of the tea shrub, were very rare. one of our number next morning wished to purchase the said pipestem from "john," but he refused all offers, saying he would not give it for fifty dollars. xiii san francisco.--bustling traffic.--railroad employees.--the flagman.--the palace hotel.--the seal rocks.--sutro residence and baths.--the presidio.--sentinels.--golden gate park.--the memorial cross.--san francisco and edinburgh compared.--the cable cars.-- chinatown.--the opium den.--the goldsmiths' shops.--across the bay to tiburon.--the bohemian club. in san francisco we had a couple of full days and fragments of two others, all too short to fully take in the wonders of that romantic city, so bizarre, so strange, and in its way so attractive. after coming across the bay from oakland, we found ourselves in the midst of the noise and bustle of the railroad yards, fronting on a street crowded with teams and wagons from morning until night; and in the night, the ever-resounding snorts of the iron horse were not found as soothing as the nightingales of san remo; but one cannot have everything. if you travel thousands of miles in the same car, and are proud to reach home in the same palatial manner, the nuisances of the depot are of minor importance, after all. the huge wagons hung low near the ground, groaning under merchandise in transit, and the splendid horses which drew them were worth looking at. the ever-wakeful life of railroad men and their unceasing labors must increase one's respect for that class of people, so strong, so active, so intelligent, and so self-reliant, which garrison the fortresses and outposts of trade all over the american continent. such a life is a training-ground for possible armies of another kind, which a touch on the american flag, or on our national honor, could transform in a flash into a formidable and reliable force in any emergency. in my musings while in this busy place, my attention was called to a flagman just opposite where our car was anchored. i explored his shanty and had a good chat with him. his little place was bright without and within. outside were flowers and shrubs; within not a speck of dust was to be seen. it was as shipshape as the best kind of a new england home, having a place for everything, and everything in its place. in the intervals of his labor, he had time for a quiet rest on an improvised seat outside his cabin door. that seat attracted me. it was like stone, but its peculiar shape told me it was a joint from the vertebræ of a whale. it was just a piece of gigantic bric-à-brac, well seasoned, which one might covet. i asked him what he would take for it. "oh," said he, "i could not sell that; it was here before i came, and will remain after me." one could not but respect the sentiment which would regard a tradition rather than pocket a possible dollar. i had too much admiration for such fine feelings to offer to tempt the man again with a new proposal. a little later on in our stay, we all adjourned to the palace hotel, an enormous hostelry which was once the wonder of the continent, and yet has, with its huge interior glass court, a certain air about it quite magnificent. from there we made excursions to some of the stock sights of the place. we went out to the seal rocks and saw the pacific breakers dash up on the huge crags, where the seals, or sea-lions rather, for they are not true seals, mowed and roared and tumbled over each other in their awkward progress on the cliffs. we saw them also in their element, darting gracefully through the waves. we saw sutro's baths near by, a huge structure with splendid accommodation for bathers. we saw also the grounds and residence of sutro, the rich man who built those baths at his own expense, and for the benefit of the people. the grounds of the residence were filled with statues and ornamental sculptures, too lavish for good taste; but, let us admit, at least, that the intention to thus decorate was certainly good. we also saw the presidio, or army station, and were severely, but most politely, warned off from certain points by armed and mounted sentries. it was a little touch of the war spirit and order, not displeasing. the sentry with whom we parleyed was a type of the american soldier, self-reliant, unconventional, intelligent, and polite. when one looks at such men, they see the new ideas which have discarded forever the millinery of military life. there are no more restraining straps and buckles; no more pipeclay; no more propping up, like trussed fowls, of chest and shoulders; but all is free, natural, and unrestrained. we drove out over the bare sand hills, which myriads of lupins of various shades of purple and yellow, were doing their best to clothe and glorify. we came to golden gate park in our drive, and thoroughly enjoyed its extent, the glory of its trees and strange shrubs, and, among other sculptures, the splendid monument to francis key, the author of the "star spangled banner." from the park, we could see the surrounding mountains, and on their slopes the distant buildings of various educational institutions, of splendid proportions. the great stone cross, commemorative of the first religious services held on the pacific coast in the time of sir francis drake, loomed up grandly at some distance from us, but we could not get our jehu to drive us to it; there was always some excuse at hand. the late george william childs, of philadelphia, caused its erection, to commemorate these first services of the church of england; but a cunning myth is circulated in san francisco that it is an advertisement for a stone quarry! san francisco, situated as it is, on a series of precipitous hills, presents some magnificent and picturesque views. it is a sort of gigantic and altogether exaggerated edinburgh. when one thinks of edinburgh, however, with its castled crag and holyrood, and the gardens right through the city, one is almost ashamed to compare a bijou like it, with a huge creature like san francisco, which suggests, somehow, a kind of prehistoric being, of dragon-like shape and unimagined power. this prehistoric suggestion which san francisco gives, is further carried out by the untempered breath of its climate. the trade winds blow in fiercely in the afternoons, and the chill sea fog creeps over everything with a ferocious persistency quite appalling. the promontory on which the city stands is open to all gales, and one's clothing, throughout the year, must be of such a kind, as always to be capable of resisting borean blasts. this strange, unfamiliar look of san francisco, is further carried out by the huge, reddish-yellow bars which mark its form. these are the streets, which ride up and down in uncompromising straight lines and parallels, right over every obstacle which they meet. the barbaric forcefulness which laid out straight streets sheer over little mountains, has developed in san francisco the cable-car system, which here reigns supreme, tugging everything along with it. it is no easy matter for a tenderfoot from the east, to ride in such cars on a first attempt, with either comfort or dignity. on one stretch you are ascending at a fearful angle, then for a brief space you are on the level, only to be whirled up or down, as the case may be, in a few minutes more. when one is sitting sideways, as is usual in street cars, it requires a certain diffused consciousness to preserve one's equilibrium, which, those accustomed to the use of seats always on the level, cannot readily attain. this self-adjustment once reached, however, and the pivot of permanence properly adjusted, one can proudly keep one's position like a native, and not flop over one's neighbors at every change of angle, as one must do, to one's utter confusion, on a first ride in a san francisco cable-car on a steep incline. there were many attractions for me in san francisco, among friends whom i had known in days long gone by, in chicago, milwaukee, and racine; but in our short stay little more could be had than a handshake, a good-by, and an _au revoir_, which one hoped, that even the three or four thousand miles soon to intervene, would not render utterly impossible. of course we saw chinatown. we emerged from the palace hotel well on in the night, and did not return until almost a naughty hour in the morning; but we all felt well repaid for our trip. i think, though, really, the best part of it was the feeling of possible danger in the sights before us; and the spooky appearance of the dark, narrow streets, into which the moonbeams dropped, revealing to our excited gaze, gliding or stationary and wretched-looking chinese, on every hand. our guide was a strange specimen, a short, thickset man with a queer pennsylvania dutch dialect, and an irish name, like duffy or mccarthy, i forget which. it was droll beyond measure, to hear his description of the joss-house given in a sing-song, full of ludicrous blunders and clipped words. but despite of the comic in our guide, the joss-house itself was solemn enough, and provocative of thought. it was strange to see altar before altar, all covered with vases and lamps alight, and all manner of bronze bowls and incense burners. it was all so weirdly like what one sees in many christian churches, and yet with a difference, for the dragons and monster forms were so strangely gruesome and grotesque, that it gave one almost an uncomfortable feeling. what did it all mean? were we at times unconsciously heathen in our cults, or are they at times unconsciously christian? the whole difficulty was summed up in one monosyllable, which escaped from a brother clergyman's lips standing near me, and that one word was an astonished and emphatic "well!!!" we are soon aroused from our reverie by the strident tones of our guide, who, taking his stand near a large stove in one corner, exclaims: "now, ladies and gemmen, y' would s'pose that dis yere stove was for heating this buildin', but it ain't no such thing. 'tis for sending things to dead chinamen. they puts 'em on papers and burns 'em here, and then they thinks they have 'em." again he would show us the accumulated ashes in the incense bowls, and tell us that it was kept to put under the bodies of the "dead corpses;" and so on, and so on, until you scarcely knew whether he himself knew or not what he was talking about. during all this harangue, a pale-faced celestial was seated behind a sort of counter in one corner, with a countenance bereft of all expression, except the suspicion thereon of a highbred scorn for us all, as a gaping crowd being led about among things of which none of us knew anything. this custodian, or priest, whatever he might have been, had a kind of jaunty cap on his head, and was comfortably smoking, in the most earthly manner, a well-flavored cigarette. we bought from him some joss-sticks as a peace offering, at double prices, and in a grand manner he bowed us out. i had asked the guide to draw it mild in his exhibitions, and to omit all places, so to speak, off color. this he did. we saw a few restaurants, and a chinese drug store, where we purchased some strange medicines which looked more _outre_ and picturesque in their material, than in any promise of possible effectiveness in their use. among these was a dried toad neatly spread out upon wooden splints. this, we were assured, if boiled into a soup, was an infallible remedy for leanness. soup we knew was said to be fattening, but he who would drink such a concoction as this dried skin would promise, must be deeply enamored of obesity. we also saw an opium den. this was horrible enough; but the smoker on exhibition was not so horrible to me as the still, silent figures, stowed away on bunks, in the loathsome darkness of the place. the "john," who was conveniently placed in a lighted place near the entrance, lay prone on the hard boards of his cubicle, bent flat on his side like the letter w, clutching his long, villanous-looking pipe in his hands. near him was a cat, which we were assured also had contracted "the habit;" not that it too hit the pipe, but that it rejoiced in the heavy atmosphere. the impassive smoker, however, burst into a fit of most intense and humorous laughter, when one of us made an attempt to pronounce some chinese phrase which he was repeating for us. "now," said our guide, "he is going to take the long draw." by this time the bit of opium was cooked sufficiently at the cocoanut-oil lamp, and with cheeks distended and eyes closed he sucked in the smoke, and exhaled it in a few moments in a large cloud. i had a lighted cigar in my own hands, and i could not but think that two kindred vices here confronted each other face to face, and my conscience was a bit disturbed; but at once reassurance came to me in a sweet female voice, for one of our ladies said, "oh, do smoke your cigar; the odor of it is so refreshing in this dreadful place." all over the bunks and floor were crawling black insects, large and small. the guide seeing me shrinking from them said, "never mind them, they never leave here." by this time we were glad to depart and get into the purer air of the moonlit night. we walked back to our hotel, passing by balconies lit with chinese lanterns, restaurants aglow with lights, and numerous chinese club houses where the celestials, by coöperation, evade certain prohibitory enactments, and in the privacy of their associations, enjoy all their celestial delights. we also visited a manufacturing jeweller's shop where a lot of goldsmiths were at work. the whole place had on it the mark of utter simplicity. the instruments of the craft were primitive, almost rude, in appearance. each man was seated before his portion of the work bench, or at a small table, in the narrowest possible space. an open dish containing some nut oil, and a bunch of vegetable fibre for wick, aflame at one end in a tiny light, this, a blowpipe, a few little files, and some lumps of wax was all; but behind this was a patient yellow man, capable of quick motion, but never of ignoble hurry, to whom the present moment was an eternity of time and opportunity, of which he felt that himself, and all his work, were essential parts. but, to our infinite amusement, behind all this was a busy little chinese woman, who flitted from man to man and bench to bench, criticising, blaming, encouraging, and urging on everybody, with a tongue that never ceased, and eyes and motions as alert and rapid as a humming-bird. her bright little eyes, her unceasing movement, her evident control of all, was absolutely exhilarating. woman rules everywhere, or could, if she only would. i must not omit the mention of a glorious trip out across the harbor, to a watering place full of villa residences, nestled at the water's edge, close under the towering mountains which encompass the whole great expanse. the coloring of the place, the forms of the mountains, and the tints upon the water, all suggest the mediterranean and other foreign shores. in the fragments of the days left us in san francisco, most agreeable hours were spent in stores where chinese and japanese goods, in great profusion and splendid taste, were freely open to our view. an agreeable treat was also given me in a visit to the bohemian club, where, through an introduction from a new york friend, i met some delightful and hospitable men. in the club were some capital pictures produced by california artists; among them, a great small painting of the redwoods seen at night, with a camp-fire in the foreground, most rembrandt-like in effect. another was full of sunshine and life. it was a group of boys undressing in the blue shade between two yellow sand dunes by the sea; while out in the ocean surf beyond, in the full light, were two or three, already in, having the full frolic of their free pleasure in the blue waters of the pacific. but we had yet to see other places, and soon san francisco was left behind. xiv departure for san josé.--palo alto.--advertiser.--leland stanford, jr., university. our next point after leaving san francisco was san josé. on our flight thither, we stopped off for some four hours at palo alto, and took a lovely ride through the gorgeous leland stanford estate, and also some others; taking in besides, the wonderful leland stanford, jr., university. it was all, it is true, but a glimpse, but a glorious one. are not our best impressions often but the result of supreme moments! we see and feel in such moments, with an intenseness, which gives us our best conceptions and our most cherished memories. if we approach a scene with the imagination all wrought up, we are often apt to be disappointed; for, there is that in the ideal of all minds which never can be realized. but, as if to make up for this condition of our being, nature and art, each alike, sometimes come upon us unawares, with such unexpected beauty, that our ideal is accomplished for us, and even more than realized, before we know it. then we submit ourselves to our surprise, and are satisfied. somewhat in this mood palo alto broke upon us. there were the rich lands in high cultivation, the spreading trees of various kinds, the vineyards, the olive yards, the orchards, the spacious houses, the glowing gardens all abloom. the whole was a rich combination gratifying every sense. we saw in one of the gardens a beautiful piece of greek art brought from pompeii, a portion of a graceful curved peristyle of marble, once white and glistening, but now a rich fawn color, the result of time stretching back to the beginning of the christian era or beyond. every line of the fluting on the columns, and the carving on architrave and capital, was fresh as if of yesterday. it stood there like a dream of the far past, made visible to us here to-day, in a garden of roses in this enchanting west. another object also interested us. it was a superb living thing which might have served as a model for the sculptor of the parthenon frieze. it was the great blooded horse "advertiser," for which some fabulous sum had been offered and refused. i forget who owned the creature, or what the sum was which was thus offered. it matters not. i remember only the graceful stallion led out from his stall for us to look at him. his glossy coat, his perfect form, his noble attitude, his fiery eye, his strange look of intelligence--all these spoke of the art of athens and the greeks. the life and force, which could carve such a creature in marble, seemed to have place also in the superb living creature himself. i was struck particularly by his noble bearing, by the contour of his head, and also by a peculiar length of the upper lip, having a kind of quivering, prehensile property, not often seen in such animals. when he was led back into his stall, it seemed to me, that we sightseers, should have apologized to him for our intrusion. we also saw in our short stay the famous leland stanford, jr., university. the first sight of the structure is rather disappointing. its low elevation on the broad plain on which it stands, and a huge chimney for heating and engine purposes rising above it, give the whole place the aspect of a machine shop or railroad works; but on closer approach this impression vanishes. then the spirit of the architect is understood. he had ample space for his design, and so he laid out a vast, cloistered parallelogram of one story in height, all built of a warm-tinted yellowish stone, giving the richest shadows of blue and purple. it was a delight to gaze down the perspective of these enclosing aisles, and then from the arches to look out on the fountains playing in the sunshine, to see the richness of flowers and trees and shrubs, all overarched by a sky of blue without a fleck of cloud. how different it all seemed to the quads of oxford, or the backs of cambridge, where the yew, the beech, and the ivy give a sombre tone of the past, with which the weather-worn buildings and the clouded skies well accord; while the ever-verdant turf under foot, gives all a touch of a constant life that is ever new. here all was different. the court was asphalted, the flowers were as if in baskets, the trees were the product of untiring care. it was all the result of energy and art conquering nature and chaining it down to a definite work. the whole university speaks of this forceful energy. it is the result of fortune amassed by untiring purpose and sleepless activity; but all the intense activity which it symbolizes has on it the touch of a tragedy, which lifts itself and its conception, into a far higher sphere than ordinary things. it is the crystallization of affections which shine out from grieved hearts. it is the memorial of an only son taken from boundless fortune and all that earth could promise--taken in the first flush of his beautiful manhood, from parents, whose whole life was centred in his being. there is a touching pathos in the picture of this youth, as it looks down from the walls of the library, on the group of young students, men and women, gathered there to reap the benefit of the institution which his fortune sustains, and ever will sustain. he was the sole heir to vast estates, to many commercial interests, to great enterprises. all that was his, is now devoted to the uses of those who teach and are taught, in the leland stanford, jr., university. one leaves the place with regret. one turns back longingly to take a last look at its quaint spanish architecture, and one treasures up the memories of it all with greatest pleasure. one remembers the quiet of the marble mausoleum in the woods, where father and son rest side by side, waiting for the completion of the family group beyond the tomb. one also calls to mind the beautiful museum which our time would only allow us to glance at; and also, the many picturesque homes springing up all about the university, the whole leaving an impression upon us which cannot soon be forgotten. our four hours in the luxuriant surroundings of palo alto and the university, every moment filled in with busy sightseeing, caused us to enjoy the rest of our further railroad ride to san josé. xv through santa clara valley.--arrival at san josé.--old friends.-- semi-tropical climate.--an excursion to the stars.--the lick observatory.--our journey there.--sunset on the summit.--with the great telescope.--the tomb of james lick.--the midnight ride down the mountain. after leaving palo alto, our journey revealed to us an ideal californian landscape. we passed through the lovely santa clara valley. rich cultivation met our eye on every side, interspersed with fine forest trees, all hemmed in by the ranges of the surrounding mountains. these vast masses enclosed the whole view with their ever-varying outlines, soft and purple in the distance, while the foreground of orchards, with their rich herbage, was all of the deepest green. it was a picture to take away with one as, indeed, that of a happy valley. but in this connection the word valley must not be construed in any limited sense. it was a vast champaign of almost boundless extent, which the fairy-like coloring of the mountains, softened by their great distance, enclosed, as it were, with banks of unmoving clouds. through this delightful country we sped on rapidly, until at the evening hour, we reached san josé, and once more, came to our night anchorage in the station. we had had a full day of it, and, as if by mutual consent, we separated into various groups to wander at will through the strange streets of the pretty place. it was pleasant to look at the rose-covered cottages and the well-kept lawns, seen by the glitter of the electric light; as also it was pleasant to stroll through the busy streets with the shops all aglow, and the people lounging about in happy leisure. i wandered off, all alone, to hunt up some friends who had moved to san josé from distant illinois, years and years ago. i found the street and number in a drug-store directory, and strolled on and on under the deep shadows of the overarching trees, losing myself once or twice, but after some inquiry, i was soon piloted to the place and rang the bell. there is always a little trepidation in such an adventure. will one be remembered? will the friends be much changed? will one be welcome? but soon all doubts vanished when my good friend, mrs. g----, stood in the doorway, lamp in hand. yes, she was changed; but the years had made her look more and more like her dear mother, whose face i could never forget. instantly my name was spoken and i was at home. the whole house was rather topsy-turvy; carpets all up, and everything in that state of desolation which house cleaning involves. but what did that matter? we had a long and good talk over all the past. i was told how, when they came to san josé in the early days, they had first to go to new york, then take a steamer to the isthmus, to cross that, and then once more embark on the pacific for san francisco, and from thence come here by team. i was shown the pictures of the five lovely girls and the boy, a man grown--all californians--and i saw that happiness and prosperity, which rejoiced me much, had come to these my friends. the evening hours lengthened out while our chat went on, until i had to retrace my steps once more under the overarching trees to the "lucania," after promising that i should dine with the family on the coming sunday. this i did, and saw them all, and enjoyed the hour to the fullest. the chinese man-servant, cook and butler in one, was noiseless perfection in his attendance, and the works of his art which he placed before us, were well worthy of our attention; while california claret, of tenderest texture, helped to whet our appetites and loosen our tongues. but we must return to the saturday which intervened before that dinner. the morning was spent in a drive through the town--through the garden would better describe it, for it was all a garden, with rose-embowered roofs or stately mansions framed in by towering palms and stately growths of other graceful trees. it is strange to see the effect which this semi-tropical climate produces on familiar plants. the sweet geranium towers up until it becomes almost a tree, covering the whole ends of houses with its perfumed leaves, and the english lavender emerges from its island modesty, and stands up on this american soil with all the self-assertion of an independent shrub. in one of the parks we saw the little english daisy, but that was the same "wee crimson-tipped flower" that it ever was. it brought tears to the eyes of some of our party, as the springs of home memories welled up within the breast. what volumes do blossoms ever speak to us! a bunch of red primroses, discovered once by chance among the myriad common yellow blooms which gladdened the woods all about us, stands out forever in our memory, as a sudden revelation of beauty--and all for us who found it--which no subsequent possession of far greater worth, has ever yet excelled. but the friends, the flowers, the fruits, and the foliage of san josé, charming as they all were, could not detain us. we were bound for the stars; and at noon or thereabouts, a happy party of us took passage in a large brake, with four horses, for the lick observatory on mount hamilton. we were armed with an introduction to professor schaeberle, the astronomer in charge, and the electric wire had flashed also our coming, beforehand. it was a merry party that rattled out of san josé and looked down on the orchards on either hand as we whirled by. our ascent was gradual at first, but soon the magnificent, winding roadway, which cost santa clara county nearly $ , to construct, took us up, and up, ever extending our view, and giving us fresh vistas of surprise, as we dashed by curves and grades which made the nervous among us more nervous still. but there was little to fear with such good drivers and well-trained animals. they knew their business, and were as careful of themselves as if we were not in existence. the ever-increasing panorama of the mountains was full of interest. the great, swelling foothills were yielding and soft-looking in their brown outline, dotted over by huge, woolly-looking, dark green live-oaks and other trees. the whole effect was like a gigantic piece of old flemish tapestry. if some giant horsemen with winding horns and bounding dogs of like vast scale, and a stag with antlers touching the mountain-tops, and a castle like walhalla were in our vision, the thing would have been the ancient tapestry, indeed, in true californian proportions. it was all beautiful as it was, the mossy brown of the mountains, and the dark green of the trees, and over all a cloudless sky, and in our lungs the clear, pure air, full of elation and vigorous life. of course in such a mountain drive we changed horses frequently, and at smith creek we made a long halt for supper. it seemed that that much-desired meal would never arrive, and the fear that we would miss the sunset view from the summit, added to our impatience. it so happened that there was a rush of visitors that day, and we had to wait our turn while the limited domestic force in this isolated spot, renewed their labors in cooking and serving another meal. the perfect imperturbability of our host was a thing to admire. no amount of muttered discontent moved him a particle. he did not show impatience even, when we lined up at the dining-room door; by this action, and the rush which it intimated, suggesting that we felt he might come some game upon us, and let some more favored ones in first. when we did make the rush, and saw the well-filled tables, and saw also the patient wife and daughter, neither of them over-robust, who had to do all the work, no "help" wishing to stay up there, we almost felt ashamed of ourselves for our grumbling. we soon got through our eating, and once more were _en route_ for the summit. we got there before sunset all right, and were received in most hospitable fashion by professor schaeberle, who showed us through the long halls and into the library, where transparencies and photographs of eclipses and double stars, and various other celestial phenomena charmed us, until at last it was announced that the royal presence of the sun was about to sink to its rest, in the distant west. then all were soon out on the grand terrace, and as we watched the great, round orb vanish from our sight, a silence fell upon us all, the cause of which it would be hard to put into words. we had seen the great mystery of life move on a point. we thought, perhaps, of the angel trumpeter, who some day will say so that all will hear, "time shall be no more!" we thought, perhaps, of that day when we should close our eyes upon the earthly sun forever, and days for us should be at an end. as the darkness settled down, so solemnly and grandly on the mountains, we retraced our steps to the observatory, and followed our kind guide through its many mysteries. we first looked through some of the smaller telescopes. in one of these, while the glow was still in the heavens, we saw venus, the evening star, in all its beauty. the earth currents, through which we had to look, gave the glowing planet a purplish tinge and a sort of vibratory motion, which quite suggested the floating movements of the goddess, as she figures in virgil's verse. we saw all sorts of instruments, of the most delicate and yet simple character, for recording seismic disturbances of any kind, or, as we might call them in plainer speech, earthquakes. it is most interesting to note how a glass disk, a little lamp-black, a spring or two, a bit of clockwork, and a tracing-pen, will do the work automatically, and record the direction, the duration, and the time of any seismic disturbance at any hour of day or night. the brain which contrived all this cunning machinery, can go to rest and take its needed sleep, but the wires and traps set to catch the shakes of the old globe, are always wide awake, animated ever by the intelligence of the brain which sleeps, and can sleep in peace; for, when the brain wakes, it will find that the machine has faithfully recorded every quiver of this old, trembling world. professor schaeberle told me, with quiet humor, that earthquakes of some kind were always going on, but so slight that machinery alone could detect them. after seeing the many minor attractions of transit instruments and meridians and other affairs, which some of us wondered at, in complete, but polite and interested ignorance, we were at last ushered into the presence of the great lick telescope. the immense dim space in which we stood, the half-seen figures of the visitors, the professor and his attendants, with lanterns in their hands, accenting the gloom by the very light itself, made up a weird picture. then, towering over all, was the movable dome, with the great notch from top to bottom of its curved surface, open to the sky, for the great telescope to reach through; while the great instrument itself, in its huge proportions, its intricate machinery, and the wonderful ease of its movements, as it yielded to the slightest touch of a hand, seemed like some living thing, some being of superior intelligence from some other sphere, captive and at work for our pleasure and our profit. who can ever forget the mystery of it all in the silent darkness of that night! but before looking through the great tube, the professor, with quite unintended, but most dramatic effect, called our attention to a black-looking object at the base of the great pier, on which the telescope stands. it was like an altar, as we saw it in the dimness, but a lantern flash upon the front showed us it was a monument above the last resting-place of james lick, by whose munificent bequest of seven hundred thousand dollars, the observatory on mount hamilton, with all its wonderful instruments, has been established for all time. it was a thrilling thing to see there in the dimness that plain, unpretending tomb, and to read thereon the short and simple record: james lick. -- . but what a life story is revealed by the dash which separates those figures, -- ! eighty years of toil and endurance, toil in early youth, toil in manhood, toil in the midst of amassed wealth, until the inevitable end at last came. he was born in fredericksburg, pa., where he received a common school education. he learned the trade of an organ builder and piano maker in hanover, pa. he went into business in baltimore, md., and also in philadelphia; but his destiny drove him away to buenos ayres, to valparaiso, and other places in south america, until, in , he settled in california, where he became interested in real estate, and in due time amassed a large fortune. his strong face, which greets one in bronze, at the mount hamilton observatory, bespeaks a powerful and stern character. he never married. he was deemed by those who knew him to be "unlovable, eccentric, solitary, selfish, and avaricious," but when this is said, the memory of it is somewhat condoned, for there was a romance in the case--he was crossed in love. it is hard to judge of such a man, and of such circumstances. he certainly has made amends for all his shortcomings, or tried to, if they were as related, by his munificent bequests to charity, and above all to pure science. when one looks at his carpenter's bench, preserved as a relic of his workman's life, and then at his tomb in the still silence and darkness of the great telescope chamber, and then remembers all that this silent, lonely man has done, one cannot but believe that he had in heart, all along, great ideals which none of those about him, in the vulgar strife of life, ever imagined. what can be more unlike a narrow, selfish, unlovable, and avaricious man than his splendid offering of a fortune to keep eternal watch upon the stars? these thoughts danced through one's brain in presence of it all. we were grateful to the old man, whose face, singularly like that of john brown of harper's ferry fame, seemed to embody the tragedies and aspirations of life; and we thought of his silent dust beneath us, as through his gifts we looked at jupiter and his moons, and noted the strange belts which band the planet, brought near to us by the lens of the lick telescope. we saw also the crested edge, glittering like molten silver, of the moon of this our own planet, and longed to wait until saturn should rise, and other wonders open before us. professor schaeberle made me the fascinating offer to stay all night, and go down the mountain in the early morning; but i kept with the party, and, well after eleven at night, we started on the home run down the mountain to san josé. the coming up was grand indeed, but the going down was better. the great moon flung its radiance over the vast expanse. it was a symphony in gray and silver. it was a downward plunge into black mysteries of overhanging mountains. it was delirious with possible dangers. it set one's heart throbbing, and the best relief we could have was in song and shout which roused the echoes of the night. we subsided into silence when we reached safety and the plain, and were rather bored than otherwise, as we cantered into the deserted streets of san josé at half-past two o'clock in the morning. how tame seemed the dull surroundings of even that pretty place at such an hour--a few saloons yet aglare, a light in an occasional window, all the rest ghostly, silent, and yet commonplace, too, after our splendid excursion to the stars. xvi sunday at san josé.--the big trees.--the fruit farm at gilroy.--hotel del monte.--the ramble on the beach.--the eighteen-mile drive.--dolce far niente. we stayed at san josé over sunday, and attended church morning and evening, furnishing from our number the preacher for both services. the church had a good choir of men and boys, surpliced, which was, very sensibly, placed near the organ in one of the transepts. a much better arrangement this is than putting all in the compass of a small chancel. to have choristers close up to the altar is not a commendable use, though very general. the structural choir of a cathedral gives ample room for singers and worshippers, with dignified and clear space about the chancel proper. the ordinary parish church, in its whole extent, should be treated as if it were just such a structural choir, with the singers well among the people in raised seats, for the prominence of their office and the better effect of the music. we had time on monday to take another stroll among the roses and palm trees of san josé, and then the car "lucania" in the forenoon took all our party, except one, to santa cruz, for an excursion to the big trees, about ten miles from there. all this i missed. from the leaves of the diary of one of the party i quote the impression of the trip: "when we reached santa cruz we found a four-horse stage and a carriage awaiting us, into which we got, and were driven back into the woods about ten miles, along a road that wound round with a deep cañon on one side, at the bottom of which ran a river. we finally forded this river, and went into deeper woods, where we found the 'big trees.' they were a grand sight, these solemn old trees, said to be four thousand years old, some of them towering up three hundred feet or so, and sixty and ninety feet in circumference. we all got into one, and our party of thirteen had plenty of room left for several more people. this tree was called after general frémont, who lived in it while surveying in this region. before that, it was occupied by a trapper, whose children were born in it. there are sixty acres of these trees which have been preserved from the ruthless greed that is rapidly destroying those priceless giants of the ages." it was a regret to me that i could not have seen the mystery of those venerable trees, but i had a duty to perform in visiting some relatives residing near gilroy. it gave me a nearer impression of the santa clara valley and its life. my visit was to a fruit ranch entirely given over to the growth of prunes. the part of the great plain where i was, is cut up into small farms, and these are tended, usually, by the members of the family. the work is limited and light. after the trees are planted, nature, pretty much, does all the rest. when the fruit is ripe is the time of most applied and constant labor. then, under the shadows of the live-oaks, the whole family attend to the curing of the fruit, which has to be dipped in lye and dried in the open air. it is a pretty and pastoral occupation; and with a horse, and a cow, and some poultry, an easy and comfortable life can be had. it lacks, however, the robust discipline of legitimate farming, with its varied enterprises, and constant changes of crops, of times and seasons. it is a lotos kind of existence, and when i heard of the meeting of reading circles, and of whist clubs, in which regular accounts of rubbers were kept, all through the winter, i knew that leisure was ample and life easy. while in gilroy i saw the little episcopal church, and enjoyed the happy pride of the old english gentleman, who for more than thirty years, had been senior warden, and had seen breck and the other california pioneers who labored arduously for the church in early days. i understood that breck had planted the two eucalyptus trees which guarded the entrance porch of the little building, trees which have now grown up to be quite large and imposing. leaving gilroy, i awaited our santa cruz party at a junction somewhere, and joined them for our run to the hotel del monte, and monterey. as in all santa clara valley, our way was through fruits, and flowers, and rich vegetation, until at last, we were once more at anchor, in the grounds of the hotel del monte. after tea we wandered out in the twilight through the umbrageous woods, and found that we were separated from the ocean only by a fringe of trees and shrubs, and some sand dunes, over which we had an exciting climb. the lonely walk, with the roar of the breakers in our ears, and their white foam breaking upon the beach, was a charming close for our day, whether we had seen the solemnity of the giant sequoia, or the humbler conditions of rural life on a ranch. stunted cedars in contorted shapes, battered and twisted by storms, began to look more weird in the gathering gloom, but before the light had quite faded out, we had filled our hands with bunches of a pale pink flower, like a morning-glory, with which the sands were dotted. the little fragile flower clung tenaciously to the shifting ground in which it grew, and gathered from all its hopelessness of surroundings, a vigorous life, much of tender beauty, and a fragrance which was refreshing. nature always shows us how to make the best possible use of any environment whatever. here, in sands which shifted, amid storms which blew, in utter humility and loneliness, the flower developed firmness, beauty, and fragrance, and gave evidence of constant vigor and of useful life. we had two full, glorious days at del monte, and they were hours of utter enjoyment. the hotel and its well-kept and extensive grounds were enough for a week, at the least, of intense pleasure. the site is a promontory of sand dunes, covered with pine and other native forest trees. the surrounding waters, the yellow sands, the clear, delicious air, the equable climate, the illimitable ocean--these were the raw material for the exquisite result, which one sees at del monte. in the immediate neighborhood of the hotel the landscape gardener has done his best. there, one hundred sixty acres of well-kept grounds feast the eye. irrigation brings the life-giving current to the sandy soil, and, while we look almost, the turf is green and velvety, the flowers bloom, and the fruits appear. nothing can be more bewitching than the winding drives to the hotel. great forest glades intercept the view, and give impression of still greater distance; or, a vista opens before one, and the huge pines tower up, their naked trunks wreathed closely to their topmost branches, with ivy and other creeping plants. wherever one looks there is evidence of intelligent care. one sees it in the rich flower-beds, models of good taste; in the arboretum; in the cactus garden; in the maze; in the unexpected groups of cultivated plants, where the enclosed garden joins on to the outlying wild. and, in this wild itself, what beauty does one find! the great ocean, the cliffs, the sea-lions, the chinese shell-gatherers; the winding drive of eighteen miles, by ocean, through rich land, and through the wild-wood, winding back again to the hotel, and all its graceful beauty and luxury. the place has all the sumptuousness of an english ducal palace standing on its ancestral grounds, with the added charm here, of space, and vastness, and that the whole place belongs to every eye which sees it--that is, if the hand can dip into the pocket and pay the necessary bills. but even without this, it does seem to belong to everybody in a certain true sense. the american hotel of every class, has about it a generous air of freedom for all, which is most remarkable. we were independent of the place in our own well-appointed car, and yet how freely all was at our bestowal; the corridors, the music, the reading and reception rooms, and all the magic perfection of the gardens. all was free as air, and we could wander at will, by the lovely lake, or in the charming gardens, or in the splendid hotel, without let or hindrance. here is a place where one might enjoy a thorough good rest, lapped in soft airs, close to the throbbing bosom of mother earth, within sight and sound of the sea, and housed in a hostelry which on every side speaks of comfort and refinement. there is no gaud or glitter, but ever the suggestion of home and all that home means. on one of our days there we took the eighteen-mile drive which i have incidentally mentioned above. it brought us through the old town of monterey, a little sleepy place, with many relics yet in it, of the days of ' . houses still remain, of which the bricks, or iron plates, used in their construction, were brought from liverpool or australia, or other points, when upon the shores of monterey the fierce tide of adventure dashed high, made eager for effort by the thirst for gold. during our stay at monterey we--that is, some of us--passed hours on hours strolling on the sands, and reclining in utter abandon on the shore. it was, to the full, the unutterable delight of an entirely irresponsible existence, which took no thought of time, not even of its flight, and luxuriated in the clear, pure air, the dashing breakers at our feet, and the blue heavens above. there was little of minute attraction upon the beach. it seemed as if all was on too huge a scale for mere minor attractions. there were no rocks to sit upon, but a whale's huge skull, half buried in the sand, made a good enough seat, and débris of that colossal character was all about us. but it mattered not. the very place itself, and the great pacific, stretching off westward to the orient, gave scope enough for the wings of our imagination, and we had present pleasure also, as we lay, in complete idleness, prone upon the warm sands. the declining sun, however, warned us to retrace our steps once more to the "lucania," where all the pleasures of home awaited us, and the varied experience of our day gave us conversation until bedtime. but before that hour, we were on our way back once more to san josé, where, the next day, we spent some hours renewing our former pleasant experiences, even with greater zest. our ladies, who went out for a walk, came back laden with gifts of flowers from hospitable friends, the acquaintances of the moment; and, as we started from san josé for oakland, our car looked like a bower of roses, laden with perfume. xvii oakland ferry-house and pier.--the russian church.--off eastward.-- crossing the mountains.--hydraulic mining.--stop at reno.--nevada deserts.--ogden.--the playing indian. as we turned our backs on san josé, we began to feel that we were heading for home, and were descending from romance and flowers, to the more commonplace conditions of existence. i question if it would be good for us to lead too long, the ideal and refined bohemian life, such as a well-appointed car, and no care, affords. it was with a sort of shock, that, after hours of travel, through smiling plain and upland, we found ourselves in the prosaic environment of oakland. our car was run out to the end of a pier, which stretched for miles, it seemed, into the bay. the vast expanse of water about us, the great city away off across the bay, and the frail-looking, but yet perfectly safe, piling on which our car had place, gave a tone of empty loneliness to everything, and we could not but feel gloomy. we were becoming fastidious. we wanted "roses, roses all the way," and absolutely were oblivious to the energy which had created this huge pier, crowned with the really splendid ferry-house, and a ferry-house is no uninteresting thing. how little do we think that the whole ferry business in the united states, especially in great centres such as new york, presents the most distinctively american thing we have; the very triumph of common sense and directness of means to the proposed end. we availed ourselves of the splendid ferry here at oakland, for a little run once more in san francisco. my errand was to try and hunt up the russo-greek church, and see something of it. i got to the place, and saw the exterior of what was once a magnificent residence, but now a decayed mansion in an unfashionable part of the city. it was given an ecclesiastical effect by being topped with several melon-shaped domes of zinc, brightly painted; these, and the pale blue on walls and doors and windows, gave quite the effect of russia. my visit, however, was fruitless. the fathers were all out, and a servitor in attendance opened the door, only a few inches, for a cautious parley. that glimpse showed me some rather rich paintings in the interior of the dwelling, but i had to rush back to our car without waiting for the return of the fathers, or the view of the church, which, i am sure, they would be glad to show me. once off from oakland, we were indeed on the home-stretch, but we had the mountains to climb, and much more to see. we passed through sacramento, the capital of the state, merely giving it a glance, as we journeyed on into the glory of the mountains. but of these mountains, how shall we speak! it was all a grand crescendo of magnificence, until the snowsheds, erected over the tracks, shut out the splendor of the scenery from our view. but even the glimpses through the chinks were worth looking at. we saw far beneath us the silver shield of a lonely and lovely lake, where in spirit we went. we saw, too, the glory of sunset tints upon the frozen peaks of distant heights. we saw, too, the great lines of the mountain-sides, in successive sweeps, pine-clad and lovely, but gigantic in their vast and repeated lines. the whole ride through those sheds was tantalizing and yet interesting. it certainly was a daring thing to conceive a protection from the winter's snow, of such extent; and to keep it all in repair, ever watched, and tended, must be an enormous task. it was a splendid sensation to climb those mountains on our iron horse, but yet one would fain see them better, and loiter a little among the camps and mining towns, and know more of the life. my attention was aroused to the fearful effects of hydraulic mining as we journeyed on ever upward. here and there, one could see the fearful work which ensued from such methods. the whole face of a mountain would be torn off bare, and the valley beneath filled in with refuse, to the depth of three hundred feet. it all looked like a great wound on the venerable mountains, while the river-beds in the valleys were choked, and distorted from their channels. a brakeman who was showing me a pocketful of nuggets and specimens, laughed me to scorn when i bemoaned the scarred and tortured look of the hills in sight. "what," said he, "are mountains good for but to get such stuff as that out of them?" as he tossed up a fragment of gold in the air, and caught it on his open and greedy hand. but, after all, how much more important mountains are as mountains, than mere gold-bearing protuberances, and how much more precious rivers are as life-givers to man and beast, rather than gold-bearers in their shifting sands. we were glad to know that legislative enactments have been made upon such mining processes, and that certain restrictions and limitations are in force, to protect nature against wasteful greed, and the reckless spoliation and destruction of mountain-side and valley stream. after our climb up the mountain, towards evening we found ourselves at reno. a wait for supper is made here (we were, of course, independent of such wayside places), during which we stretched our legs on the platform, looking at the many odd-looking people in view. a freakish notion got into me to be odd also, so, just to astonish the natives, i donned my japanese kimino, made of camel's-hair cloth of light buff hue, reaching down to my heels. with this on, i dared one of our ladies to walk with me, offering her my arm. this she did, with a good grace, and we certainly were the observed, if not the admired, of all observers. some of our party followed us at a little distance to gather up the remarks. "here comes brigham young, i guess," was one of them; another was, "that's pope leo, ain't it?" and yet another was, "no, it's bishop sommers." but in the midst of the fun, of which of course i seemed to be oblivious, my eye caught the grave face of a simon-pure jap, in american dress, standing by, with eyes, as wide open as he could get them, evidently mystified at my appearance. he could vouch certainly for the genuineness of the kimino, but the _tout ensemble_ was too much for him. i felt really sorry for the poor little japanese, he looked so lonesome, all alone in the crowd. possibly he might have felt badly that his possible brother countryman did not stop and speak with him! after leaving reno, our way took us through nevada, which we passed in the night. when day dawned upon us we found ourselves in desolate places, more lonely desert than anything we had yet seen. the following poem by charlotte perkins stetson most vividly describes the death-like aspect of the place. it is called-- a nevada desert "an aching, blinding, barren, endless plain; corpse-colored with white mould of alkali, hairy with sage-brush, shiny after rain, burnt with the sky's hot scorn, and still again sullenly burning back against the sky. "dull green, dull brown, dull purple, and dull gray, the hard earth white with ages of despair, slow-crawling, turbid streams where dead reeds sway, low wall of sombre mountains far away, and sickly steam of geysers on the air." in due time we reached ogden, a busy-looking place. we did not leave our car, however, for any inspection, waiting for the short run to salt lake city, where we were to spend the night and the next day. in the midst of all the car-tracks, and the many signs of commercial activity, a capering indian, with a blanket flung round his shoulders, amused us by his childish glee and activity. he was in the exuberance of his wild freedom, among all the business and anxieties which civilization brings. what did he care for it all! he was having a good run, and, for the fun of it, was racing with a young fellow on horseback, and was making rather good time, too. i was interested in this child of the past, this offspring of wild life, as without thought or heed for anything but the present moment, he lived out his day. in a short time we were at the city of the mormons, seeing in the distance, as we approached it, the spectral waters of the great salt lake. xviii salt lake city.--the governor of utah.--the zion coöperative store. --thoughts on mormonism.--the semi-annual conference.--the eisteddfod. --the mormon temple.--organ music.--panoramic view of valley.--statue of brigham young.--excursion to saltair.--departure from salt lake city. we had a full day in salt lake city, altogether too short a time for that interesting place, but we made the most of it and saw much. we were favored with letters of introduction to governor wells, whom we found in the state house, in most democratic fashion. he seemed a perfect type of utah, as seen at its best, cheerful and healthy, utterly unconventional. he seemed kindly by nature, and not from mere rules of etiquette. he received us in the office of the secretary of state; and, in his eagerness to arrange for some pleasure for us, in our short stay, he did not even think of asking us to be seated. an additional carriage was soon hospitably placed at our disposal, in the kindest manner, and in it the governor himself gave us his company. we went first to the great zion coöperative store, a huge establishment run by a joint-stock company, all members of the church of the latter-day saints, or mormons, as their more familiar designation runs. here, one could see that mixture of everyday life and religion, which is such a marked feature of the mormon development. mormonism, sprung from american soil, has developed within itself the ideas of church and state, and the limitations of individual freedom and responsibility, which one would imagine only possible under the most extreme conditions of belief in the divine right of kings, and the more positive divine right of a visible church. there is nothing new under the sun, and the principles which we supposed america never could brook, are here seen in embryo, or in fact, by the thoughtful observer. in view of the comfort and happiness which one sees in utah, and the mutual sympathy which the ideas i have mentioned exhibit, one is forced to pause and ask himself, may there not be an object-lesson for us in all this? may we not have thrown away from our social state, with too stern a hand, all reliance upon churchly influence, and exaggerated also that idea of personal independence, so dear to us, forgetting that the individual, in all the relations of his life, is a part of the state, a member of the body of the nation, and should be the object of its sympathy, its care, and its government, at all times and in all places? it was my second visit to salt lake, a place which has always interested me because of the social and religious problems which one sees there. in my last visit i happened casually to meet a priest of the roman catholic church, and asked him offhand what he thought of things around him. he looked at me fixedly for a moment, and then said, "there is not an organization on earth that can compare to mormonism, in its wide scope, its great grasp, and its practical application." i am inclined to think he is right. it was my accidental privilege to be in the city, during my former visit, while the semi-annual conference of the latter-day saints of utah valley was being held. the huge turtle-shell tabernacle, easily seating twelve thousand people, was filled daily. i saw the rank and file of mormons, the sturdy agriculturists and their wives, the latter like what one remembers of primitive methodists, apparently utterly oblivious of all personal adornment; they were, however, crowned with a maternity of which they seemed proud, as they held their children in their arms. at one end of the great ellipse of that tabernacle rose up, tier on tier of church officers, grade by grade, the seventies, the bishops, the angels, the apostles, up to the tripartite headship of three presidents, the first of which was elder woodruff, venerable, simple, and wise in appearance. back of all was the great organ, and a well-trained choir of three hundred singers. i heard a number of speeches or sermons, all offhand, and some of them rambling, but the aside excursions were usually on practical matters, or to emphasize the fact that the latter-day saints were the salt of the earth, the power to lead this nation upward from its bloodshed and wrong-doing; and hints were also given, here and there, that god would yet avenge the blood of the prophet slain at nauvoo. the most striking speech was that made by mr. cannon. he looked like a well-set-up new york business man, faultlessly dressed in an albert frock coat, with rubicund countenance and flowing mutton-chop whiskers. it was absolutely refreshing to hear him, in his clear-cut sentences, declare that he was then and there speaking under the direct inspiration of the holy ghost. the president, elder woodruff, at the conclusion of the meeting, gave his sanction to all that was said, thus sealing it as inspired, by his declaration. a superb anthem by gounod then floated out over that vast audience, as all remained seated, taking in the power of the music at their ease. at its close elder woodruff rose, and all rose with him. with a trembling voice he blessed all in the triune name of god, and the whole assembly scattered in a few moments through the surrounding doors of the tabernacle. the eisteddfod of our welsh citizens was in full blast in salt lake at the same time, and at night i attended the concluding concert. it was an enthusiastic occasion. there were strangers from points quite distant, and the place was packed. the acoustic qualities of the tabernacle gave wonderful power to both organ and voices, and the effect of the whole was very fine. while i was scanning the audience and choir with my opera-glass, one of the ushers asked me if he might look through it. of course he could. but i noticed that he kept pretty steadily to one point in the choir. on remarking that fact to him, he laughed and said, "yes, i was looking at my best girl; there she is, near the centre, dressed in heliotrope crêpe." i looked, too, and saw a remarkably pretty young woman. he further told me that he was a mormon, and so was his sweetheart; that they were going to marry, and that they were both opposed to polygamy. he was a bright young fellow, and in our conversation he told me that he had been admitted to some of the higher grades in the temple, and that there were mormons of the lower type, who never could get inside its walls. this leads me to speak of the strange combination of utter, naked simplicity in the ordinary worship of the mormons, and the extreme of ritual observances which have place in the secrecy of the temple. in the tabernacle, when i first saw it, there was not a symbol of any kind visible, no cross, no flower, no sign. in my recent visit, however, in honor, possibly, of the new statehood of the former territory, the star of utah, draped at each side by the stars and stripes, appeared over the organ, and some motto, which i forget, at the other end. the mormon temple is a huge structure of cut granite, brought from the neighboring mountains on canals constructed for the purpose. it is surmounted by six pinnacles of considerable height, and as seen from a distance, has a good effect. in architecture it is, however, quite nondescript, but doubtless admirably adapted for its purposes. it was thrown open to invited guests among the gentiles, or non-mormons, the morning before its consecration, for a few hours' private view. i have been told that the various rooms and passages were quite gorgeous and impressive in their furnishing and decorations. since then all such visitors have been shut out, the only entrance thereto has been kept closed, and will be, as the mormons say, until the second coming of christ. the great building stands in its own grounds, surrounded by flowers and shrubs, kept in beautiful order. outsiders can approach to within eight or ten feet of the front door, but no farther. a small building at one side gives admission to the faithful, who enter therefrom, to the temple itself, by means of a connecting underground passage. mormonism is a most interesting exhibition of primitive methodism, of socialism in certain of its aspects, of judaism, freemasonry, and ancient gnostic ideas, all combined with a compact hierarchy, which includes various orders of priests, the whole thing in perfect working order, taking thought for all, in all things, both of soul, mind, body, and estate. we were certainly charmingly treated by the mormons we met, and one must have for them respect and admiration. it did me good also to see one of the ladies who were with us, gowned in exquisite taste, quite a contrast to the rank and file of the tabernacle. her costume was a symphony in green, carried out in all its details perfectly, even to the gloves, the sunshade, and its malachite handle. we cannot soon forget the hospitality, the grace, and the sweetness which made us at home in salt lake city, and asked us to come again. i think i cannot do better to close this salt lake chapter than to quote _in extenso_ the very full notes from mrs. morgan's diary, which here i do: "at ten a.m. the carriages came to take us out, and we drove first to the state house, where we found governor wells, to whom dr. humphreys had an introduction. the governor received us most kindly, and he and mr. and mrs. hammond came driving with us, and pointed out the various objects of interest. we first drove through the business streets, visiting a large department store, and from there to the mormon tabernacle, which is a very peculiar building, something like an enormous turtle, the dome roof coming low down and resting on brick buttresses. between these buttresses are large doors, so that, it is said, this huge building, able to hold twelve thousand people, can be emptied in four minutes. "inside, a large gallery runs all round, and we walked to the opposite end, where we distinctly heard a pin dropped at the place from which we started, such are the perfect acoustic properties of the house." i may here add that a really gruesome effect was also produced by the mere rubbing together of the hands of the gentleman who dropped the pin. the distinct swish-swish of the contacting palms was terribly audible. mrs. morgan proceeds to tell us further: "the organist kindly played us a couple of selections, and, whether the organ was unusually good, or whether it was the effect of the building, i cannot say, but i never enjoyed music more. we afterwards all joined in singing 'my country, 'tis of thee.' "the temple is a handsome building in the same enclosure, built of granite, but 'gentiles' are not admitted to the inside. "we then were driven past the different residences of brigham young: the lion house, where three of his widows still reside; the bee hive, and the house where his favorite wife, amelia folsom, a cousin of ex-president cleveland's wife, resided. brigham young had seventeen wives, and fifty-seven children. we passed through the eagle gate, erected by brigham young, seeing also a fine site where he intended to build a college or seat of learning. we then went to a point where we had a beautiful view of the valley in which the city of salt lake lies, and a most remarkable and exquisite view it was. all around were the grand, snow-capped mountains, guarding and holding, as it were, in the hollow of their hands, the city, with its wide streets, and lines of straight, tall lombardy poplars, and its thousands of little homes, small and cosy, usually not more than one story in height. of course there were mansions and houses of more pretentious aspect, but it seemed to me essentially the workingmen's home. "the statue of brigham young adorns the centre of the town, and while one cannot but abhor certain of his religious views, one cannot but acknowledge that he was a far-seeing man of great ability. "it is stated that, great as has been the growth of the city, it has not reached the limit laid out for it by brigham young, when he and his handful of followers first settled in the then arid and desolate plain, with its brooding circle of white-tipped hills. "we returned to our car for dinner, and afterwards the governor arrived, bringing with him colonel and mrs. clayton. our car, at the governor's request, was attached to the regular passenger train to saltair, a point some five miles distant, on great salt lake. we found there a vast pavilion and bathing establishment, capable of accommodating thousands. the water of the lake is so strongly impregnated with salt, that nothing except a sort of minute shrimp lives in it. it was too early in the season for us to take a dip. we were assured that it was impossible to sink in the water. "on our way back we passed colonel clayton's salt beds, into which the water is pumped and left to evaporate. the salt which remains is piled into great heaps. some of it, in its crude state, is shipped to the silver mines, where it is used in the reducing of silver from the ore. some of the salt is taken to the refining houses, to be manufactured into the article of domestic use. we spent a pleasant hour in the great pavilion at saltair, and then returned in the car to the city, where our kind friends took leave of us, mrs. clayton telling me, before going, that i greatly resembled a daughter of brigham young's by his first wife! as mrs. clayton herself was of the mormon faith, as was also governor wells, i took it, as it was intended to be, as a compliment." night was settling down upon us as we turned eastward from salt lake city, with faces homeward bound. the picturesque desert, with its purple hills and terraced mountains, was all concealed by the darkness. at the early morning hour we reached glenwood springs, but decided not to stay there, and continued on without delay to colorado springs, reaching there on the evening of a day, never to be forgotten, of which we will tell in the next chapter. xix glenwood springs.--the pool.--the vapor baths.--through the cañons.-- leadville.--colorado products.--cañons in new york. when we reached glenwood springs, it was in the early morning. the place from the railroad station does not look inviting, and so it was decided to push on to denver. this was a loss, for glenwood springs has many advantages, worth seeing, and a hotel of real comfort and elegance. the hot springs there are quite extensive, and the medicinal baths are delightful. the bathing places are in the highest style of art, elegantly fitted up with all that modern appliances, following ancient models, can accomplish. there is also a huge, open-air swimming-pool, filled with water, from the hot springs, giving most luxurious enjoyment. it was my good fortune, on a former visit, to enjoy both it, and the further pleasure of a natural vapor bath within the rock recesses of one of the mountains. it was a weird experience. it was late one evening, and i happened to be the only bather there. the negro attendant, a most obliging fellow, took me in charge. under his directions, after disrobing, he gave me a shower bath of cold water, and then, with a wet towel on my head, he ushered me into a rocky cavern. some boards extended over fissures in the ground, from whence one could hear the gurgling of the boiling springs far beneath. the rocks overhead leaned against one another, and their great crevices were dark with shadows. there were a few plain wooden benches, blackened with the sulphur fumes; but, as if to assure one that the savage-looking place was really tame, after all, an electric light, in full glare, hung down from above, making the strange surroundings visible in all their mystery of heat beneath, and blackness below and beyond. i watched the experiment of the vapor upon myself, and soon was in a profuse perspiration. my faithful negro cautioned me not to be too long in my first attempt, so i was soon out again to get the protection of another wet towel on my head. after that, all was enjoyment. the whole experience was unique, and in due time i had the further luxury of a good rub down, and a lounge for some time on a couch, helped on also, by a cup of good, black coffee. i could scarcely tell which was best; to float in sulphur water in the open air, with others, under the bright light of day, in the big pool; or, to be utterly alone in the clefts of the everlasting mountains, surrounded by their mysterious warmth, and melted by their embrace. it seemed to me the last ought to have the preference. as i have said, our party decided to press on from glenwood. hours were precious on the homeward run, and to have a whole day for the wonders of the colorado mountains was something. we first passed through the cañon of the grand river, a fitting prelude to all that was to come. then we travelled along the eagle river cañon, and, last of all, experienced the wild wonders of the royal gorge. it was a day of continued excitement and exalted pleasure. it is hard to put in words the impressions of these immense rocky passes. one may think of the giant forces which cleft asunder their rugged sides in times so far removed as to be scarcely conceivable. then, as one sees the detached rocks, and the great moraines at the mountain bases, and notes the clinging trees, and wild shrubs, and many flowers, one must think of the rolling seasons, the heat, the frost, the forces of the wind, and the storm, and the constant changes which come with rain and sunshine, with growth, and with decay. and then, wherever one looks, there, at right hand, or at left of the railway track, is the rushing river, roaring on without stop or stay--day and night--forever. it was these streams which gave a hint of the pathway; first, to the red man, and then to the frontier trapper, and gold-hunter, and last of all, to the engineers who built the iron track over which we were speeding, swiftly, and in peace. the picturesque effect of all is as varied as the thoughts which must come in such a place. the rapid motion of the train, the ever-changing point of view, as the track winds its sinuous way by the tortuous river-bed--all gives a sort of motion to the vast, overhanging cliffs, which seem to dance past one, like giants on a frolic. i remember once making the journey through these passes, going west from denver. the view from the car windows was not enough for me. i planted myself on one of the car platforms, linked my arm round the railing, and with my feet on the steps, sat on the floor, swinging out, as far as i safely could, to take it all in. thus, oblivious of the dust, i sat for an hour, and at last, satiated by the views on views, returned contented to my seat. just then a brakeman said to me, "we are now entering the royal gorge." i had almost surfeited myself with the mere prelude to the repast. the best was brought on, when my appetite was, so to speak, appeased. but, what did appear, was too good to neglect, so i was soon at it again as before, and did not leave my perch until we had passed through all the glories which the royal gorge contained. the climax was reached in a spot too narrow for a track by the side of the raging torrent. our railroad was suspended from the sides of the towering mountains by a huge iron construction, over which we passed, until wider space beyond, gave us again a hold on _terra firma_. through all this region there is also the evidence of energy and force of another kind. one sees the deserted huts of the gold-hunters, who prospected, it may be in vain, or made their "pile and cleared out." there is a terrible fascination in this eager hunt for wealth, and those who hunt all their lives, often get least, and die in misery. i was once in victor, the next town to cripple creek, and while there, heard, in the most casual way, that tom brennan, i think that was his name, had been found in the mountains, dead, by his own hand. his luck was gone, starvation stared him in the face, and, old, and hopeless, in his lone misery, he sought death, alone. when one sees, away up on some apparently inaccessible height, an indication of fresh earth, and a black aperture at the top of it, and realizes that in that spot, some one, or it may be more, are digging and delving for a wealth that may never come, the thought is inevitable of possible ruined hopes, or of sudden wealth, as fortune may frown or smile. but here, as well as everywhere, and in all relations of life, the poet's words come true, "the many fail, the one succeeds." it is well for us, however, that failures, which may be possible, never daunt us from effort, and the search, for that which the soul longs for. we picture to ourselves success ever. failure, like death, too often comes, unannounced. it is the spirit of daring and adventure which still peoples the lonely mines on the mountain-sides; which fills the mining towns on their highest crests, and which keeps the miners busy, whether on their highest heights, or in the closeness of their deepest depths. while on my way, a gentleman met me on the train, and pressed me to stop over at leadville, promising that he would take me down the deepest gold mine in the place. i could not stay, even for that approach to the presence of all-powerful gold. i am sure that the underground view of leadville would be better than that which the sun looks upon. it is not an inviting-looking place. it lies on the great top surges of the mountains, having all the bleakness of a plain, and the rarefied atmosphere of the mountain summit, which it really is. it is always a weird thing to look at the scenes of early mining days in leadville, when the fame of the fabulous wealth therein, entered into men's brains, with an intoxication, like that of some oriental drug. california gulch looks like the dried bed of a mountain torrent. what must it have been when every inch of it was staked out in claims, and men, by men, close together, but widely separate in their interests, shovelled up the dirt, and peered with eager gaze therein for the yellow gold. it is well to realize that even in colorado, which is considered more a mining than an agricultural state, the farm products, at the present time, far outweigh in value the entire annual output of the mines. the prosaic toil, as some may deem it, of the spade, and the plough; and the pastoral occupation of stock-raising and dairy farming, are better wealth-makers than the pick of the miner, or the labors of the mining engineer. the great day of our run through the giant attractions of the mountains comes to a close at pueblo, a busy railroad centre, where our track bends to the north, and brings us at nightfall to colorado springs. when we remembered all the glories of the day, the great mountain clefts through which we passed, the roaring torrents which accompanied us, the fantastic coloring of the rocks, and the evidences of labor and energy which we had seen on every hand; and remembered also the untold wealth which lay concealed, whether gold and silver, or rock oil, or the produce of ranch and cattle range, our thoughts gathered up a splendid impression of opulence, actual, and future. yet, wild and vast as it all was, we could not help thinking also, that the nearest approach we had anywhere seen, to the glories through which we had passed, had been already presented to us by the streets of new york. yes, it is like seeing a grand cañon, to look from murray hill on some october afternoon, down fifth avenue. there it all is,--the towering edifices at each side are the mountains, the crowd rushes on like the river,--all is color, life, and motion; and the blue haze of the autumn day gives vagueness and mystery to the descending perspective, as it comes to a point in washington square. one sees the same effect also on lower broadway, where the huge buildings, and the wealth and energy which they express, suggest ever to my mind the splendors of the great cañons of the west. xx colorado springs.--ascent of pike's peak.--the view from the summit.-- the descent.--the springs at manitou.--treasury of indian myth and legend.--the collection of minerals.--glen eyrie.--the garden of the gods.--victor hugo on sandstone. we found much to interest us in colorado springs. it is a town of great fame as a health resort, and lies on a splendid plateau, with the background of the rocky mountains, and pike's peak, in all its snowy splendor, in the middle distance. near by is colorado city, and joining on to that is manitou, where lie the wonderful mineral springs, from which the city of "colorado springs" gets its name. the wise men who founded the city, knew well that there was no room for expansion in the alpine clefts where the springs lie; and yet they knew, too, their value as an attraction. hence, the shrewd wisdom to bravely adopt a _lucus a non lucendo_, to call their town "colorado springs." they had them not, it is true, but they were near at hand. it is well that they thus decided for both site and name; for the place chosen, gives ample scope for wide streets, and all the room for expansion, which the coming years demand. as it is, the growth of the place has been phenomenal. it is hard to realize that the public buildings, the churches, the schools, and the splendid homes are all the result of a comparatively brief period. after our vast journey, we were not in much of a mood for more aggressive sightseeing; but some of our party, bravely attempted the ascent of pike's peak, on the cog railway, just opened for the season. when the party was near the summit, a furious snow-storm came down upon them. the track had been cleared of snow some days before, and huge piles of it lay on each side of the course, but this sudden storm gave fresh obstruction. men were detailed to clear away the encumbrance, so as to get the train clear up to the adjacent summit; but as they were thus engaged in front, the snow-storm was rapidly filling in the track behind. it was fortunately observed that the dreadful possibility of being snowed up on that bleak height, was imminent; so all hands were called away from further effort to get farther on, and a speedy retreat was made to safety and a lower level, where snow was not. our merry party had a good snow-balling time, while all this was going on, and did not know, until their return, the fearful possibilities from which they had escaped. the view from pike's peak toward the east is magnificent. the memory of it will never leave me, as i saw it years ago. the vast plain of kansas stretches out, more sublime even than the ocean. one can mark the winding water courses, by the trees which line their banks; and the dimness, which covers all the great distance, has a sublime effect. as i descended in the cog train, a furious thunder-storm blotted all the landscape from the view; but soon the converging lines of the mountains became visible, the sun shone out once more from the west, and that great plain was spanned with a double rainbow, so huge, so brilliant, so all-embracing, that its like could not easily be seen, except under similar conditions, and those would be hard to match. it was the most splendid spectacle i have ever beheld. we had two days at colorado springs and vicinity, and enjoyed to the full the charm of our situation at manitou, where our good car "lucania" again found a pleasant anchorage. the mineral springs at manitou, are of iron and soda. they are now all tamed and chained to commerce; and the place, in the season (we were too early for it), is a scene of excursions, and merry-makings, and all that kind of life which delights in shows and curio shops, and restaurants at all prices. how sacred a place it must have been to the wild children of the mountain and the plain, as they sought its mystic retreat, for the sake of its healing waters, and its strange, sparkling streams! it was for them, indeed, from manitou, the great spirit. from the parching drought of the burning summer sun, or the ice-bound cold of winter, they could enter here, at any time, and find refreshment for their thirst, and healing for their wounds. there surely must be a whole treasury of indian myth and legend clustering round this spot and its wonderful sacred fountains, all well worth the study of the antiquarian and the poet. i am confident that the place is as rich, in all such matters, as ever delphi was, or the sacred places of the greeks. we were charmed, while at manitou, by a visit to a superb collection of minerals, beautifully arranged, and all, the product of colorado. there is something especially attractive in mineral beauty. it took its form in the mystery of darkness, and there, in all its beauty, would remain forever, content to be. but man brings it to the light of day, and we are thrilled as we look at the perfect forms of the crystal, at the rich verdure of the velvet malachite, at the varied veinings of onyx and of agate, and at the many wonders which we admire, but cannot name. we were told that this splendid collection had been purchased for ten thousand dollars, and was to be shown at the paris exhibition of . it is well worthy of such a place. while at colorado springs we had one or two splendid drives. we went through glen eyrie, the residence of general palmer. the romantic place is kept generously open for carriages, but it is not permitted to any one to dismount, or drive in the roads marked private. it is a delightful spot, where nature is left yet in much of its wildness, and just enough of landscape gardening introduced to give a note of home and refinement. an eagle's nest, high up on the rocks, gives the name glen eyrie to the attractive place. we also went to the garden of the gods. this is a great space hemmed in by huge crags, and covered all over with fantastic rock formations. as we drove through, our coachman sounded out the names of the grotesque groups as we passed them by. it required but little imagination to improve on his list. whatever the mind might fancy, the sandstone was ready to give. the rocks were as variable and changing as the clouds in "hamlet." they might be whales, or bears, or dragons, or toadstools, or demons, or anything else vague and fantastic. i can imagine how such a place would set a nervous person mad. not, that it is not beautiful also, in a certain sense, but, the gibing, the mocking, the absurd prevails; and one is almost shocked, even when in most sober mood. the mental distress, possible in such a place, seemed all concentrated in the face of a lone young bicyclist, with bicycle by his side, who eagerly questioned us as to the way to manitou. he had lost his way amid these gruesome wonders, and although it was ludicrous to see his distress, one could not but sympathize with his misery, while lost in this wild, so full of monsters. i may here quote what victor hugo, in his "alps and pyrenees," says of sandstone. it would seem as if he was actually describing some of the fantastic forms which we saw in the garden of the gods. "sandstone," he says, "is the most interesting of stones. there is no appearance which it does not take, no caprice which it does not have, no dream which it does not realize. it has every shape; it makes every grimace. it seems to be animated by a multiple soul. forgive me the expression with regard to such a thing. "in the great drama of the landscape, sandstone plays a fantastic part. sometimes it is grand and severe, sometimes buffoon-like; it bends like a wrestler, it rolls itself up like a clown; it may be a sponge, a pudding, a tent, a cottage, the stump of a tree; it has faces that laugh, eyes that look, jaws that seem to bite and munch the ferns; it seizes the brambles like a giant's fist suddenly issuing from the earth. antiquity, which loved perfect allegories, ought to have made the statue of proteus of sandstone. "the aspects presented by sandstone, those curious copies of a thousand things which it makes, possess this peculiarity: the light of day does not dissipate them and cause them to vanish. here at pasajes, the mountain, cut and ground away by the rain, the sea, and the wind, is peopled by the sandstone with a host of stony inhabitants, mute, motionless, eternal, almost terrifying. seated with outstretched arms on the summit of an inaccessible rock at the entrance of the bay, is a hooded hermit, who, according as the sky is clear or stormy, seems to be blessing the sea, or warning the mariners. on a desert plateau, close to heaven, among the clouds, are dwarfs, with beaks like birds, monsters with human shapes, but with two heads, of which one laughs and the other weeps--there where there is nothing to make one laugh and nothing to make one weep. there are the members of a giant, _disjecti membra gigantis_; here the knee, there the trunk and omoplate, and there, further off, the head. there is a big-paunched idol with the muzzle of an ox, necklets about its neck, and two pairs of short, fat arms, behind which some great bramble-bushes wave like fly-flaps. crouching on the top of a high hill is a gigantic toad, marbled over by the lichens with yellow and livid spots, which opens a horrible mouth and seems to breathe tempest over the ocean." it was a regret to leave colorado springs, but dear home was before us, and denver, which we reached in the darkness, brought us nearer there. xxi denver.--the union station.--the departing trains.--the beauty of denver.--dean hart and the cathedral.--the funeral service.--seeing denver. it was quite late in the evening when we reached denver; but late as it was, we could enjoy, for an hour or so, the handsome union station, and watch the trains, made up for their midnight start, east, west, north, and south. it is really a beautiful thing to see those various trains, awaiting their departure, side by side upon the tracks. their appointments are so splendid; the life exhibited so varied; and the lighted trains, the uniformed attendants, and the whole scene so interesting, that it is well worth observing. the quiet of the whole thing, too, is remarkable. it is all intensely busy, but almost noiseless and at rest. american force, ever quiet, is behind all. off the trains go, as if by magic, just a little creeping, gentle motion at first; and then, the great steam monsters in front eat the ground, and in thunderous motion the long trains speed away, to their one, two, or even three thousand-mile destinations. how splendid it all is! to some, perhaps, a mere commonplace thing, but to me, ever a scene of deep interest, filled with human force, and freighted down with human cares, and hopes; with sorrows, too; and, let us hope, also, with many joys. in the morning we could see how denver looked by daylight. the little city is a beauty that need not fear the day. one gets such an agreeable impression of denver from the very first. the great union station is attractive, and when one leaves it for home or hotel, one is greeted by a garden of living green, and by trees and shrubs in flourishing verdure. these gardens which greet one on emerging from the station, are like the beautiful initial letters one sees on old manuscripts, all glittering in gold and colors, inviting one to peruse and value the precious pages. we had two lovely days in denver, and our party scattered about at will. some went to call on old friends, and cemented anew the ties which might rust, but could never break. some went shopping, while others lounged in delicious idleness, without helm or oar, just drifting. to visit denver and not see dean hart at the cathedral would be an irreparable loss. we called upon him, and found him, as he always is, genial, animated, and brimful of good humor and hospitality. busy as he also always is, he yet found time to call at the "lucania," and to tell more than one of his good stories. some of our party attended a missionary meeting of ladies, held in the cathedral, and brought from thence impressions of earnest workers, of bright, telling speeches, and of much hospitable good cheer. the cathedral at denver is a romanesque structure, of quite stately proportions, with an effective interior; some very good stained glass; a choir screen of wrought iron, interesting in workmanship; and the whole place has a comfortable sumptuousness quite attractive. it is the intention to face the outside, some time or other, with native sandstone, and the interior also with some suitable material of more ornamental character. i have a memory of a service held in that cathedral, which in sad solemnity i have never seen surpassed. it was the funeral of a gentleman who lost his life in the wild waters of the grand cañon of the colorado. he was with a railroad surveying party; the boat he was in was upset, and the waters were so violent, that his body was instantly sucked down in the boiling depths, and never more was found. his dear wife was in london, when the news reached her. at once she returned to denver, and hoped that once more she would lay eyes on her beloved dead. but all in vain. no human hand could reach the depths, where all that was mortal of her love, was forever hidden. in this sad condition of circumstances, it was determined to hold the funeral services, as if the body were present, to his wife and friends, as it was to god, whose all-seeing eye beholds all depths. the mourning group was met at the door of the church; the sentences were read as usual, proceeding up the aisle; the service went on in the accustomed manner, and the words of committal, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes," were read, with the added awfulness of that body being we knew not where. the thrilling silence and tears of that congregation were almost painful as the words were uttered. then came the final prayers, and, while we were yet on our knees, the organist, in deep, muffled tones, whispered out the dead march in "saul." no one moved until all the strains of that sublime, yet simple wail of sorrow were ended; and then, all rose in silence, and remained standing until the mourning party had left the church. it was such a funeral as few have ever seen with all its strangeness, and its pathos. i have never forgotten it. perhaps during our stay in denver, our trip on the street-cars gave us most pleasure, and this, too, at little cost. on a sign at the brown palace hotel we saw an inscription--"seeing denver, twenty-five miles, twenty-five cents." there was genius in that simple, fetching announcement. at the hour named for starting we got on board an electric car, and away we went. we were switched in all directions through the business part of denver, by all the public buildings, round and round, and then away out to the suburbs. at one point we had a magnificent view of the mountains, with pike's peak, eighty miles away, snow-crowned, and plainly visible. we had a magnificent ride, and it seemed even more than twenty-five miles. during it all we were accompanied by the proprietor of the enterprise, a keen-looking young fellow, who acted as guide, giving us his information, in a sort of languid manner, which made his witty sallies more witty still. his closing speech, in which he intimated that his sole and only motive for getting up this really convenient system of "seeing denver" was for our special benefit, was irresistibly comic in its assumed seriousness. he deserved all he got from the trip, and we wished him the extensive patronage he deserves. when we left denver it was as if all the special novelties of the trip had come to an end, and the sooner home the better; such is the effect of satiety even in the luxurious travel we had been enjoying. we left denver, teeming as it is with interest, the paris of the west; and night settled down upon us as we bore directly east from pueblo. xxii through kansas.--kansas city.--the cattle yards.--the bluffs.--the fight between the merrimac and the monitor. our homeward route took us through the southern part of kansas. it was refreshing to see the vast, verdant plains which greeted us in the early morning light. it is a great and glorious land, and all day long we watched the farms, the houses, the villages, and the towns, as we journeyed onward, ever onward. the whole country was in richest green, resulting from the recent almost too profuse rains. but nothing in kansas goes by halves. it is a drought or a deluge, a dead calm or a cyclone. how can it be otherwise! from the rockies to the alleghanies, it is all a vast, curving plain. the fluid air, in such a wide area, when influenced in any way, must be on a gigantic scale. a tilt of half an inch at one point, will be a mile in height, thousands of miles farther on. such a proportion of oscillation tells. one could but dream of coming empire and western enterprise and power yet unthought of, while lounging about in our flying train, homeward, still homeward, every moment, over those vast plains. we had ample leisure for this delicious, idle dreaming. we looked on, as if we were denizens of another world, as we saw the bustle at passing stations, and the play of varied human interests which disported themselves before our magnificent heedlessness of it all. we were cut off, for the nonce, from all such care or thought, flying onward, filled with pleasure, to our eastern home. it was night when we made our first stop of any length. that was at kansas city. we here crossed the "big muddy," or the missouri river, swollen by the extraordinary rains, and looking more than ever like a tawny lion. as we neared kansas city we could see across the waters of the river to the other side, where myriads of cattle wandered like spectres, awaiting further immediate shipment east, or, the nearer end of the adjacent slaughter-houses. how sad it all seemed. the cattle, magnified by the intervening air, loomed up hugely across the brown waters of the river. they seemed like victims of destiny, conscious of their doom; and the sullen river, and the shades of the falling day, gave fitting color and setting to the melancholy picture. i asked a lady by my side, "do you see all those cattle?" "yes," said she; "i cannot bear to look at them." our thoughts were the same. how fortunate it is for us that our poor, four-footed brethren cannot probe our motives as we fatten our flocks and herds, and tend them with tireless assiduity! the beasts do love us, perhaps, and think us good and kind, and their best friend. i wonder, as they face the knife or the mallet, at the sublime moment of the end, are they awakened at last to the true inwardness of their false friend, man! all this great prairie journey was a pleasant contrast to the great deserts and mountains we had passed, since we flew down through jersey, the southern states, across texas and arizona, out to california and the rockies with all their wonders. our stay in kansas city was limited to a few hours, but in that time some of us ventured out on the streets, which were not very inviting, down on the bottom lands among the grime of the railroad tracks. kansas city lies, the best part of it, on high bluffs overlooking the great missouri river, and its tributary, at this point, the kaw. it is really a picturesque place, and capable of being beautified to any extent. the bluffs are quite precipitous, and on their shelving sides a number of squatters have settled, with their nondescript cabins and huts, giving a sort of rag-fair look to the general aspect of the town as seen as a whole. but the city fathers have awakened to the fact, that those precipitous bluffs can be made highly ornamental, by green sod and trees and flowers. a great park plan has been projected for all those curving spaces, and ere long the city will be made unique and beautiful by those winding, aspiring, and splendid plantations, out of which the homes, the churches, and public buildings will rise as from a garden. in our brief stay we called on our dear and old-time friend, the rev. j. stewart smith, of st. mary's, or, rather, i should say he called on us, for, having announced our coming by telegraph, he was there at the station to meet us. it so happened that a day or two before he had written, for one of the local papers, his recollection of the great fight between the merrimac and the monitor in hampton roads in the year . how much has transpired since then! in view of it all, and our cuban war still on, all now happily over as i write, i thought that my dear friend's recollections would be of interest, as that of an eye-witness of that great first battle between armored ships. here is what he says: "one of my earliest recollections is of the united states frigate, merrimac, which anchored off norfolk in before making her first voyage. like most small boys, i was deeply interested in anything that would float, and when one of the officers took me on board and showed me everything to be seen, explaining, so far as was possible to make a child understand, the workings of a warship, i was perfectly happy. i asked many questions, and ever afterward i felt a peculiar interest--almost a sense of ownership--in that vessel. "at the beginning of the war the merrimac was again in hampton roads, undergoing repairs at the navy yard, just across the river from norfolk. one saturday night early in april, , norfolk was abandoned by the federal forces. the next day the dry dock was blown up, the navy yard, all the smaller crafts, the pennsylvania, perhaps the largest vessel in the service--too large, in fact, to be seaworthy, but which had been for years used as a training-ship at the port--and the merrimac were set on fire. "i can never forget the scene on that sunday morning. words cannot describe the excitement of the people. the harbor was dotted with burning vessels; the ear was startled by repeated explosions, and the whole scene was backed by a mass of roaring flame devouring shops, storehouses, and sheds about the navy yard. "the fires were brightly burning when, with hundreds, i found myself on the ground, which was still hot, picking out nails from the touch-holes of the heavy guns hastily abandoned. some were properly spiked, nails had been simply dropped into others, and many had not received even this attention. but the thing that interested me more than all else was the flames still licking the black sides of the huge pennsylvania, and the graceful form of 'my ship,' the merrimac, now burning to the water's edge. "the confederate government was quick to take advantage of the situation. the navy yard was rebuilt, and the dry dock repaired. the plan of rebuilding the merrimac was proposed, but was found impracticable on account of the expense, although her hull was almost uninjured. lieutenant john mercer brooks and joseph l. porter then presented a plan for converting her into a floating battery, which was accepted. a high fence was built around the dock and the work began. great secrecy was maintained, but i was able to gain admission two or three times, and to look with wondering eyes on the strange structure. the hull was cut down to the water-line, a low deck was built out at the bow and stern, heavy oak timbers were set up like the rafters of a house inclined at an angle of about degrees, and these were covered with several thicknesses of railroad iron, which extended into the water. when finished, the vessel looked like a long, black roof with the top cut off so as to be flat. around this ran a light iron rail, a wide funnel rose about the middle, and a low pyramidal structure pierced with small sight-holes served to protect the pilot. as i recall her, she carried two guns forward and three aft on each side, and one or two at both bow and stern. she had no mast, except a short one at the stern for the flag. the bow was pointed without curving, and an oak ram, protected by a heavy iron shoe, extended forward under water. her name was changed to the virginia, but every one spoke of her still as the merrimac. one day it was announced that she was ready to go out, and the next that she was a failure. for weeks reports of the most conflicting character were in circulation, and no one could find out anything definite. "the report of her failure had, however, generally been credited, when on saturday morning, march , , the news came that she was going out. it spread like wildfire, and soon every one in the city was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. slowly she steamed down the river, looking like a floating shed, and with her went the jamestown, the patrick henry, and several other vessels that made up the confederate fleet. the town was wild; whistles blew, bells rang, guns were fired, people shouted, the air was full of flags and hats and cries. every one who could do so hastened toward sewell's point to see the expected battle. vehicles of every description were pressed into service, and those who could not ride set out to walk through the sand. "the congress and the cumberland rode at anchor a few hundred yards from shore, and not far away the minnesota and the roanoke. these vessels were a part of the united states blockading fleet. as the merrimac drew near, we on the shore could see the preparations making on the wooden ships to receive their strange foe. the guns of the congress roared out, and those of the cumberland joined in the chorus, but although fired at short range, their shot fell harmless from the iron sides of the merrimac. the flash of cannon, and the exploding shells, were clearly seen when the smoke would lift. "as if in disdain of the puny weapons turned against her, the ironclad went slowly on till she seemed to bury herself in the side of the cumberland. she had rammed the big ship. the guns roared again and again, but without effect, and lurching forward, the cumberland sank in fifty feet of water, her masthead, from which floated the flag, remaining visible above the waves. "the merrimac then turned her attack upon the congress, and the other confederate ships began to engage in the battle. the congress soon ran aground and was practically helpless against the tremendous fire that was turned against her. about four o'clock her flag was hauled down, and she was boarded by a confederate officer. later she was discovered to be on fire in several places, and, her magazine exploding, she was destroyed. the minnesota was next assailed. she also ran aground, and the merrimac could not reach her, but the wooden fleet poured in shot and shell, inflicting serious damage. as night was now drawing on, the confederate fleet withdrew, having carried everything before it. "early sunday morning the merrimac again turned seaward, evidently intending to attack the minnesota. i hurried down to a point on the south side of the bay, from which i could get an unobstructed view of whatever might take place. the monitor had arrived the night before. i had never seen the strange-looking craft, but the minute i laid eyes on it i knew what it was. young as i was, i realized that i was about to witness the most remarkable naval battle that was ever fought up to that time--the first encounter between ironclads. "the merrimac was the pride of my heart. when i saw the monitor i wondered what the result of the fight would be. with a glass in my hand i shivered with excitement as they approached each other. the two strangest vessels on the sea were face to face. a cheese-box on a plank, all painted black, not inaccurately describes the monitor's appearance. she was much smaller and more active than the confederate vessel, and carried only two guns, but these could be pointed in any direction by the revolving of her turret. quickly they engaged, and the fight soon became furious. "the guns on the merrimac poured forth broadside after broadside. the shot and shells glanced off the turret of the monitor and fell harmless into the water. in the same way, the heaviest shot from the monitor's guns bounded off the slanting sides of the merrimac, like foul balls from a player's bat. sometimes it looked as if they were in actual contact. even then the shells did no harm of any consequence to either vessel. "the minnesota joined in the conflict, and fired her broadside of fifty guns into the merrimac. it seemed to me that every shot struck, but they all fell harmless from the invulnerable sides of the ironclad. the battle was waged with terrific rapidity of action. now the two craft seemed joined together, now the monitor would run around the merrimac, as if trying to find a weak spot. the sound of the cannonading was deafening, even at my distance. "the merrimac presently withdrew. the crowd on the shore trembled and asked what the matter could be. was she defeated? there was only a moment's suspense, but it seemed like an hour. the answer came soon. suddenly swinging around, the merrimac paused for a minute, then steamed with full head against the monitor. the little 'cheese-box' staggered from the blow, but soon righted and continued firing, practically unharmed. when the cumberland was rammed, the iron shoe that covered the merrimac's ram was torn off, and so she had nothing but the oak foundation to oppose to the iron sides of the monitor. "this was about the last incident of the fight. shortly afterward the two vessels drew apart, the smoke lifted, and neither of them showed any disposition to renew the battle. the monitor headed toward fortress monroe, and the merrimac steamed toward the minneapolis, as if to continue the fight, but passed on without attacking her, and rested under the guns of the confederate battery at craney island. "norfolk was evacuated by the confederates two months later, the navy yard was burned, and many ships were destroyed. an effort was made to get the merrimac to richmond, but it was impossible to take her over the bar at the entrance of the james river. just at daylight, sunday morning, may th, we in norfolk were awakened by an explosion whose meaning all quickly guessed. the merrimac had been blown up by her commander, josiah tattnall, and so effectively destroyed that no fragments sufficient to reveal the details of her construction were ever recovered. "the monitor was lost in a storm off cape hatteras at midnight of december of the same year ( ). the two ironclads, which in a single day had changed the face of war and revolutionized the navies of the world, thus found early graves." xxiii st. louis.--beautiful residences.--forest park.--the levee.--alton.-- old friends.--legend of the piasa.--the confluence of the rivers.--the union depot.--the car of the international correspondence schools.-- crossing the bridge. we reached st. louis in the early morning hour, after a pleasant night's rest on our good car "lucania." the country approaching st. louis looks rich and luxuriant, with fine trees, and well-established country places. the effect of an older culture was at once apparent, as we approached this great city of the west. our car anchorage was in the magnificent union station, a very large place, indeed, and excellently managed. some of our party again took to the street cars, and in that democratic fashion, saw much of the town. at a later period in the day, some of us had a lovely carriage ride through the best residential portion of the city. we were more than surprised at the beautiful streets, lined with spacious palaces, each in its own separate grounds. to a new yorker's eyes, this roominess of arrangement, was especially attractive. charming effects were produced by beautiful gardens in the middle of certain secluded streets, with fountains and flowers, all kept in beautiful order. the private grounds around the separate houses were in like good shape. all looked sumptuous, and in the best possible taste. to drive into one of these "places" through the ornamental gates, and see the richness of the central parterre, the well-kept streets at each side, and the generous sidewalks and rich verdure surrounding the houses, was a new sensation. the general verdict was, that even in new york, there was nothing like that. all this urban development is the work of the last fifteen or twenty years. such communal and united display was not the custom of the early french settlers. they loved the enclosed privacy of their own grounds, as in new orleans, but times have changed, and the dwellers in st. louis have changed with them. we drove also in forest park, a really beautiful place, with a spaciousness truly magnificent. our stay in st. louis was barely a day. we took a glimpse at the river front, once a busy scene with its fleet of steamboats running from the northwestern wilds, by way of the missouri and its tributaries, and down to the gulf of mexico, by way of the mississippi. but the glory of the steamboating days is gone forever. the iron horse now does the greater part of the carrying trade, and great railroad bridges span the father of waters at several points, and more are coming. i took a little independent trip from st. louis by rail, to alton, on the illinois side. it just took three hours; one to get there, one there, and one to return. it was many long years since i resided in alton, and it was with a sort of fearfulness that i made the excursion. would any one remember me? were my friends yet living? and so on. i crossed the great railroad bridge over the mississippi, and up on the east bank to alton, which lies just above the confluence of the two great rivers. i passed through, on the illinois side, what seemed a continuous series of manufacturing settlements, all emphasizing the vast development of industrial enterprises in the west. on arriving at alton, the changed aspect of all was most apparent. the river front--where in old times i had seen the steamboats line up, and watched their loading and unloading, picturesque by day or by night, but especially attractive when seen under the glare of torches, and enlivened by the songs of the negro hands--was now, almost, unused. the railroad tracks dominated everything, down to the water's edge. i wandered off at random through the streets, until i came to the old familiar alton bank, which looked exactly the same. i entered to inquire after friends, and as the clerk was obligingly giving me information, i asked him if he knew a former clerk, mr. w----, who was there years before. "oh, yes," said he; "he is now our president." by this time a pleasant face looked fixedly at me, and, in a moment, an outstretched hand grasped mine, and my old friend was calling me by name, and we were once more young men again, when, in the old time, music was our bond of fellowship, and all that that involves. while we were speaking--the bank president and myself--a lady, with her little girl, entered the office, and again my name was called. "i have been following you in the street," she said. "i knew it must be you, but i could scarcely believe my eyes." it was the daughter of a dear friend of years long gone, and her daughter was by her side. how lovely it all seemed to be thus recognized, and to bind together afresh the ties of years that had fled! but my hour in alton was almost up. i could only look at the outside of the dear old church where i once worshipped. my friend of the bank brought me, to the train, as a little gift of remembrance, a book called "poems of the piasa," by frank c. riehl. it contained also a number of other kindred poems of western life. the piasa was a dreadful, winged monster, which inhabited the banks of the mississippi at alton in ages past. a note in the volume i received might here be quoted. it is as follows: "the region along the shores on both sides of the mississippi, between the points of the confluence of the illinois and missouri rivers with the father of waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of indians who were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. along the bluffs on the illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of thousands of 'the first americans' repose, while the valleys and prairie-stretches for some distance back from the river, afford constant reminders of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past. "from the time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been conspicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held in almost sacred reverence by the indians. and, among these, dating from the famous expedition of marquette, none is more striking and interesting than that of the piasa bird. that this was more than a mere myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers, who got the story in minute detail from the indians themselves; and by the painting that remained upon the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present limits of the city of alton, until quarried away just about the close of the first half of this century." the indian legend referred to is of a fearful, winged monster, who swooped down upon his prey, making his aery on the great cliffs at alton. the tribes were in deadly terror of this great creature, whose fearful power seized their bravest warriors, as well as their most beautiful maidens, in his deadly talons. at last, a chief, named ouatoga, conceived the bold design to place himself in the way of the monster, a sacrifice for the safety of his race; while twelve of the best archers, should lie concealed near by, and slay the monster with their united arrows, as he rose in air with his prey. this, the legend says, was done, and a rude picture of the monster might be seen on the bluffs at alton until recent times. i cannot help thinking, however, that the story is, after all, a myth of the dreaded tornado so frequent in the west. i have a photograph of such a storm, taken in iowa, and the huge, involving clouds, spread out like wings, and, the descending funnel or waterspout, reaching to the earth, destroying all it touches, exactly resembles a huge monster bird, in awful and sudden flight, devouring everything before it. the discharge of the arrows at the monster, thus killing it, may be a hint of the well-known fact, that any sudden impact upon a whirlwind, in its funnel-shaped motion, will destroy its vibrations and hence its progress. a rifle-shot, sent into a whirling dust pillar on the great plains, will reduce the dreadful thing at once to a clatter of falling dust and pebbles, and a dead heap of harmless stuff. so much for a theory anyway. i returned to st. louis by the missouri side, having with me my lady friend and her little daughter. the route took us over the great bridges which span the two rivers just above their confluence. it was grand in its effect, to pass over two such great streams coming close together from their distant sources, soon to mingle in one mighty torrent, emptying itself more than a thousand miles away, into the gulf of mexico. it was all a sort of enchanted excursion, waking up many memories of a past, so far removed from the present hour. our train brought us into the great union station, from which i had set out three hours before. while in this splendid station i had the good fortune to have a long chat with the superintendent thereof. he tried to tell me, i should say, he did tell me, of its wonderful construction, its great extent, its complex machinery, its electrical appliances, its vast detail of business. i have only an impression of the sweet gentleness which so patiently explained all to me, and of the myriad ramifications which i could see, could but dimly understand, and vaguely remember. he has my thanks and grateful memory for his kindness. we also saw in the st. louis depot a thoroughly interesting american affair. it was an educational car, run by two or three bright young fellows, who quite captivated us by their intelligence and spirit. they were occupying a beautiful private car, fitted up as an office and a dwelling; and were travelling over the country in the interest of a great institution called "the international correspondence schools." it opened up before one a marvellous vista of business energy and splendid results. a circular, which we brought away with us, stated that instruction was given by this method in courses, to some , students in states and countries. the inside of the circular contained ten headings, and each heading had four lines of detailed information, looking like quatrains of poetry. i take at random one of them, as a sample, under the heading superiority students can be taught wherever the mails can go. each student regulates his own hours of study. written lessons qualify for written examinations. the method cultivates memory, brevity, accuracy and independence. it really did seem all like poetry, full of resplendent possibilities, to see the specimen books produced by the students; and, above all, it was poetical to see those young men in charge, so very young and yet so full of confidence, so intelligent, and so keen. they were at once at their ease with our party, and ere we left st. louis, at ten o'clock at night, they visited us, and with mandolin music, and college songs, we wiled away a pleasant hour. at ten o'clock we departed from st. louis, passing through the tunnel, and out on the great bridge, from whence we looked at the mighty flood of the father of waters, far beneath us, reflecting in its turbid depths the lights of st. louis, which were soon hidden from our sight, as we rolled out into the darkness, over the prairies of illinois. xxiv through illinois, indiana, ohio.--columbus.--the beautiful station. --church service.--nearing home.--parting thoughts.--our amusements. --to ethel asleep.--a parting wish.--pilgrimages of patriotism. it was well on in sunday morning when we reached our next stopping-place, columbus, ohio, where we stayed until monday forenoon. the morning light, as we journeyed on in the early hours, showed us the smiling country in its sabbath rest. it was all such a contrast to the far west, and the pacific slope, and not an ungrateful one. we were passing through ohio, which, one might say, is no longer the west, but the centre of our land. it is a glorious country, rich, fertile, and prosperous-looking. columbus quite pleased us, by the evidences of its bustling activities and improvements; as well as by a certain old-fashioned dignity and state. it is the governmental seat of ohio, and has some quite respectable public buildings, all done in the american-greek-classic style--rows of pillars, pediments, and all that--which, i confess, i like better than the strained effort after effect, seen in some more modern structures. a new piece of architecture at columbus, however, the beautiful railroad station, was charming. it is full of beauty, like a rich italian palace, all warm with golden carvings, yellow marble walls, and mosaic pavements. the interior effect of the waiting-rooms was exquisite, with the arched and coffered roof, and the graceful outlines of all. on sunday night we all attended church, where we heard a good sermon, and joined, with keen relish, in a fine choral service, rendered by a well-trained surpliced choir of men and boys. the leader of the choir evidently had a heart for the noble effects of gregorian music, while not such a purist as to rule out all modern compositions. in this he was right. gregorian music is like salt, really necessary as a healthful adjunct in church song, but too much of it is as bad as none at all. it was toward evening when we reached pittsburg, where we made but a short stay; and in the early morning hour we were once more at the pennsylvania depot in jersey city, where we took reluctant leave of each other and our good car "lucania." sleep had refreshed us, as we flew, all unconscious, through the splendid scenery of the alleghanies. but what were such mountains to us now, who had seen the rockies; and what was the horseshoe curve, compared to the daring engineering of colorado railroads! nothing. we were more than satisfied with all we had seen. but before closing this scattering record of our "flight in spring," surely it will be well to look back, once more, at its pleasant hours, and sweet companionship. in those six weeks of our trip, equal almost to a lifetime of contact, under ordinary circumstances, how well we got to know each other. surely the more each knew of each, the more did trifling fault fade away, and clear goodness come out into pleasing prominence. was it not so? so that when we came to part at the station, it was with a regret for that parting, and a hope that friendships were cemented on our journey, which nothing ever could dissever. let us think, too, with gratitude of the unwearying attention given to our comfort by mr. payson, in whose charge were all the details of our transportation, involving so much of most serious importance, as well for our safety, as our comfort. how wonderful to think that our eight thousand miles of travel was all conducted like clockwork, with entire reliability, and precision, from point to point, across the continent and back again, without hitch or accident. then we must remember the pullman employees, to whom the whole journey was but an episode, in lives of such journeys; and yet how enthusiastic and attentive they were, at all times. and we must remember delia and charles, in their sphere of usefulness, ever ready and willing to carry out the hospitable intentions of our good host and hostess. it is all over, our "flight in spring," with all its pleasant incidents. some of the sweetest moments were, when we turned in upon ourselves for amusement and pleasure, at the evening hours, when formal sightseeing was over; or in those hours of travel, when the eyes refused to gaze longer on the flying landscape. then came the nonsense verses, and the stories, and the songs, and the machine poetry, and all the fun. shall we not gather up some of those trifles, as worthy of preservation in our record? yes, certainly we will. we will first start out with the machine poetry. rhymes were furnished, which were these dreadful collocations, "give, live, dove, love, merry, cherry, go, slow, tease, squeeze, muddle, fuddle." a hopeless list surely. dear fred, who said he could not write poetry, evolved the following: poem by fred and when a pretty orange he did give, he thought it was too sweet to live, so he gave it to his dove to ever sustain their love. one day when all was merry, he gave to her a cherry; and he said she should not go, for fear it would be slow. first he began to tease, then he began to squeeze, until there was a muddle-- soon afterwards a fuddle. this realistic effort was received with rounds of applause. the next poetic effort on the procrustean rhymes was by miss hayden, as follows: poem by miss hayden oh, why should i give, or expect me to live, when, you called me a dove, yet you now cease to love? i once was so merry, my lips like a cherry, i wept when you'd go, and my heart beat so slow. then at once you would tease, and kiss me, and squeeze,-- but--my brain's in a muddle, and--you in a fuddle. this effort, too, was greeted with approbation, and its tenderness duly appreciated. but the nonsense verses were the best fun. one would shout out a line, an additional line would come from some one else, and by the time the whole thing was complete, it would be hard to discriminate as to who was the author. here is one hurled at me: there was a canon named knowles, whose mission it was to save souls; when out on this trip, he said, "let them rip, we'll save them all yet from the coals." some of our young ladies were deeply interested in the sailor boys at war, and for their benefit this nonsense had wing: there was a young lady named harding, whose sweetheart, the nation was guarding. the rumor of war, went to her heart's core for fear he'd be lost while bombarding. these verses, too, have a maritime flavor: there was a young lady of nerve, who bet on the naval reserve. she got a flat cap like that of her chap, and said, "this our love will preserve." we had lots of others, and ever so many good stories, but it is time to end. this last must suffice for the nonsense verses: there was a young lady _en route_, who wanted to go on a toot, so she jumped off the ca--ah when no one was ne--ah, and feasted on candy and fruit. this was the favorite refrain of all, for its reckless suggestions, and the special intonations of its third and fourth lines. its echoes would sound out in the most unexpected connections-- "so she jumped off the ca--ah when no one was ne--ah," and then would come a merry peal of laughter. sometimes the laughter even, would cease, and, we were all so free and unaffected, that siestas were taken, quite unceremoniously, when silence would settle down upon our party. in such a quiet interval, one of our fair sleepers inspired the following lines, as she lay at rest, on the couch in the dining-room. this is what the poet said: to ethel asleep our car glides on with giddy speed, but ethel feels no motion; her soul and body take no heed, wrapt still, in sleep's deep ocean. and as i gaze on her sweet face, so placid, true and tender; the wish for her i fain would trace is this--may heaven defend her! 'mid all the whirling cares of life, may peaceful rest come to her; and sleep, no matter what the strife, be ever near to woo her. with some such wish as this for all of us, i would like to close the record of this "flight in spring." when spring, and summer, and autumn, and winter, will for us have forever fled away, then may we all find comfort, after life's wanderings are over, in this restful thought, as our great journey shall end: "he giveth his beloved sleep." but other thoughts also come to me, as i recall the splendid advantages of such a trip as our "flight in spring." it was a revelation, to pass from ocean to ocean, over our own broad land. it filled one's soul with enthusiasm, as one thought of the opportunities, the responsibilities, the duties, and the prospects of our citizenship. it made me long that such "flights in spring," or in any season, might be more widely enjoyed, so that many more might realize the immense splendor and power of our great land. for such purposes i would wish that there were instituted "pilgrimages of patriotism," which would bring representative men, from ocean to ocean, from seashore to centre, and from centre to seashore, at stated and solemn periods; thus emphasizing the sense of national citizenship, and the splendid and indissoluble union of our states. i have read that among the zuñi indians it was a sacred law that some of their tribe should, each year, pour the waters of the pacific into those of the atlantic. the task was accomplished, despite of all difficulties, arising from tribal contests, or opposing forces. it was a symbol of union, touching as it was simple, and might again be revived among us, to emphasize the glorious bond of citizenship in this our land; a bond, which we felt continually, through our eight thousand miles of travel, in our "flight in spring." itinerary lv. new york wed. apr. . a.m. arr. thomasville thu. " . p.m. lv. " " sat. " . " arr. new orleans sun. " . " lv. " " mon. " . " arr. san antonio tue. " . " lv. " " wed. " . " arr. el paso thu. " . " lv. " " fri. " . " arr. los angeles sat. " . " lv. " " tue. " . " arr. san diego " " " . " lv. " " thu. " . a.m. arr. los angeles " " " . " lv. " " " " " . p.m. arr. santa barbara " " " . " lv. " " sat. " . a.m. arr. brentwood sun. may . " lv. " " mon. " . " arr. san francisco " " " . p.m. lv. " " fri. " . a.m. arr. palo alto " " " . " lv. " " " " " . p.m. arr. san josé " " " . " lv. " " mon. " . a.m. arr. santa cruz mon. " " . p.m. lv. " " " " " . " arr. del monte " " " . " lv. " " wed. " . " arr. san josé " " " . a.m. lv. " " " " " . p.m. arr. oakland pier " " " . " lv. " " thu. " . a.m. arr. ogden fri. " . p.m. lv. " " " " " . " arr. salt lake city " " " . " lv. " " sat. " . " arr. colorado sp'gs sun. " . " lv. " " mon. " . " arr. manitou " " " . " lv. " " tue. " . " arr. denver " " " . " lv. " " thu. " . " arr. kansas city fri. " . " lv. " " " " " . " arr. st. louis sat. " . a.m. lv. " " " " " . p.m. arr. columbus sun. " . a.m. lv. " " mon. " . " arr. new york tue. " . " miss santa claus of the pullman [illustration: miss santa claus] miss santa claus of the pullman by annie fellows johnson author of "the little colonel series," etc. with illustrations by reginald b. birch [illustration] new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. published, october, to my sisters lura and albion list of illustrations miss santa claus _frontispiece_ page "oh, dear santa claus" "here!" he said "oh, rabbit _dravy_!" he cried he pushed aside the red plush curtain and looked in and ran after the boy as hard as she could go it was about the princess ina the shower of stars falling on the blanket made her think of the star-flower "take it back!" miss santa claus of the pullman chapter i the last half hour had seemed endless to will'm, almost as long as the whole four years of his life. with his stubby little shoes drawn up under him, and his soft bobbed hair flapping over his ears every time the rockers tilted forward, he sat all alone in the sitting-room behind the shop, waiting and rocking. it seemed as if everybody at the junction wanted something that afternoon; thread or buttons or yarn, or the home-made doughnuts which helped out the slim stock of goods in the little notion store which had once been the parlor. and it seemed as if grandma neal never would finish waiting on the customers and come back to tell the rest of the story about the camels and the star; for no sooner did one person go out than another one came in. he knew by the tinkling of the bell over the front door, every time it opened or shut. the door between the shop and sitting-room being closed, will'm could not hear much that was said, but several times he caught the word "christmas," and once somebody said "_santa claus_," in such a loud happy-sounding voice that he slipped down from the chair and ran across the room to open the door a crack. it was only lately that he had begun to hear much about santa claus. not until libby started to school that fall did they know that there is such a wonderful person in the world. of course they had heard his name, as they had heard jack frost's, and had seen his picture in story-books and advertisements, but they hadn't known that he is really true till the other children told libby. now nearly every day she came home with something new she had learned about him. will'm must have known always about christmas though, for he still had a piece of a rubber dog which his father had sent him on his first one, and--a teddy bear on his second. and while he couldn't recall anything about those first two festivals except what libby told him, he could remember the last one perfectly. there had been a sled, and a fire-engine that wound up with a key, and grandma neal had made him some cooky soldiers with red cinnamon-drop buttons on their coats. she wasn't his own grandmother, but she had taken the place of one to libby and him, all the years he had been in the world. their father paid their board, to be sure, and sent them presents and came to see them at long intervals when he could get away from his work, but that was so seldom that will'm did not feel very well acquainted with him; not so well as libby did. she was three years older, and could even remember a little bit about their mother before she went off to heaven to get well. mrs. neal wasn't like a real grandmother in many ways. she was almost too young, for one thing. she was always very brisk and very busy, and, as she frequently remarked, she meant what she said and _she would be minded_. that is why will'm turned the knob so softly that no one noticed for a moment that the door was ajar. a black-bearded man in a rough overcoat was examining a row of dolls which dangled by their necks from a line above the show case. he was saying jokingly: "well, mrs. neal, i'll have to be buying some of these jimcracks before long. if this mud keeps up, no reindeer living could get out to my place, and it wouldn't do for the young'uns to be disappointed christmas morning." then he caught sight of a section of a small boy peeping through the door, for all that showed of will'm through the crack was a narrow strip of blue overalls which covered him from neck to ankles, a round pink cheek and one solemn eye peering out from under his thatch of straight flaxen hair like a little skye terrier's. when the man saw that eye he hurried to say: "of course mud oughtn't to make any difference to _santy's_ reindeer. they take the _sky road_, right over the house tops and all." the crack widened till two eyes peeped in, shining with interest, and both stubby shoes ventured over the threshold. a familiar sniffle made grandma neal turn around. "go back to the fire, william," she said briskly. "it isn't warm enough in here for you with that cold of yours." the order was obeyed as promptly as it was given, but with a bang of the door so rebellious and unexpected that the man laughed. there was an amused expression on the woman's face, too, as she glanced up from the package she was tying, to explain with an indulgent smile. "that wasn't all temper, mr. woods. it was part embarrassment that made him slam the door. usually he doesn't mind strangers, but he takes spells like that sometimes." "that's only natural," was the drawling answer. "but it isn't everybody who knows how to manage children, mrs. neal. i hope now that his stepmother when he gets her, will understand him as well as you do. my wife tells me that the poor little kids are going to have one soon. how do they take to the notion?" mrs. neal stiffened a little at the question, although he was an old friend, and his interest was natural under the circumstances. there was a slight pause, then she said: "i haven't mentioned the subject to them yet. no use to make them cross their bridge before they get to it. i've no doubt molly will be good to them. she was a nice little thing when she used to go to school here at the junction." "it's queer," mused the man, "how she and bill branfield used to think so much of each other, from their first reader days till both families moved away from here, and then that they should come across each other after all these years, from different states, too." instinctively they had lowered their voices, but will'm on the other side of the closed door was making too much noise of his own to hear anything they were saying. lying full length on the rug in front of the fire, he battered his heels up and down on the floor and pouted. his cold made him miserable, and being sent out of the shop made him cross. if he had been allowed to stay there's no telling what he might have heard about those reindeer to repeat to libby when she came home from school. suddenly will'm remembered the last bit of information which she had brought home to him, and, scrambling hastily up from the floor, he climbed into the rocking chair as if something were after him: "_santa claus is apt to be looking down the chimney any minute to see how you're behaving. and no matter if your lips don't show it outside, he knows when you're all puckered up with crossness and pouting on the inside!_" at that terrible thought will'm began to rock violently back and forth and sing. it was a choky, sniffling little tune that he sang. his voice sounded thin and far away even to his own ears, because his cold was so bad. but the thought that santa might be listening, and would write him down as a good little boy, kept him valiantly at it for several minutes. then because he had a way of chanting his thoughts out loud sometimes, instead of thinking them to himself, he went on, half chanting, half talking the story of the camels and the star, which he was waiting for grandma neal to come back and finish. he knew it as well as she did, because she had told it to him so often in the last week. "an' the wise men rode through the night, an' they rode an' they rode, an' the bells on the bridles went ting-a-ling! just like the bell on dranma's shop door. an' the drate big star shined down on 'em and went ahead to show 'em the way. an' the drate big reindeer runned along the sky road"--he was mixing grandma neal's story now with what he had heard through the crack in the door, and he found the mixture much more thrilling than the original recital. "an' they runned an' they runned an' the sleighbells went ting-a-ling! just like the bell on dranma's shop door. an' after a long time they all comed to the house where the baby king was at. nen the wise men jumped off their camels and knelt down and opened all their boxes of pretty things for him to play with. an' the reindeer knelt down on the roof where the drate big shining star stood still, so santy could empty all his pack down the baby king's chimney." it was a queer procession which wandered through will'm's sniffling, sing-song account. to the camels, sages and herald angels, to the shepherds and the little woolly white lambs of the judean hills, were added not only bo peep and her flock, but baa the black sheep, and the reindeer team of an unscriptural saint nicholas. but it was all holy writ to will'm. presently the mere thought of angels and stars and silver bells gave him such a big warm feeling inside, that he was brimming over with good-will to everybody. when libby came home from school a few minutes later, he was in the midst of his favorite game, one which he played at intervals all through the day. the game was railroad train, suggested naturally enough by the constant switching of cars and snorting of engines which went on all day and night at this busy junction. it was one in which he could be a star performer in each part, as he personated fireman, engineer, conductor and passenger in turn. at the moment libby came in he was the engine itself, backing, puffing and whistling, his arms going like piston-rods, and his pursed up little mouth giving a very fair imitation of "letting off steam." "look out!" he called warningly. "you'll get runned over." but instead of heeding his warning, libby planted herself directly in the path of the oncoming engine, ignoring so completely the part he was playing that he stopped short in surprise. ordinarily she would have fallen in with the game, but now she seemed blind and deaf to the fact that he was playing anything at all. usually, coming in the back way, she left her muddy overshoes on the latticed porch, her lunch basket on the kitchen table, her wraps on their particular hook in the entry. she was an orderly little soul. but to-day she came in, her coat half off, her hood trailing down her back by its strings, and her thin little tails of tightly braided hair fuzzy and untied, from running bare-headed all the way home to tell the exciting news. she told it in gasps. "_you can write letters to santa claus--for whatever you want--and put them up the chimney--and he gets them--and whatever you ask for he'll bring you--if you're good!_" instantly the engine was a little boy again all a-tingle with this new delicious mystery of christmastide. he climbed up into the rocking chair and listened, the rapt look on his face deepening. in proof of what she told, libby had a letter all written and addressed, ready to send. one of the older girls had helped her with it at noon, and she had spent the entire afternoon recess copying it. because she was just learning to write, she made so many mistakes that it had to be copied several times. she read it aloud to will'm. "dear santa claus:--please bring me a little shiny gold ring like the one that maudie peters wears. yours truly, libby branfield." "now you watch, and you'll see me send it up the chimney when i get my muddy overshoes off and my hands washed. this might be one of the times when he'd be looking down, and it'd be better for me to be all clean and tidy." breathlessly will'm waited till she came back from the kitchen, her hands and face shining from the scrubbing she had given them with yellow laundry soap, her hair brushed primly back on each side of its parting and her hair ribbons freshly tied. then she knelt on the rug, the fateful missive in her hand. "maudie is going to ask for 'most a dozen presents," she said. "but as long as this will be santy's first visit to this house i'm not going to ask for more than one thing, and you mustn't either. it wouldn't be polite." "but we can ask him to bring a ring to dranma," will'm suggested, his face beaming at the thought. the answer was positive and terrible out of her wisdom newly gained at both church and school. "no, we can't! he only brings things to people who _bleeve_ in him. it's the same way it is about going to heaven. only those who _bleeve_ will be saved and get in." "dranma and uncle neal will go to heaven," insisted will'm loyally, and in a tone which suggested his willingness to hurt her if she contradicted him. uncle neal was "dranma's" husband. "oh, of course, they'll go to _heaven_ all right," was libby's impatient answer. "they've got faith in the bible and the minister and the heathen and such things. but they won't get anything in their stockings because they aren't sure about there even _being_ a santa claus! so there!" "well, if santa claus won't put anything in my dranma neal's stocking, he's a mean old thing, and i don't want him to put anything in mine," began will'm defiantly, but was silenced by the sight of libby's horrified face. "oh, brother! _hush!_" she cried, darting a frightened glance over her shoulder towards the chimney. then in a shocked whisper which scared will'm worse than a loud yell would have done, she said impressively, "oh, i _hope_ he hasn't heard you! he never would come to this house as long as he lives! and i couldn't _bear_ for us to find just empty stockings christmas morning." there was a tense silence. and then, still on her knees, her hands still clasped over the letter, she moved a few inches nearer the fireplace. the next instant will'm heard her call imploringly up the chimney, "oh, dear santa claus, if you're up there looking down, _please_ don't mind what will'm said. he's so little he doesn't know any better. _please_ forgive him and send us what we ask for, for jesus' sake, amen!" fascinated, will'm watched the letter flutter up past the flames, drawn by the strong draught of the flue. then suddenly shamed by the thought that he had been publicly prayed for, _out loud and in the daytime_, he ran to cast himself on the old lounge, face downward among the cushions. [illustration: "oh, dear santa claus"] libby herself felt a trifle constrained after her unusual performance, and to cover her embarrassment seized the hearth broom and vigorously swept up the scraps of half-dried mud which she had tracked in a little while before. then she stood and drummed on the window pane a long time, looking out into the dusk which always came so surprisingly fast these short winter days, almost the very moment after the sun dropped down behind the cedar trees. it was a relief to both children when grandma neal came in with a lighted lamp. her cheerful call to know who was going to help her set the supper table, gave will'm an excuse to spring up from the lounge cushions and face his little world once more in a natural and matter-of-course way. he felt safer out in the bright warm kitchen. no stern displeased eye could possibly peer at him around the bend of that black shining stove-pipe. there was comfort in the savory steam puffing out from under the lid of the stew-pan on the stove. there was reassurance in the clatter of the knives and forks and dishes which he and libby put noisily in place on the table. but when grandma neal started where she had left off, to finish the story of the camels and the star, he interrupted quickly to ask instead for the tale of goldilocks and the three bears. the christmas spirit had gone out of him. he could not listen to the story of the star. it lighted the way not only of the camel caravan, but of the sky road too, and he didn't want to be reminded of that sky road now. he was fearful that a cold displeasure might be filling the throat of the sitting-room chimney. if santa claus _had_ happened to be listening when he called him a mean old thing, then had he ruined not only his own chances, but libby's too. that fear followed him all evening. it made him vaguely uncomfortable. even when they sat down to supper it did something to his appetite, for the dumpling stew did not taste as good as usual. chapter ii it was several days before will'm lost that haunting fear of having displeased the great power up the chimney past all forgiveness. it began to leave him gradually as libby grew more and more sure of her own state of favor. she was so good in school now that even the teacher said nobody could be better, no matter how hard he tried. she stayed every day to help clean the blackboards and collect the pencils. she never missed a syllable nor stepped off the line in spelling class, nor asked for a drink in lesson time. and she and maudie peters had made it up between them not to whisper a single word until after christmas. she was sure now that even if santa claus had overheard will'm, her explanation that he was too little to know any better had made it all right. it is probable, too, that will'm's state of body helped his state of mind, for about this time his cold was well enough for him to play out of doors, and the thought of stars and angels and silver bells began to be agreeable again. they gave him that big, warm feeling inside again; the christmas feeling of good-will to everybody. one morning he was sitting up on a post of the side yard fence, when the passenger train number four came rushing in to the station, and was switched back on a side track right across the road from him. it was behind time and had to wait there for orders or till the western flyer passed it, or for some such reason. it was a happy morning for will'm. there was nothing he enjoyed so much as having one of these long pullman trains stop where he could watch it. night after night he and libby had flattened their faces against the sitting-room window to watch the seven o'clock limited pass by. through its brilliantly lighted windows they loved to see the passengers at dinner. the white tables with their gleam of glass and shine of silver and glow of shaded lights seemed wonderful to them. more wonderful still was it to be eating as unconcernedly as if one were at home, with the train jiggling the tables while it leaped across the country at its highest speed. the people who could do such things must be wonderful too. there were times when passengers flattening _their_ faces against the glass to see why the train had stopped, caught the gleam of a cheerful home window across the road, and holding shielding hands at either side of their eyes, as they peered through the darkness, smiled to discover those two eager little watchers, who counted the stopping of the pullman at this junction as the greatest event of the day. will'm and libby knew nearly every engineer and conductor on the road by sight, and had their own names for them. the engineer on this morning train they called mr. smiley, because he always had a cheerful grin for them, and sometimes a wave of his big grimy hand. this time mr. smiley was too busy and too provoked by the delay to pay any attention to the small boy perched on the fence post. some of the passengers finding that they might have to wait half an hour or more began to climb out and walk up and down the road past him. several of them attracted by the wares in the window of the little notion shop which had once been a parlor, sauntered in and came out again, eating some of grandma neal's doughnuts. presently will'm noticed that everybody who passed a certain sleeping coach, stooped down and looked under it. he felt impelled to look under it himself and discover why. so he climbed down from the post and trudged along the road, kicking the rocks out of his way with stubby little shoes already scuffed from much previous kicking. at the same moment the steward of the dining-car stepped down from the vestibuled platform, and strolled towards him, with his hands in his trousers' pockets. "hullo, son!" he remarked good-humoredly in passing, giving an amused glance at the solemn child stuffed into a gray sweater and blue mittens, with a toboggan cap pulled down over his soft bobbed hair. usually will'm responded to such greetings. so many people came into the shop that he was not often abashed by strangers. but this time he was so busy looking at something that dangled from the steward's vest pocket that he failed to say "hullo" back at him. it was what seemed to be the smallest gold watch he had ever seen, and it impressed him as very queer that the man should wear it on the outside of his pocket instead of the inside. he stopped still in the road and stared at it until the man passed him, then he turned and followed him slowly at a distance. a few rods further on, the steward stooped and looked under the coach, and spoke to a man who was out of sight, but who was hammering on the other side. a voice called back something about a hot-box and cutting out that coach, and reminded of his original purpose, will'm followed on and looked, likewise. although he squatted down and looked for a long time he couldn't see a single box, only the legs of the man who was hammering on the other side. but just as he straightened up again he caught the gleam of something round and shiningly golden, something no bigger than a quarter, lying almost between his feet. it was a tiny baby watch like the one that swung from the steward's vest pocket. thrilled by the discovery, will'm picked it up and fondled it with both little blue mittens. it didn't tick when he held it to his ear, and he couldn't open it, but he was sure that uncle neal could open it and start it to going, and he was sure that it was the littlest watch in the world. it never occurred to him that finding it hadn't made it his own to have and to carry home, just like the rainbow-lined mussel shells that he sometimes picked up on the creek bank, or the silver dime he had once found in a wagon rut. [illustration: "here!" he said] then he looked up to see the steward strolling back towards him again, his hands still in his trousers' pockets. but this time no fascinating baby watch bobbed back and forth against his vest as he walked, and will'm knew with a sudden stab of disappointment that was as bad as earache, that the watch he was fondling could never be his to carry home and show proudly to uncle neal. it belonged to the man. "here!" he said, holding it out in the blue mitten. "well, i vow!" exclaimed the steward, looking down at his watchfob, and then snatching the little disk of gold from the outstretched hand. "i wouldn't have lost that for hardly anything. it must have come loose when i stooped to look under the car. i think more of that than almost anything i've got. see?" and then will'm saw that it was not a watch, but a little locket made to hang from a bar that was fastened to a wide black ribbon fob. the man pulled out the fob, and there on the other end, where it had been in his pocket all the time, was a big watch, as big as will'm's fist. the locket flew open when he touched a spring, and there were two pictures inside. one of a lady and one of a jolly, fat-cheeked baby. "well, little man!" exclaimed the steward, with a hearty clap on the shoulder that nearly upset him. "you don't know how big a favor you've done me by finding that locket. you're just about the nicest boy i've come across yet. i'll have to tell santa claus about you. what's your name?" will'm told him and pointed across to the shop, when asked where he lived. at the steward's high praise will'm was ready to take the sky road himself, when he heard that he was to be reported to the master of the reindeer as the nicest boy the steward had come across. his disappointment vanished so quickly that he even forgot that he had been disappointed, and when the steward caught him under the arms and swung him up the steps, saying something about finding an orange, he was thrilled with a wild brave sense of adventure. discovering that will'm had never been on a pullman since he could remember, the steward took him through the diner to the kitchen, showing him all the sights and explaining all the mysteries. it was as good as a show to watch the child's face. he had never dreamed that such roasting and broiling went on in the narrow space of the car kitchen, or that such quantities of eatables were stored away in the mammoth refrigerators which stood almost touching the red hot ranges. big shining fish from far-off waters, such as the junction had never heard of, lay blocked in ice in one compartment. ripe red strawberries lay in another, although it was mid december, and in will'm's part of the world strawberries were not to be thought of before the first of june. there were more eggs than all the hens at the junction could lay in a week, and a white-capped, white-jacketed colored-man was beating up a dozen or so into a white mountain of meringue, which the passengers would eat by and by in the shape of some strange, delicious dessert, sitting at those fascinating tables he had passed on his way in. a quarter of an hour later when will'm found himself on the ground again, gazing after the departing train, he was a trifle dazed with all he had seen and heard. but three things were clear in his mind. that he held in one hand a great yellow orange, in the other a box of prize pop-corn, and in his heart the precious assurance that santa claus would be told by one in high authority that he was a good boy. so elated was he by this last fact, that he decided on the way home to send a letter up the chimney on his own account, especially as he knew now exactly what to ask for. he had been a bit hazy on the question before. now he knew beyond all doubt that what he wanted more than anything in the wide world, was _a ride on a pullman car_. he wanted to sit at one of those tables, and eat things that had been cooked in that mysterious kitchen, at the same time that he was flying along through the night on the wings of a mighty dragon breathing out smoke and fire as it flew. he went in to the house by way of the shop so that he might make the bell go ting-a-ling. it was so delightfully like the bells on the camels, also like the bells on the sleigh which would be coming before so very long to bring him what he wanted. miss sally watts was sitting behind the counter, crocheting. to his question of "where's dranma?" she answered without looking up. "she and mr. neal have driven over to westfield. they have some business at the court house. she said you're not to go off the place again till she gets back. i was to tell you when you came in. she looked everywhere to find you before she left, because she's going to be gone till late in the afternoon. where you been, anyhow?" will'm told her. miss sally was a neighbor who often helped in the shop at times like this, and he was always glad when such times came. it was easy to tell miss sally things, and presently when a few direct questions disclosed the fact that miss sally "bleeved" as he did, he asked her another question, which had been puzzling him ever since he had decided to ask for a ride on the train. "how can santa put a _ride_ in a _stocking_?" "i don't know," answered miss sally, still intent on her crocheting. "but then i don't really see how he can put anything in; sleds or dolls or anything of the sort. he's a mighty mysterious man to me. but then, probably he wouldn't try to put the _ride_ in a stocking. he'd send the ticket or the money to buy it with. and he _might_ give it to you beforehand, and not wait for stocking-hanging time, knowing how much you want it." all this from miss sally because mrs. neal had just told her that the children were to be sent to their father the day before christmas, and that they were to go on a pullman car, because the ordinary coaches did not go straight through. the children were too small to risk changing cars, and he was too busy to come for them. will'm stayed in the shop the rest of the morning, for miss sally echoing the sentiment of everybody at the junction, felt sorry for the poor little fellow who was soon to be sent away to a stepmother, and felt that it was her duty to do what she could toward making his world as pleasant as possible for him, while she had the opportunity. together they ate the lunch which had been left on the pantry shelves for them. will'm helped set it out on the table. then he went back into the shop with miss sally. but his endless questions "got on her nerves" after awhile, she said, and she suddenly ceased to be the good company that she had been all morning. she mended the fire in the sitting-room and told will'm he'd better play in there till libby came home. it was an endless afternoon, so long that after he had done everything that he could think of to pass the time, he decided he'd write his own letter and send it up the chimney himself. he couldn't possibly wait for libby to come home and do it. he'd write a picture letter. it was easier to read pictures than print, anyhow. at least for him. he slipped back into the shop long enough to get paper and a pencil from the old secretary in the corner, and then lying on his stomach on the hearth-rug with his heels in the air, he began drawing his favorite sketch, a train of cars. all that can be said of the picture is that one could recognize what it was meant for. the wheels were wobbly and no two of the same size, the windows zigzagged in uneven lines and were of varied shapes. the cow-catcher looked as if it could toss anything it might pick up high enough to join the cow that jumped over the moon. but it was unmistakably a train, and the long line of smoke pouring back over it from the tipsy smoke-stack showed that it was going at the top of its speed. despite the straggling scratchy lines any art critic must acknowledge that it had in it that intangible quality known as life and "go." it puzzled will'm at first to know how to introduce himself into the picture so as to show that he was the one wanting a ride. finally on top of one of the cars he drew a figure supposed to represent a boy, and after long thought, drew one just like it, except that the second figure wore a skirt. he didn't want to take the ride alone. he'd be almost afraid to go without libby, and he knew very well that she'd like to go. she'd often played "s'posen" they were riding away off to the other side of the world on one of those trains which they watched nightly pass the sitting-room window. he wished he could spell his name and hers. he knew only the letters with which each began, and he wasn't sure of either unless he could see the picture on the other side of the building block on which it was printed. the box of blocks was in the sitting-room closet. he brought it out, emptied it on the rug and searched until he found the block bearing the picture of a lion. that was the king of beasts, and the l on the other side which stood for lion, stood also for libby. very slowly and painstakingly he copied the letter on his drawing, placing it directly across the girl's skirt so that there could be no mistake. then he pawed over the blocks till he found the one with the picture of a whale. that was the king of fishes, and the w on the other side which stood for whale, stood also for william. he tried putting the w across the boy, but as each leg was represented by one straight line only, bent at right angles at the bottom to make a foot, the result was confusing. he rubbed out the legs, made them anew, and put the w over the boy's head, drawing a thin line from the end of the w to the crossed scratches representing fingers. that plainly showed that the boy and the w were one and the same, although it gave to the unenlightened the idea that the picture had something to do with flying a kite. then he rubbed out the l on libby's skirt and placed it over her head, likewise connecting her letter with her fingers. the rubbing-out process gave a smudgy effect. will'm was not satisfied with the result, and like a true artist who counts all labor as naught, which helps him towards that perfection which is his ideal, he laid aside the drawing as unworthy and began another. the second was better. he accomplished it with a more certain touch and with no smudges, and filled with the joy of a creator, sat and looked at it a few minutes before starting it on its flight up the flue towards the sky road. the great moment was over. he had just drawn back from watching it start when libby came in. she came primly and quietly this time. she had waited to leave her overshoes on the porch, her lunch basket in the kitchen, her wraps in the entry. the white ruffled apron which she had worn all day was scarcely mussed. the bows on her narrow braids stuck out stiffly and properly. her shoes were tied and the laces tucked in. she walked on tiptoe, and every movement showed that she was keeping up the reputation she had earned of being "so good that nobody could be any better, no matter how hard he tried." she had been that good for over a week. will'm ran to get the orange which had been given him that morning. he had been saving it for this moment of division. he had already opened the pop-corn box and found the prize, a little china cup no larger than a thimble, and had used it at lunch, dipping a sip at a time from his glass of milk. the interest with which she listened to his account of finding the locket and being taken aboard the train made him feel like a hero. he hastened to increase her respect. "nen the man said that i was about the nicest little boy he ever saw and he would tell santa claus so. an' i knew everything was all right so i've just sended a letter up to tell him to please give me a ride on the pullman train." libby smiled in an amused, big-sister sort of way, asking how will'm supposed anybody could read his letters. he couldn't write anything but scratches. "but it was a picture letter!" will'm explained triumphantly. "anybody can read picture letters." then he proceeded to tell what he had made and how he had marked it with the initials of the lion and the whale. to his intense surprise libby looked first startled, then troubled, then despairing. his heart seemed to drop down into his shoes when she exclaimed in a tragic tone: "well, will'm branfield! if you haven't gone and done it! i don't know what ever _is_ going to happen to us _now_!" then she explained. _she_ had already written a letter for him, with susie peters's help, asking in writing what she had asked before by word of mouth, that he be forgiven, and requesting that he might not find his stocking empty on christmas morning. as to what should be in it, she had left that to santa's generosity, because will'm had never said what he wanted. "and now," she added reproachfully, "i've _told_ you that we oughtn't to ask for more than one thing apiece, 'cause this is the first time he's ever been to this house, and it doesn't seem polite to ask for so much from a stranger." will'm defended himself, his chin tilted at an angle that should have been a warning to one who could read such danger signals. "i only asked for one thing for me and one for you." "yes, but don't you see, _i_ had already asked for something for each of us, so that makes two things apiece," was the almost tearful answer. "well, _i_ aren't to blame," persisted will'm, "you didn't tell me what you'd done." "but you ought to have waited and asked me before you sent it," insisted libby. "i oughtn't!" "you _ought_, i say!" this with a stamp of her foot for emphasis. "i oughtn't, miss smarty!" this time a saucy little tongue thrust itself out at her from will'm's mouth, and his face was screwed into the ugliest twist he could make. again he had the shock of a great surprise, when libby did not answer with a worse face. instead she lifted her head a little, and said in a voice almost honey-sweet, but so loud that it seemed intended for other ears than will'm's, "very well, have your own way, brother, but santa claus knows that _i_ didn't want to be greedy and ask for two things!" william answered in what was fairly a shout, "an' he knows that _i_ didn't, _neether_!" the shout was followed by a whisper: "say, libby, do you s'pose he heard that?" libby's answer was a convincing nod. chapter iii after spending several days wondering how she could best break the news to the children that their father was going to take them away, mrs. neal decided that she would wait until the last possible moment. then she would tell them that their father had a christmas present for them, nicer than anything he had ever given them before. it was something that couldn't be sent to them, so he wanted them to go all the way on the cars to his new home, to see it. then after they had guessed everything they could think of, and were fairly hopping up and down with impatient curiosity, she'd tell them what it was: _a new mother_! she decided not to tell them that they were never coming back to the junction to live. it would be better for them to think of this return to their father as just a visit until they were used to their new surroundings. it would make it easier for all concerned if they could be started off happy and pleasantly expectant. then if molly had grown up to be as nice a woman as she had been a young girl, she could safely trust the rest to her. the children would soon be loving her so much that they wouldn't want to come back. but mrs. neal had not taken into account that her news was no longer a secret. told to one or two friends in confidence, it had passed from lip to lip and had been discussed in so many homes, that half the children at the junction knew that poor little libby and will'm branfield were to have a stepmother, before they knew it themselves. maudie peters told libby on their way home from school one day, and told it in such a tone that she made libby feel that having a stepmother was about the worst calamity that could befall one. libby denied it stoutly. "but you _are_!" maudie insisted. "i heard mama and aunt louisa talking about it. they said they certainly felt sorry for you, and mama said that she hoped and prayed that _her_ children would be spared such a fate, because stepmothers are always unkind." libby flew home with her tearful question, positive that grandma neal would say that maudie was mistaken, but with a scared, shaky feeling in her knees, because maudie had been so calmly and provokingly sure. grandma neal could deny only a part of maudie's story. "i'd like to spank that meddlesome peters child!" she exclaimed indignantly. "here i've been keeping it as a grand surprise for you that your father is going to give you a new mother for christmas, and thinking what a fine time you'd have going on the cars to see them, and now maudie has to go and tattle, and tell it in such an ugly way that she makes it seem like something bad, instead of the nicest thing that could happen to you. listen, libby!" for libby, at this confirmation of maudie's tale, instead of the denial which she hoped for, had crooked her arm over her face, and was crying out loud into her little brown gingham sleeve, as if her heart would break. mrs. neal sat down and drew the sobbing child into her lap. "listen, libby!" she said again. "this lady that your father has married, used to live here at the junction when she was a little girl no bigger than you. her name was molly blair, and she looked something like you--had the same color hair, and wore it in two little plaits just as you do. everybody liked her. she was so gentle and kind she wouldn't have done anything to hurt any one's feelings any more than a little white kitten would. your father was a boy then, and he lived here, and they went to school together and played together just as you and walter gray do. he's known her all her life, and he knew very well when he asked her to take the place of a mother to his little children that she'd be dear and good to you. do you think that _you_ could change so in growing up that you could be unkind to any little child that was put in your care?" "no--o!" sobbed libby. "and neither could she!" was the emphatic answer. "you can just tell maudie peters that she doesn't know what she is talking about." libby repeated the message next day, emphatically and defiantly, with her chin in the air. that talk with grandma neal and another longer one which followed at bedtime, helped her to see things in their right light. besides, several things which grandma neal told her made a visit to her father seem quite desirable. it would be fine to be in a city where there is something interesting to see every minute. she knew from other sources that in a city you might expect a hand-organ and a monkey to come down the street almost any day. and it would be grand to live in a house like the one they were going to, with an up-stairs to it, and a piano in the parlor. but despite mrs. neal's efforts to set matters straight, the poison of maudie's suggestion had done its work. will'm had been in the room when libby came home with her question, and the wild way she broke out crying made him feel that something awful was going to happen to them. he had never heard of a stepmother before. by some queer association of words his baby brain confused it with a step-ladder. there was such a ladder in the shop with a broken hinge. he was always being warned not to climb up on it. it might fall over with him and hurt him dreadfully. even when everything had been explained to him, and he agreed that it would be lovely to take that long ride on the pullman to see poor father, who was so lonely without his little boy, the poison of maudie's suggestion still stayed with him. something, he didn't know exactly what, but _something_ was going to fall with him and hurt him dreadfully if he didn't look out. it's strange how much there is to learn about persons after you once begin to hear of them. it had been that way about santa claus. they had scarcely known his name, and then all of a sudden they heard so much, that instead of being a complete stranger he was a part of everything they said and did and thought. now they were learning just as fast about stepmothers. grandma and uncle neal and miss sally told them a great deal; all good things. and it was surprising how much else they had learned that wasn't good, just by the wag of somebody's head, or a shrug of the shoulders or the pitying way some of the customers spoke to them. when libby came crying home from school the second time, because one of the boys called her cinderella, and told her she would have to sit in the ashes and wear rags, and another one said no, she'd be like snow-white, and have to eat poisoned apple, grandma neal was so indignant that she sent after libby's books, saying that she would not be back at school any more. next day, libby told will'm the rest of what the boys had said to her. "all the stepmothers in stories are cruel like cinderella's and snow-white's, and sometimes they _are_ cruel. they are always cruel when they have a tusk." susie peters told her what a tusk is, and showed her a picture of a cruel hag that had one. "it's an awful long ugly tooth that sticks away out of the side of your mouth like a pig's." it was a puzzle for both libby and will'm to know whom to believe. they had sided with maudie and the others in their faith in santa claus. how could they tell but that grandma and uncle neal might be mistaken about their belief in stepmothers too? fortunately there were not many days in which to worry over the problem, and the few that lay between the time of libby's leaving school and their going away, were filled with preparations for the journey. of course libby and will'm had little part in that, except to collect the few toys they owned, and lay them beside the trunk which had been brought down from the attic to the sitting-room. libby had a grand washing of doll clothes one morning, and while she was hanging out the tiny garments on a string, stretched from one chair-back to another, will'm proceeded to give his old teddy bear a bath in the suds which she had left in the basin. plush does not take kindly to soap-suds, no matter how much it needs it. it would have been far better for poor teddy to have started on his travels dirty, than to have become the pitiable, bedraggled-looking object that libby snatched from the basin some time later, where will'm put him to soak. it seemed as if the soggy cotton body never would dry sufficiently to be packed in the trunk, and will'm would not hear to its being left behind, although it looked so dreadful that he didn't like to touch it. so it hung by a cord around its neck in front of the fire for two whole days, and everybody who passed it gave the cord a twist, so that it was kept turning like a roast on a spit. there were more errands than usual to keep the children busy, and more ways in which they could help. as christmas drew nearer and nearer somebody was needed in the shop every minute, and mrs. neal had her hands full with the extra work of looking over their clothes and putting every garment in order. besides there was all the holiday baking to fill the shelves in the shop as well as in her own pantry. so the children were called upon to set the table and help wipe the dishes. they dusted the furniture within their reach and fed the cat. they brought in chips from the woodhouse and shelled corn by the basketful for the old gray hens. and every day they carried the eggs very slowly and carefully from the nests to the pantry and put them one by one into the box of bran on the shelf. then several mornings, all specially scrubbed and clean-aproned for the performance, they knelt on chairs by the kitchen table, and cut out rows and rows of little christmas cakes, from the sheets of smoothly rolled dough on the floury cake boards. there were hearts and stars and cats and birds and all sorts of queer animals. then after the baking there were delightful times when they hung breathlessly over the table, watching while scallops of pink or white icing were zigzagged around the stars and hearts, and pink eyes were put on the beasts and birds. then of course the bowls which held the candied icing always had to be scraped clean by busy little fingers that went from bowl to mouth and back again, almost as fast as a kitten could lap with its pink tongue. oh, those last days in the old kitchen and sitting-room behind the shop were the best days of all, and it was good that will'm and libby were kept so busy every minute that they had no time to realize that they _were_ last days, and that they were rapidly coming to an end. it was not until the last night that will'm seemed to comprehend that they were really going away the next day. [illustration: "oh, rabbit _dravy_!" he cried] he had been very busy helping get supper, for it was the kind that he specially liked. uncle neal had brought in a rabbit all ready skinned and dressed, which he had trapped that afternoon, and will'm had gone around the room for nearly an hour, sniffing hungrily while it sputtered and browned in the skillet, smelling more tempting and delectable every minute. and he had watched while grandma neal lifted each crisp, brown piece up on a fork, and laid it on the hot waiting platter, and then stirred into the skillet the things that go to the making of a delicious cream gravy. suddenly in the ecstasy of anticipation will'm was moved to throw his arms around grandma neal's skirts, gathering them in about her knees in such a violent hug that he almost upset her. "oh, rabbit _dravy_!" he exclaimed in a tone of such rapture that everybody laughed. uncle neal, who had already taken his place at the table, and was waiting too, with his chair tipped back on its hind legs, reached forward and gave will'm's cheek a playful pinch. "it's easy to tell what _you_ think is the best tasting thing in the world," he said teasingly. "just the smell of it puts the smile on your face that won't wear off." always when his favorite dish was on the table, will'm passed his plate back several times for more. to-night after the fourth ladleful uncle neal hesitated. "haven't you had about all that's good for you, kiddo?" he asked. "remember you're going away in the morning, and you don't want to make yourself sick when you're starting off with just libby to look after you." there was no answer for a second. then will'm couldn't climb out of his chair fast enough to hide the trembling of his mouth and the gathering of unmanly tears. he cast himself across mrs. neal's lap, screaming, "i aren't going away! i won't leave my dranma, and i won't go where there'll never be any more good rabbit dravy!" they quieted him after awhile, and comforted him with promises of the time when he should come back and be their little boy again, but he did not romp around as usual when he started to bed. he realized that when he came again maybe the little crib-bed would be too small to hold him, and things would never be the same again. libby was quiet and inwardly tearful for another reason. they were to leave the very day on the night of which people hung up their stockings. would santa claus know of their going and follow them? will'm would be getting what he asked for, a ride on the pullman, but how was she to get her gold ring? she lay awake quite a long while, worrying about it, but finally decided that she had been so good, so very good, that santa would find some way to keep his part of the bargain. she hadn't even fussed and rebelled about going back to her father as maudie had advised her to do, and she had helped to persuade will'm to accept quietly what couldn't be helped. the bell over the shop door went ting-a-ling many times that evening to admit belated customers, and as she grew drowsier and drowsier it began to sound like those other bells which would go tinkling along the sky road to-morrow night. ah, that sky road! she wouldn't worry, remembering that the christmas angels came along that shining highway too. maybe her heart's desire would be brought to her by one of them! chapter iv although l stands equally for libby and lion, and w for william and whale, it is not to be inferred that the two small travelers thus labeled felt in any degree the courage of the king of beasts or the importance of the king of fishes. with every turn of the car wheels after they left the junction, will'm seemed to grow smaller and more bewildered, and libby more frightened and forlorn. in will'm's picture of this ride they had borne only their initials. now they were faring forth tagged with their full names and their father's address. miss sally had done that "in case anything should happen." if miss sally had not suggested that something might happen, libby might not have had her fears aroused, and if they had been allowed to travel all the way in the toilet-room which miss sally and grandma neal showed them while the train waited its usual ten minutes at the junction, they could have kept themselves too busy to think about the perils of pilgrimage. never before had they seen water spurt from shining faucets into big white basins with chained-up holes at the bottom. it suggested magic to libby, and she thought of several games they could have made, if they had not been hurried back to their seats in the car, and told that they must wait until time to eat, before washing their hands. "i thought best to tell them that," said miss sally, as she and mrs. neal went slowly back to the shop. "or libby might have had most of the skin scrubbed off her and will'm before night. and i know he'd drink the water cooler dry just for the pleasure of turning it into his new drinking cup you gave him, if he hadn't been told not to. well, they're off, and so interested in everything that i don't believe they realized they were starting. there wasn't time for them to think that they were really leaving you." "there'll be time enough before they get there," was the grim answer. "i shouldn't wonder if they both get to crying." then for fear that she should start to doing that same thing herself, she left miss sally to attend to the shop, and went briskly to work, putting the kitchen to rights. she had left the breakfast dishes until after the children's departure, for she had much to do for them, besides putting up two lunches. they left at ten o'clock, and could not reach their journey's end before half past eight that night. so both dinner and supper were packed in the big pasteboard box which had been stowed away under the seat with their suitcase. miss sally was right about one thing. neither child realized at first that the parting was final, until the little shop was left far behind. the novelty of their surroundings and their satisfaction at being really on board one of the wonderful cars which they had watched daily from the sitting-room window, made them feel that their best "s'posen" game had come true at last. but they hadn't gone five miles until the landscape began to look unfamiliar. they had never been in this direction before, toward the hill country. their drives behind uncle neal's old gray mare had always been the other way. five miles more and they were strangers in a strange land. fifteen miles, and they were experiencing the bitterness of "exiles from home" whom "splendor dazzles in vain." there was no charm left in the luxurious pullman with its gorgeous red plush seats and shining mirrors. all the people they could see over the backs of those seats or reflected in those mirrors were strangers. it made them even more lonely and aloof because the people did not seem to be strangers to each other. all up and down the car they talked and joked as people in this free and happy land always do when it's the day before christmas and they are going home, whether they know each other or not. to make matters worse some of these strangers acted as if they knew will'm and libby, and asked them questions or snapped their fingers at them in passing in a friendly way. it frightened libby, who had been instructed in the ways of travel, and she only drew closer to will'm and said nothing when these strange faces smiled on her. presently will'm gave a little muffled sob and libby put her arm around his neck. it gave him a sense of protection, but it also started the tears which he had been fighting back for several minutes, and drawing himself up into a bunch of misery close beside her, he cried softly, his face hidden against her shoulder. if it had been a big capable shoulder, such as he was used to going to for comfort, the shower would have been over soon. but he felt its limitations. it was little and thin, only three years older and wiser than his own; as a support through unknown dangers not much to depend upon, still it was all he had to cling to, and he clung broken-heartedly and with scalding tears. as for libby she was realizing its limitations far more than he. his sobs shook her every time they shook him, and she could feel his tears, hot and wet on her arm through her sleeve. she started to cry herself, but fearing that if she did he might begin to roar so that they would be disgraced before everybody in the car, she bravely winked back her own tears and took an effective way to dry his. miss sally had told them not to wash before it was time to eat, but of course miss sally had not known that will'm was going to cry and smudge his face all over till it was a sight. if she couldn't stop him somehow he'd keep on till he was sick, and she'd been told to take care of him. the little shoulder humped itself in a way that showed some motherly instinct was teaching it how to adjust itself to its new burden of responsibility, and she said in a comforting way, "come on, brother, let's go and try what it's like to wash in that big white basin with the chained-up hole in the bottom of it." [illustration: he pushed aside the red plush curtain and looked in] there was a bowl apiece, and for the first five minutes their hands were white ducks swimming in a pond. then the faucets were shining silver dragons, spouting out streams of water from their mouths to drown four little mermaids, who were not real mermaids, but children whom a wicked witch had changed to such and thrown into a pool. then they blew soap-bubbles through their hands, till will'm's squeal of delight over one especially fine bubble, which rested on the carpet a moment, instead of bursting, brought the porter to the door to see what was the matter. they were not used to colored people. he pushed aside the red plush curtain and looked in, but the bubble had vanished, and all he saw was a slim little girl of seven snatching up a towel to polish the red cheeks of a chubby boy of four. when they went back to their seats their finger tips were curiously wrinkled from long immersion in the hot soap-suds, but the ache was gone out of their throats, and libby thought it might be well for them to eat their dinner while their hands were so very clean. it was only quarter past eleven, but it seemed to them that they had been traveling nearly a whole day. a chill of disappointment came to will'm when his food was handed to him out of a pasteboard box. he had not thought to eat it in this primitive fashion. he had expected to sit at one of the little tables, but libby didn't know what one had to do to gain the privilege of using them. the trip was not turning out to be all he had fondly imagined. still the lunch in the pasteboard box was not to be despised. even disappointment could not destroy the taste of grandma neal's chicken sandwiches and blackberry jam. by the time they had eaten all they wanted, and tied up the box and washed their hands again (no bubbles and games this time for fear of the porter) it had begun to snow, and they found entertainment in watching the flakes that swirled against the panes in all sorts of beautiful patterns. they knelt on opposite seats, each against a window. sometimes the snow seemed to come in sheets, shutting out all view of the little hamlets and farm houses past which they whizzed, with deep warning whistles, and sometimes it lifted to give them glimpses of windows with holly wreaths hanging from scarlet bows, and eager little faces peering out at the passing train--the way theirs used to peer, years ago, it seemed, before they started on this endless journey. it makes one sleepy to watch the snow fall for a long time. after awhile will'm climbed down from the window and cuddled up beside libby again, with his soft bobbed hair tickling her ear, as he rested against her. he went to sleep so, and she put her arm around his neck again to keep him from slipping. the card with which miss sally had tagged him, slid along its cord and stuck up above his collar, prodding his chin. libby pushed it back out of sight and felt under her dress for her own. they must be kept safely, "in case something should happen." she wondered what miss sally meant by that. what could happen? their own mr. smiley was on the engine, and the conductor had been asked to keep an eye on them. then her suddenly awakened fear began to suggest answers. maybe something might keep her father from coming to meet them. she and will'm wouldn't know what to do or where to go. they'd be lost in a great city like the little match girl was on christmas eve, and they'd freeze to death on some stranger's doorstep. there was a picture of the match girl thus frozen, in the hans andersen book which susie peters kept in her desk at school. there was a cruel stepmother picture in the same book, libby remembered, and recollections of that turned her thoughts into still deeper channels of foreboding. what would _she_ be like? what was going to happen to her and will'm at the end of this journey if it ever came to an end? if only they could be back at the junction, safe and sound-- the tears began to drip slowly. she wiped them away with the back of the hand that was farthest away from will'm. she was miserable enough to die, but she didn't want him to wake up and find it out. a lady who had been watching her for some time, came and sat down in the opposite seat and asked her what was the matter, and if she was crying because she was homesick, and what was her name and how far they were going. but libby never answered a single question. the tears just kept dripping and her mouth working in a piteous attempt to swallow her sobs, and finally the lady saw that she was frightening her, and only making matters worse by trying to comfort her, so she went back to her seat. when will'm wakened after a while and sat up, leaving libby's arm all stiff and prickly from being bent in one position so long, the train had been running for miles through a lonely country where nobody seemed to live. just as he rubbed his eyes wide awake they came to a forest of christmas trees. at least, they looked as if all they needed to make them that, was for some one to fasten candles on their snow-laden boughs. then the whistle blew the signal that meant that the train was about to stop, and will'm scrambled up on his knees again, and they both looked out expectantly. there was no station at this place of stopping. only by special order from some high official did this train come to a halt here, so somebody of importance must be coming aboard. all they saw at first was a snowy road opening through the grove of christmas trees, but standing in this road, a few rods from the train, was a sleigh drawn by two big black horses. they had bells on their bridles which went ting-a-ling whenever they shook their heads or pawed the snow. the children could not see a trunk being put into the baggage car farther up the track, but they saw what happened in the delay. [illustration: and ran after the boy as hard as she could go] a half-grown boy, a suitcase in one hand and a pile of packages in his arms, dashed towards the car, leaving a furry old gentleman in the sleigh to hold the horses. the old gentleman's coat was fur, and his cap was fur, and so was the great rug which covered him. under the fur cap was thick white hair, and all over the bottom of his face was a bushy white beard. and his cheeks were red and his eyes were laughing, and if he wasn't santa claus's own self he certainly looked enough like the nicest pictures of him to be his own brother. on the seat beside him was a young girl, who, waiting only long enough to plant a kiss on one of those rosy cheeks above the snowy beard, sprang out of the sleigh and ran after the boy as hard as she could go. she was not more than sixteen, but she looked like a full-grown young lady to libby, for her hair was tucked up under her little fur cap with its scarlet quill, and the long, fur-bordered red coat she wore, reached her ankles. one hand was thrust through a row of holly wreaths, and she was carrying all the bundles both arms could hold. by the time the boy had deposited his load in the section opposite the children's, and dashed back down the aisle, there was a call of "all aboard!" they met at the door, he and the pretty girl, she laughing and nodding her thanks over her pile of bundles. he raised his hat and bolted past, but stopped an instant, just before jumping off the train, to run back and thrust his head in the door and call out laughingly, "good-by, miss santa claus!" everybody in the car looked up and smiled, and turned and looked again as she went up the aisle, for a lovelier christmas picture could not be imagined than the one she made in her long red coat, her arms full of packages and wreaths of holly. the little fur cap with its scarlet feather was powdered with snow, and the frosty wind had brought such a glow to her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes that she looked the living embodiment of christmas cheer. her entrance seemed to bring with it the sense of all holiday joy, just as the cardinal's first note holds in it the sweetness of a whole spring. will'm edged along the seat until he was close beside libby, and the two sat and stared at her with wide-eyed interest. _that boy had called her miss santa claus!_ if the sleigh which brought her had been drawn by reindeer, and she had carried her pack on her back instead of in her arms, they could not have been more spellbound. they scarcely breathed for a few moments. the radiant, glowing creature took off the long red coat and gave it to the porter to hang up, then she sat down and began sorting her packages into three piles. it took some time to do this, as she had to refer constantly to a list of names on a long strip of paper, and compare them with the names on the bundles. while she was doing this the conductor came for her ticket and she asked several questions. yes, he assured her, they were due at eastbrook in fifteen minutes and would stop there long enough to take water. "then i'll have plenty of time to step off with these things," she said. "and i'm to leave some at centreville and some at ridgely." when the conductor said something about helping santa claus, she answered laughingly, "yes, uncle thought it would be better for me to bring these breakable things instead of trusting them to the chimney route." then in answer to a question which libby did not hear, "oh, that will be all right. uncle telephoned all down the line and arranged to have some one meet me at each place." when the train stopped at eastbrook, both the porter and conductor came to help her gather up her first pile of parcels, and people in the car stood up and craned their necks to see what she did with them. libby and will'm could see. they were on the side next to the station. she gave them to several people who seemed to be waiting for her. almost immediately she was surrounded by a crowd of young men and girls, all shaking hands with her and talking at once. from the remarks which floated in through the open vestibule, it seemed that they all must have been at some party with her the night before. a chorus of good-byes and merry christmases followed her into the car when she had to leave them and hurry aboard. this time she came in empty handed, and this time people looked up and smiled openly into her face, and she smiled back as if they were all friends, sharing their good times together. at centreville she darted out with the second lot. farther down a number of people were leaving the day coaches, but no one was getting off the pullman. she did not leave the steps, but leaned over and called to an old colored-man who stood with a market basket on his arm. "this way, mose. quick!" then will'm and libby heard her say: "tell 'old miss' that uncle norse sent this holly. he wanted her to have it because it grew on his own place and is the finest in the country. don't knock the berries off, and do be careful of this biggest bundle. i wouldn't have it broken for anything. and--oh, yes, mose" (this in a lower tone), "this is for you." what it was that passed from the little white hand into the worn brown one of the old servitor was not discovered by the interested audience inside the car, but they heard a chuckle so full of pleasure that some of them echoed it unconsciously. "lawd bless you, li'l' miss, you sho' is the flowah of the santa claus fambly!" when she came in this time, a motherly old lady near the door stopped her, and smiling up at her through friendly spectacles, asked if she were going home for christmas. "yes!" was the enthusiastic answer. "and you know what that means to a freshman--her first homecoming after her first term away at school. i should have been there four days ago. our vacation began last friday, but i stopped over for a house-party at my cousin's. i was wild to get home, but i couldn't miss this visit, for she's my dearest chum as well as my cousin, and last night was her birthday. maybe you noticed all those people who met me at eastbrook. they were at the party." "that was nice," answered the little old lady, bobbing her head. "very nice, my dear. and now you'll be getting home at the most beautiful time in all the year." "yes, _i_ think so," was the happy answer. "christmas eve to me always means going around with father to take presents, and i wouldn't miss it for anything in the world. i'm glad there's enough snow this year for us to use the sleigh. we had to take the auto last year, and it wasn't half as much fun." libby and will'm scarcely moved after that, all the way to ridgely. nor did they take their eyes off her. mile after mile they rode, barely batting an eyelash, staring at her with unabated interest. at ridgely she handed off all the rest of the packages and all of the holly wreaths but two. these she hung up out of the way over her windows, then taking out a magazine, settled herself comfortably in the end of the seat to read. on her last trip up the aisle she had noticed the wistful, unsmiling faces of her little neighbors across the way, and she wondered why it was that the only children in the coach should be the only ones who seemed to have no share in the general joyousness. something was wrong, she felt sure, and while she was cutting the leaves of the magazine, she stole several glances in their direction. the little girl had an anxious pucker of the brows sadly out of place in a face that had not yet outgrown its baby innocence of expression. she looked so little and lorn and troubled about something, that miss santa claus made up her mind to comfort her as soon as she had an opportunity. she knew better than to ask for her confidence as the well-meaning lady had done earlier in the day. when she began to read, will'm drew a long breath and stretched himself. there was no use watching now when it was evident that she wasn't going to do anything for awhile, and sitting still so long had made him fidgety. he squirmed off the seat, and up into the next one, unintentionally wiping his feet on libby's dress as he did so. it brought a sharp reproof from the overwrought libby, and he answered back in the same spirit. neither was conscious that their voices could be heard across the aisle above the noise of the train. the little fur cap with the scarlet feather bent over the magazine without the slightest change in posture, but there was no more turning of pages. the piping, childish voices were revealing a far more interesting story than the printed one the girl was scanning. she heard her own name mentioned. they were disputing about her. too restless to sit still, and with no way in which to give vent to his all-consuming energy, will'm was ripe for a squabble. it came very soon, and out of many allusions to past and present, and dire threats as to what might happen to him at the end of the journey if he didn't mend his ways, the interested listener gathered the principal facts in their history. the fuss ended in a shower of tears on will'm's part, and the consequent smudging of his face with his grimy little hands which wiped them away, so that he had to be escorted once more behind the curtain to the shining faucets and the basin with the chained-up hole at the bottom. when they came back miss santa claus had put away her magazine and taken out some fancy work. all she seemed to be doing was winding some red yarn over a pencil, around and around and around. but presently she stopped and tied two ends with a jerk, and went snip, snip with her scissors, and there in her fingers was a soft fuzzy ball. when she had snipped some more, and trimmed it all over, smooth and even, it looked like a little red cherry. in almost no time she had two wool cherries lying in her lap. she was just beginning the third when the big ball of yarn slipped out of her fingers, and rolled across the aisle right under libby's feet. she sprang to pick it up and take it back. "thank you, dear," was all that miss santa claus said, but such a smile went with it, that libby, smoothing her skirts over her knees as she primly took her seat again, felt happier than she had since leaving the junction. it wasn't two minutes till the ball slipped and rolled away again. this time will'm picked it up, and she thanked him in the same way. but very soon when both scissors and ball spilled out of her lap and libby politely brought her one and will'm the other, she did not take them. "i wonder," she said, "if you children couldn't climb up here on the seat with me and hold this old jack and jill of a ball and scissors. every time one falls down and almost breaks its crown, the other goes tumbling after. i'm in such a hurry to get through. couldn't you stay and help me a few minutes?" "yes, ma'am," said libby, primly and timidly, sitting down on the edge of the opposite seat with the ball in her hands. miss santa claus put an arm around will'm and drew him up on the seat beside her. "there," she said. "you hold the scissors, will'm, and when i'm through winding the ball that libby holds, i'll ask you to cut the yarn for me. did you ever see such scissors, libby? they're made in the shape of a witch. see! she sits upon the handles, and when the blades are closed they make the peak of her long pointed cap. they came from the old witch town of salem." libby darted a half-frightened look at her. she had called them both by name! had _she_ been listening down the chimney, too? and those witch scissors! they looked as if they might be a charm to open all sorts of secrets. maybe she knew some charm to keep stepmothers from being cruel. oh, if she only dared to ask! of course libby knew that one mustn't "pick up" with strangers and tell them things. miss sally had warned her against that. but this was different. miss santa claus was _more_ than just a person. if pan were to come piping out of the woods, who, with any music in him, would not respond with all his heart to the magic call? if titania were to beckon with her gracious wand, who would not be drawn into her charmèd circle gladly? so it was these two little wayfarers heard the call and swayed to the summons of one who not only shed the influence, but shared the name of the wonderful spirit of yule. chapter v with libby to hold the ball and unwind the yarn as fast as it was needed, and will'm to cut it with the witch scissors every time miss santa claus said "snip!" it was not long before half a dozen little wool cherries lay in her lap. then they helped twist the yarn into cords on which to tie the balls, and watched with eyes that never lost a movement of her deft fingers, while she fastened the cords to the front of a red crocheted jacket, which she took from her suitcase. "there!" she exclaimed, holding it up for them to admire. "that is to go in the stocking of a poor little fellow no larger than will'm. he's lame and has to stay in bed all the time, and he asked santa claus to bring him something soft and warm to put on when he is propped up in bed to look at his toys." out of a dry throat libby at last brought up the question she had been trying to find courage for. "is santa claus your father?" "no, but father and uncle norse are so much like him that people often get them all mixed up, just as they do twins, and since uncle santa has grown so busy, he gets father to attend to a great deal of his business. in fact our whole family has to help. he couldn't possibly get around to everybody as he used to when the cities were smaller and fewer. lately he has been leaving more and more of his work to us. he's even taken to adopting people into his family so that they can help him. in almost every city in the world now, he has an adopted brother or sister or relative of some sort, and sometimes children not much bigger than you, ask to be counted as members of his family. it's so much fun to help." libby pondered over this news a moment before she asked another question. "then does he come to see them and tell them what to do?" "no, indeed! nobody ever _sees_ him. he just sends messages, something like wireless telegrams. you know what they are?" libby shook her head. she had never heard of them. miss santa claus explained. "and his messages pop into your head just that way," she added. "i was as busy as i could be one day, studying my algebra lesson, when all of a sudden, pop came the thought into my head that little jamie fitch wanted a warm red jacket to wear when he sat up in bed, and that uncle santa wanted me to make it. i went down town that very afternoon and bought the wool, and i knew that i was not mistaken by the way i felt afterward, so glad and warm and christmasy. that's why all his family love to help him. he gives them such a happy feeling while they are doing it." it was will'm's turn now for a question. he asked it abruptly with a complete change of base. "did you ever see a stepmother?" "yes, indeed! and cousin rosalie has one. she's uncle norse's wife. i've just been visiting them." "has she got a tush?" "a _what_?" was the astonished answer. "he means tusk," explained libby. "all the cruel ones have'm, susie peters says." "sticking out this way, like a pig's," will'm added eagerly, at the same time pulling his lip down at one side to show a little white tooth in the place where the dreadful fang would have grown, had he been the cruel creature in question. "mercy, _no_!" was the horrified exclamation. "that kind live only in fairy tales along with ogres and giants. didn't you know that?" will'm shook his head. "me an' libby was afraid ours would be that way, and if she is we're going to do something to her. we're going to shut her up in a nawful dark cellar, or--or _something_." miss santa looked grave. here was a dreadful misunderstanding. somebody had poisoned these baby minds with suspicions and doubts which might embitter their whole lives. if she had been only an ordinary fellow passenger she might not have felt it her duty to set them straight. but no descendant of the family of which she was a member, could come face to face with such a wrong, without the impulse to make it right. it was an impulse straight from the sky road. in the carol service in the chapel, the night before she left school, the dean had spoken so beautifully of the way they might all follow the star, this christmastide, with their gifts of frankincense and myrrh, even if they had no gold. here was her opportunity, she thought, if she were only wise enough to say the right thing! before she could think of a way to begin, a waiter came through the car, sounding the first call for dinner. time was flying. she'd have to hurry, and make the most of it before the journey came to an end. putting the little crocheted jacket back into her suitcase and snapping the clasps she stood up. "come on," she said, holding out a hand to each. "we'll go into the dining-car and get something to eat." libby thought of the generous supper in the pasteboard box which they had been told to eat as soon as it was dark, but she allowed herself to be led down the aisle without a word. a higher power was in authority now. she was as one drawn into a fairy ring. now at last, the ride on the pullman blossomed into all that will'm had pictured it to be. there was the gleam of glass, the shine of silver, the glow of shaded candles, and himself at one of the little tables, while the train went flying through the night like a mighty winged dragon, breathing smoke and fire as it flew. miss santa claus studied the printed card beside her plate a moment, and then looked into her pocketbook before she wrote the order. she smiled a little while she was writing it. she wanted to make this meal one that they would always remember, and was sure that children who lived at such a place as the junction had never before eaten strawberries on christmas eve; a snow-covered christmas eve at that. she had been afraid for just a moment, when she first peeped into her purse, that there wasn't enough left for her to get them. no one had anything to say while the order was being filled. will'm and libby were too busy looking at the people and things around them, and their companion was too busy thinking about something she wanted to tell them after awhile. presently the steward passed their table, and will'm gave a little start of recognition, but he said nothing. it was the same man whose locket he had found, and who had promised to tell santa claus about him. evidently he had told, for here was will'm in full enjoyment of what he had longed for. the man did not look at will'm, however. he was too busy attending to the wants of impatient grown people to notice a quiet little boy who sat next the wall and made no demands. [illustration: it was about the princess ina] then the waiter came, balancing an enormous tray on one hand, high above his head, and the children watched him with the breathless fascination with which they would have watched a juggler play his tricks. it was a simple supper, for miss santa claus was still young enough to remember what had been served to her in her nursery days, but it was crowned by a dish of enormous strawberries, such as will'm had seen in the refrigerator of the car kitchen, but nowhere else. they never grew that royal size at the junction. but what made the meal more than one of mortal enjoyment, and transformed the earthly food into ambrosia of the gods, was that while they sifted the powdered sugar over their berries, miss santa claus began to tell them a story. it was about the princess ina, who had six brothers whom a wicked witch changed into swans. it was a very interesting story, the way she told it, and more than once both libby and will'm paused with their spoons half way from berries to mouth, the better to listen. it was quite sad, too, for only once in twenty-four hours, and then just for a few moments, could the princes shed their swan-skins and be real brothers again. at these times they would fly back to their sister ina, and with tears in their eyes, beg her to help them break the cruel charm. at last she found a way, but it would be a hard way for her. she must go alone, and in the fearsome murk of the gloaming, to a spot where wild asters grow. the other name for them is star-flower. if she could pick enough of these star-flowers to weave into a mantle for each brother, which would cover him from wing-tip to wing-tip, then they would be free from the spell as soon as it was thrown over them. but the flowers must be gathered in silence. a single word spoken aloud would undo all her work. and it would be a hard task, for the star-flowers grew only among briars and weeds, and her hands would be scratched with thorns and stung by nettles. yet no matter how badly she was torn or blistered she must not break her silence by one word of complaint. now the way miss santa told that story made you feel that it was _you_ and not the princess ina who was groping through the fearsome gloaming after the magic flowers. once libby felt the scratch of the thorns so plainly that she said "oo-oh" in a whisper, and looked down at her own hands, half expecting to see blood on them. and will'm forgot to eat entirely, when it came to the time of weaving the last mantle, and there wasn't quite enough material to piece it out to the last wing-tip. still there was enough to change the last swan back into a real brother again, even if one arm never was quite as it should be; and when all six brothers stood around their dear sister, weeping tears of joy at their deliverance, will'm's face shone as if he had just been delivered from the same fate himself. "now," said miss santa claus, when the waiter had brought the bill and gone back for some change, "you must never, never forget that story as long as you live. i've told it to you because it's a true charm that can be used for many things. aunt ruth told it to me. she used it long ago, when she wanted to change rosalie into a real daughter, and i used it once when i wanted to change a girl who was just a pretend friend, into a real one. _and you are to use it to change your stepmother into a real mother!_ i'll tell you how when we go back to our seats." on the way back they stopped in the vestibule between the cars for a breath of fresh air, and to look out on the snow-covered country, lying white in the moonlight. the flakes were no longer falling. "i see the sky road!" sang out will'm in a happy sort of chant, pointing up at the glittering milky way. "pretty soon the drate big reindeer'll come running down that road!" "and the christmas angels," added libby reverently, in a half whisper. "and there's where the star-flowers grow," miss santa claus chimed in, as if she were singing. "once there was a dear poet who called the stars 'the forget-me-nots of the angels.' i believe i'll tell you about them right now, while we're out here where we can look up at them. oh, i wonder if i can make it plain enough for you to understand me!" with an arm around each child's shoulder to steady them while they stood there, rocking and swaying with the motion of the lurching train, she began: "it's this way. when you go home, probably there'll be lots of things that you won't like, and that you won't want to do. things that will seem as disagreeable as ina's task was to her. they won't scratch and blister your hands, but they'll make you _feel_ all scratchy and hot and cross. but if you go ahead as ina did, without opening your lips to complain, _it will be like picking a little white star-flower whose name is obedience_. the more you pick of them the more you will have to weave into your mantle. and sometimes you will see a chance to do something to help her or to please her, without waiting to be asked. you may have to stop playing to do it, and give up your own pleasure. that will scratch your feelings some, _but doing it will be like picking a big golden star-flower whose name is kindness_. and if you keep on doing this, day after day as ina did, with never a word of complaint, the time will come when you have woven a big, beautiful mantle whose name is love. and when it is big enough to reach from 'wing-tip to wing-tip' you'll find that she has grown to be just like a real mother. do you understand?" "yes, ma'am," answered libby solemnly. will'm did not answer, but the far-off look in his eyes showed that he was pondering over what she had just told him. "now we must run along in," she said briskly. "it's cold out here." inside, she looked at her watch. it was after seven. only a little more than an hour, and the children would be at the end of their journey. not much longer than that and she would reach hers. it had been a tiresome day for both libby and will'm. although their eyes shone with the excitement of it, the sandman was not far away. it was their regular bedtime, and they were yawning. at a word from miss santa claus the porter brought pillows and blankets. she made up a bed for each on opposite seats and tucked them snugly in. "now," she said, bending over them, "you'll have time for a nice long nap before your father comes to take you off. but before you go to sleep, i want to tell you one more thing that you must remember forever. _you must always get the right kind of start._ it's like hooking up a dress, you know. if you start crooked it will keep on being crooked all the way down to the bottom, unless you undo it and begin over. so if i were you, i'd begin to work that star-flower charm the first thing in the morning. remember you can work it on anybody if you try hard enough. and remember that it is _true_, just as true as it is that you're each going to have a christmas stocking!" she stooped over each in turn and kissed their eyelids down with a soft touch of her smiling lips that made libby thrill for days afterward, whenever she thought of it. it seemed as if some royal spell had been laid upon them with those kisses; some spell to close their eyes to nettles and briars, and help them to see only the star-flowers. in less than five minutes both libby and will'm were sound asleep, and the porter was carrying the holly wreaths and the red coat and the suitcase back to the state-room which had been vacated at the last stopping place. in two minutes more miss santa claus had emptied her suitcase out on the seat beside her, and was scrabbling over the contents in wild haste. for no sooner had she mentioned stockings to the children than pop had come one of those messages straight from the sky road, which could not be disregarded. knowing that she would be on the train with the two children from the junction, santa claus was leaving it to her to provide stockings for them. it worried her at first, for she couldn't see her way clear to doing it on such short notice and in such limited quarters. but she had never failed him since he had first allowed her the pleasure of helping him, and she didn't intend to now. her mind had to work as fast as her fingers. there wasn't a single thing among her belongings that she could make stockings of, unless--she sighed as she picked it up and shook out the folds of the prettiest kimono she had ever owned. it was the softest possible shade of gray with white cherry blossoms scattered over it, and it was bordered in wide bands of satin the exact color of a shining ripe red cherry. there was nothing else for it, the lovely kimono must be shorn of its glory, at least on one side. maybe she could split what was left on the other side, and reborder it all with narrower bands. but even if she couldn't, she must take it. the train was leaping on through the night. there was no time to spare. snip! snip! went the witch scissors, and the long strip of cherry satin was loose in her hands. twenty minutes later two bright red stockings lay on the seat in front of her, bordered with silver tinsel. she had run the seams hastily with white thread, all she had with her, but the stitches did not show, being on the inside. even if they had pulled themselves into view in places, all defects in sewing were hidden by the tinsel with which the stockings were bordered. she had unwound it from a wand which she was carrying home with several other favors from the german of the night before. the wand was so long that it went into her suitcase only by laying it in diagonally. it had been wrapped around and around with yards of tinsel, tipped with a silver-gauze butterfly. while she stitched she tried to think of something to put into the stockings. her only hope was in the trainboy, and she sent the porter to bring him. but when he came he had little to offer. as it was christmas eve everybody had wanted his wares and he was nearly sold out. not a nut, not an apple, not even a package of chewing gum could he produce. but he did have somewhere among his things, he said, two little toy lanterns, with red glass sides, filled with small mixed candies, and he had several oranges left. earlier in the day he had had small glass pistols filled with candy. he departed to get the stock still on hand. when the lanterns proved to be miniature conductor's lanterns miss santa claus could have clapped her hands with satisfaction. children who played train so much would be delighted with them. she thrust one into each stocking with an orange on top. they just filled the legs, but there was a dismal limpness of foot which sadly betrayed its emptiness. with another glance at her watch miss santa claus hurried back to the dining-car. the tables were nearly empty, and she found the steward by the door. she showed him the stockings and implored him to think of something to help fill them. hadn't he nuts, raisins, _anything_, even little cakes, that she could get in a hurry? he suggested salted almonds and after-dinner mints, and sent a waiter flying down the aisle to get some. while she waited she explained that they were for two children who had come by themselves all the way from the junction. it was little will'm's first ride on a pullman. the words "junction" and "will'm" seemed to recall something to the steward. "i wonder if it could be the same little chap who found my locket," he said. "i took his name intending to send him something christmas, but was so busy i never thought of it again." the waiter was back with the nuts and mints. miss santa claus paid for them, and hurriedly returned to the state-room. she had to search through her things again to find some tissue paper to wrap the salted almonds in. they'd spoil the red satin if put in without covering. while she was doing it the steward came to the door. "i beg pardon, miss," he said. "but would you mind showing me the little fellow? if it _is_ the same one, i'd like to leave him a small trick i've got here." she pointed down the aisle to the seat where will'm lay sound asleep, one dimpled fist cuddled under his soft chin. after a moment's smiling survey the man came back. "that's the kid all right," he told her. "and he seemed to be so powerful fond of anything that has to do with a train, i thought it would please him to find this in his stocking." he handed her a small-sized conductor's punch. "i use it to keep tally on the order cards," he explained, "but i won't need it on the rest of this run." "how lovely!" exclaimed miss santa claus. "i know he'll be delighted, and i'm much obliged to you myself, for helping me make his stocking fuller and nicer." she opened the magazine after he had gone, and just to try the punch closed it down on one of the leaves. clip, it went, and the next instant she uttered a soft little cry of pleasure. the clean-cut hole that the punch had made in the margin was star shaped, and on her lap, where it had fallen from the punch, was a tiny white paper star. "oh, it will help him to remember the charm!" she whispered, her eyes shining with the happy thought. "if i only had some kind of a reminder for libby, too!" then, all of a sudden came another message, straight from the sky road! she could give libby the little gold ring which had fallen to her lot the night before in her slice of the birthday cake. there had been a ring, a thimble and a dime in the cake, and she had drawn the ring. it was so small, just a child's size, that she couldn't wear it, but she was taking it home to put in her memory book. it had been such a beautiful evening that she wanted to mark it with that little golden circlet, although of course it wasn't possible for her to forget such a lovely time, even in centuries. and libby _might_ forget about the star-flowers unless she had a daily reminder. she held it in her hand a moment, hesitating, till the message came again, "_send it!_" then there was no longer any indecision. when she shut it in its little box, and stuffed the box down past the lantern and the orange and the nuts and the peppermints into the very toe, such a warm, glad christmasy feeling sent its glow through her, that she knew past all doubting she had interpreted the sky road message aright. many of the passengers had left the car by this time, and the greater number of those who remained were nodding uncomfortably in their seats. but those who happened to be awake and alert saw a picture they never forgot, when a lovely young girl, her face alight with the joy of christmas love and giving, stole down the aisle and silently fastened something on the back of the seat above each little sleeper. it was a stocking, red and shining as a cherry, and silver-bordered with glistening fairy fringe. when they looked again she had disappeared, but the stockings still hung there, tokens which were to prove to those same little sleepers on their awakening that the star-flower charm is true. for love indeed works miracles, and every message from the sky road is but an echo of the one the christmas angels sang when first they came along that shining highway, the heralds of good-will and peace to all the earth. chapter vi christmas morning when will'm awoke, he was as bewildered as if he had opened his eyes in a new world. he was in a little white bed, such as he had never seen before, and the blankets were blue, with a border of white bunnies around each one. between him and the rest of the room was a folding screen, like a giant picture-book cover, showing everybody in mother goose's whole family. he lay staring at it awhile, and when he recognized tommy tucker and simple simon and mother hubbard's dog, he didn't feel quite so lost and strange as he did at first. always at the junction he had to lie still until uncle neal made the fire and the room was warm; but here it was already warm, and he could hear steam hissing somewhere. it seemed to be coming from the gilt pipes under the window. wondering what was on the other side of the screen, he slid out from under the bunny blankets and peeped cautiously around the wall of mother goose pictures. it was libby on the other side in another little white bed just like his. with one spring he pounced up on top of it, and squirmed in beside her. the first moment of libby's awakening was as bewildering as will'm's had been. then she began to have a confused recollection of the night before. she remembered being lifted from the pillow on the car seat, and hugged and kissed, and having her limp, sleepy arms thrust into elusive coat sleeves. somebody held her hand and hurried her down the aisle after her father, who was carrying will'm, because he was so sound asleep that they couldn't even put his overcoat on him. it was just wrapped around him. then she remembered jolting across the city in an omnibus, with her head on a muff in a lady's lap, and of leaning against that same lady afterwards while her clothes were being unbuttoned, and her eyelids kept falling shut. she had never been so sleepy in her whole life, that she could remember. suddenly she sat straight up in bed and stared at something hanging on the post of the low footboard; a christmas stocking all red and silver, and for her! even from where she was she could read the name that miss santa claus had printed in big letters on the scrap of paper pinned to it: "libby." only those who have thrilled with that same speechless rapture can know a tithe of the bliss which filled libby's soul, as she seized it, her first christmas stocking, and began to explore it with fingers trembling in their eagerness. when down in the very toe she found the "little shiny gold ring like maudie peters's," all she had breath for was a long indrawn "aw-aw-aw!" of ecstasy. "oh, will'm!" she exclaimed, when she could find speech, "aren't you glad we bleeved?" "but i aren't got any stocking," he said gloomily, eyeing her enviously while she slipped the ring on her finger and waved her hand around to admire the effect. "but you got all you asked for: the ride on the cars," she reminded him cheerfully. "did you look on your post to see if there was anything?" no, he had not looked, and at the suggestion he sprang out of libby's bed like a furry white kitten in his little teazledown nightdrawers made with feet to them, and knelt on top of his own bunny blankets. "oh, libby! there _is_ one. there _is_!" he cried excitedly. "it slipped around to the back of the post where i couldn't see it before. there's an orange and a lantern just like yours, and what's this? oh, _look_!" the awesome joy of his voice made libby join him on the other side of the mother goose screen, and she snatched the little punch from him almost as eagerly as he had snatched it from the stocking, to try it on the slip of paper which bore the name "will'm," pinned across the toe. they had watched the conductor using his the previous day, and had each wished for one to use in playing their favorite game. clip, it went, and their heads bumped together in their eagerness to see the result. there in the paper was a clear-cut hole in the shape of a tiny star, and on the blanket where it had fallen from the hole, was the star itself. the punch which the conductor had used made round holes. this was a thousand times nicer. [illustration: the shower of stars falling on the blanket made her think of the star-flower] up till this moment, in the bewilderment of finding themselves in their new surroundings, the children had forgotten all about miss santa claus and her story of ina and the swans. but now libby looked up, as will'm snatched back the punch and began clipping holes in the paper as fast as he could clip. the shower of stars falling on the blanket made her think of the star-flower charm, which they had been advised to begin using first thing in the morning. immediately libby retired to her side of the screen and began to dress. "don't you know," she reminded will'm, "she said that we must be particular to start right. it's like hooking up a dress. if you start crooked, everything will keep on being crooked all the way down. i'm going to get started right, for i've found it's just as easy to be good as it is to be bad when you once get used to trying." will'm wasn't paying attention. he had punched the slip of paper so full of holes it wouldn't hold another one, and now he tried the punch on the edge of one of the soft blankets, just to see if it would make a blue star drop out. but the punch didn't cut blankets as evenly as it did paper. only a snip of wool came loose and stuck in the punch, and the hole almost closed up afterward when he picked at it a little. he didn't show it to libby. that is the last he thought of the charm that day, for their father put his head in at the door to call "merry christmas," and say that he'd be in in a few minutes to help him into his clothes, and that their mother would come too to tie libby's hair-ribbons and hurry things along, because they must hustle down to breakfast to see the grand surprise she had for them. then will'm hurried so fast that he was in his clothes by the time his father came in; he had even washed his own face and hands after a fashion, and there was nothing to be done for him but to brush his hair, and while his father was doing that, he talked and joked in such an entertaining way that will'm did not feel at all strange with him as he had expected to do. but he felt strange when presently his father exclaimed, "_here's_ mother," and somebody put her arms around him and kissed him and wished him a merry christmas, and then did the same to libby. she looked so smiling and home-like that she seemed more like miss sally watts or somebody they had known at the junction than a stepmother. if will'm hadn't known that she was one, and that he was expected to love her, he would have liked her right away, almost as much as he did miss sally. but he felt shy and uncomfortable, and he didn't know what to call her. the name "mama" did not belong to her. it never could. that belonged to the beautiful picture hanging on the wall where it could be seen from both little beds, last thing at night and first thing in the morning. they had had a smaller picture just like it at the junction, but this was more beautiful because it showed the soft pink in her cheeks and the blue in her smiling eyes, and the other was only a photograph. will'm knew as well as libby did that the reason their father had kept talking about "your mother" all the time he was brushing his hair, was because he wanted them to call her that. but he _couldn't_! he didn't know her well enough. he felt that it would choke him to call her anything but _she_ or _her_. while his father carried him down to breakfast pick-a-back, _she_ led libby by the hand, and told about finding the stockings pinned to the car seats, and about a beautiful girl who suddenly appeared beside her in the aisle, and asked her to be sure to hang them where the children could find them first thing in the morning. santa claus had asked her to be sure that they got them. she had on a long red coat and a little fur cap with a red feather in it. there wasn't any time to ask her questions, for while they were trying to waken the children and hurry them off the train which stopped such a few minutes, she just smiled and vanished. libby and will'm looked at each other and said in the same breath, "miss santa claus!" libby would have gone on to explain who she was, but they had reached the dining-room door, and there in the center of the breakfast table stood a christmas tree, tipped with shining tapers and every branch a-bloom with the wonderful fruitage of yuletide. it was the first one they had ever seen, all lighted and glistening, so it is no wonder that its glories drove everything else out of their thoughts. there was a tricycle for will'm waiting beside his chair, with a card on it that said "with love from father and mother." and in libby's chair with the same kind of a card was a doll, with not only real hair, but real eyelashes, and a trunk full of the most beautiful clothes that _she_ had made. as it was a holiday their father could give his entire time to making them forget that they were miles and miles from grandma neal and the junction. so what with the snow fort in the yard, and a big christmas dinner and a long sleighride afterward, they were whirled from one exciting thing to another, till nightfall. even then there was no time to grow lonely, for their father sat in the firelight, a child on each knee, holding them close while _she_ played on the piano, soft sweet lullabies so alluring that the sandman himself had to steal out to listen. it was different next morning when their father had to go back to the office, but the "hooking up" started out all right for libby. she remembered it while she was washing her hands, and saw the gleam of the little new ring on her finger. so her first shy question when they were left alone with _her_, was: "don't you want me to do something?" the desire to please was so evident that the answer was accompanied by a quick hug which held her close for a moment. "yes, dear, if you can just play with your little brother and keep him contented awhile, it will be more help than anything." libby skipped promptly away to do her bidding. she knew that will'm would want to go thundering up and down the back hall in his tricycle, playing train with the lantern and the punch. she would far rather devote her time to the new doll, for she hadn't yet tried on half its wardrobe. but miss santa claus's words came back to her very clearly: "_it will be like picking a little white flower whose name is obedience!_" feeling that she was following in the footsteps of the princess ina, she threw herself into the game of railroad train until will'm found it more thrilling than it had ever been before. later in the morning they trundled the tricycle out into the back yard, to ride up and down the long brick pavement which led to the alley gate. the snow had been swept off and the bricks were dry and clean. they took turns riding. the tricycle was the engine, and the one whose turn it was to go on foot ran along behind, personating the train. they had been at this sport some time, when they suddenly became aware that some one was watching them. a small boy with curious bulging eyes, and a mouth open like a round o was peeking in at them, between the pickets of the alley gate. he was a boy two years bigger and older than will'm, but he was unkempt looking, and his stockings wrinkled down over his shoe-tops, and there was a ring of molasses or jam or something around his mouth. the discovery dampened their zest in the game somewhat. it made will'm, who had never played with any one but libby, a trifle self-conscious. he stopped letting off steam with his lips, and wheeling around, trundled back to the house in silence. libby, too, was disconcerted. her car-wheels failed her. she trailed back in his wake a little girl, instead of a noisy train. yet the discovery did not stop the game altogether. at the kitchen steps they turned as they had been doing all along and bravely started towards the alley again. this time the gate opened and the dirty little boy came in. it was benjy, known to all the neighborhood, if not to them, for he wandered around it like a stray cat. wherever he saw a door ajar he entered, and stayed until something attracted his attention elsewhere. he went home only when he was sent for. if nothing of interest pulled him the other way he went unresistingly, if not he was dragged. wherever he happened to be at mealtime, he stayed, whether he was invited or not. there was something almost spooky in benjy's sudden appearances, and in his all-devouring curiosity. it wasn't the childish normal kind that asks questions. it was the gaping, uncanny kind that silently peers over into your open pocketbook, or stands looking into your mouth while you talk. older people disliked him because he would leave his play to stand in front of them and gape and listen, and he was always grubby and unbuttoned. although he was six years old it was no concern of his that his stockings were always turning down over his shoe tops. if the public preferred to see them smooth then the public must attend to his gartersnaps. the tricycle having reached the end of the walk, came to a halt. benjy opened the gate, walked in and took possession. it was from no sense of fear that will'm climbed down and let benjy assume control. it was simply that a new force had come into his life, a strangely fascinating one. he had never had anything to do with boys before, and this one, bigger than himself, dominated him from the start. he found it much more thrilling to follow his lead than his sister's. after a few futile attempts to keep on with the game, libby fell out of it. not that benjy objected to her. he simply ignored her, and will'm took his cue from him. so she sat on the kitchen steps and watched them, till she felt cold and went into the house. the coming of benjy left libby free to turn to her own affairs, but somehow she could not do it with quite the same zest, feeling that she had been shouldered out of will'm's game by an interloper. she thoroughly disapproved of benjy from the first glance. he was a trial to her orderly little soul, and his lack of neatness added to her resentment at being ignored. when will'm was called in out of the cold later in the afternoon, benjy followed as a matter of course. several times she fell upon him and yanked him into shape with masterful touches which left him as neatly geared together as will'm always was. but by the time he had squirmed out of her hands his gartersnaps were out of a job again, and his waist and little trousers were parting company at the belt. all that day he stayed on, till he was dragged home at dusk like a lump of dough. he didn't resist when the maid came for him. he simply relaxed and left all the exertion of getting home entirely to her. when the door closed behind him libby drew a long breath of relief as if she had been seven and twenty instead of just seven. he hadn't _done_ anything, but his wild suggestions had kept will'm on the verge of doing things all day. he was in the act of prying the seat off his new tricycle by benjy's orders when she went in and stopped him, and she went into the nursery just in time to keep him from doing some unheard-of thing to the radiator, so that it would blow off steam like a real engine. will'm had always been such a sensible child, with a conscience of his own about injuring things, that she couldn't understand why all of a sudden he should be possessed to do a hundred things that he ought not to do. it was a relief to find that the spell lifted with benjy's removal. he came and cuddled down beside her in the big armchair before the fire, waiting for supper time to come, and somehow she felt that she had her own little brother again. he had seemed like a stranger all day. but her exile from his company had not been without its compensations. "i can play 'three blind mice! see how they run!'" she told him as they rocked back and forth. "_she_ taught me. she came in while i was touching the keys just as easy, so they hardly made a sound, and asked me did i want to learn to play on them. and i said oh, yes, more than anything in the world. and she said that was exactly the way she used to feel when she was a little girl like me, living at the junction. she wore her hair in little braids like mine and tiptoed around like a little mouse when she was in strange places, and sometimes when she looked at me she could almost believe it was her own little self come back again. then she showed me how to make my fingers run down the keys just like the three mice did. she's going to teach me more every day till i can play it for father some night. but you must cross your heart and body not to tell 'cause i want to s'prise him." will'm crossed as directed, and stood by much impressed when libby climbed up on the piano-stool and played the seven notes which she had learned, over and over: "three blind mice! see how they run!" "to-morrow she's going to show me as far as 'they all took after the farmer's wife.' i wish it was to-morrow right now!" she gave an eager little wiggle that sent her slipping off the stool. "oh, i _like_ it here, now," she exclaimed, reseating herself and beginning an untiring reiteration of the seven notes. "so do i--some," answered will'm. "i like it 'count of benjy. but i don't like to hear so much blind mice. you make 'm run too long." libby felt vaguely aggrieved by his criticism, but her pleasure in her own performance was something too great to forego. next morning while they were dressing, the door opened silently and benjy appeared on will'm's side of the screen. he came so noiselessly that it gave libby a start when later on she was made aware of his presence. his host, equally wordless, was struggling with a little union-suit of woolen underwear. he was wordless because he was so busily occupied trying to get into it, and the unexpected entrance made him still more anxious to cover himself. grandma neal had always helped him with it, but he had valiantly fought off all offers of help since coming to his new home. this morning, slightly bothered by the presence of his self-invited guest, he got it so twisted that no matter how he turned it, one leg and one sleeve were always wrong side out. benjy, watching with his curious bulging eyes, and his mouth making a round open o, was of no more help than one of those heathen idols, who having eyes, see not, and having hands, handle not. but he finally made a suggestion. he was eager to begin playing. "aw, leave 'm go. don't try to put 'em on." it was this unexpected remark in a voice, not her brother's, which made libby drop her button-hook, on the other side of the screen. "but i'll be cold," objected will'm, staring at the strip of wintry landscape which showed through his window. "naw, you won't," was the confident answer. "your outside clothes are thick." "but i never have left them off," said will'm, ready to cry over the exasperating tangle of legs and sleeves. libby, all dressed but buttoning her shoes, heard will'm being thus tempted of the evil one, and peeping around the giant picture-book cover, discovered him standing in nothing but his tiny knee breeches, preparing to slip his russian blouse of blue serge over his bare back. "why, will'm branfield! stop this minute and put on your underclothes!" she demanded. then growing desperate as her repeated commands were not obeyed, she called threateningly, "if you don't put them on this minute i'll tell on you." "huh! who'll you tell?" jeered benjy. "mr. bramfeel's down cellar, talkin' to the furnace man, and will'm doesn't have to mind _her_. she ain't his mother." the question gave libby pause. not that it left her undecided about telling, but it reminded her that she had no title to give "her," when she called for help. it was like trying to open a door that had no knob, to call into space without having any handle of a name to take hold of first. there was no time to lose. will'm was buttoning himself up in his blouse. libby hurried to the top of the stairs and called: "sa-ay!" there was no answer, so she called again, "sa-ay!" then at the top of her voice, "say! will'm's leaving off his flannels. please come and make him behave!" the next instant her heart began to beat violently, and she waited in terror to see what was going to happen. she wished passionately that she had not told. suppose she had brought down some cruel punishment on her little brother! her first impulse had been to array herself on the side of law and order, but her second was to spread her wings like an old hen in defense of its only chick. when _she_ came into the room will'm was backed up defiantly against the wall. she looked so pleasant and smiling as she bent over him in her pretty morning gown, that it took the courage out of him. if she had been cross he could have fought her. but she just stood there looking so big and capable and calm, taking it for granted that he would put on his flannels as soon as she had untwisted the funny knot they were in, that there wasn't anything to do _but_ obey. will'm was a reasonable child, and if they had been alone that would have been the last of the matter. but he resented being made to mind before his company, and he resented her saying to him, "better run on home, benjy." she might as well have told an oyster to run on home. he gave no sign of having heard her, and when the children went down to breakfast, he calmly went with them. he had had his, and would not sit down, but stood leaning against the table, pushing the cloth awry, watching every mouthful everybody swallowed, until libby saw her father make a queer face. he said something to _her_ in long syllabled words, so long that only grown people could understand. and she laughed and answered that even disagreeable things might prove to be blessings in disguise, if they helped others to take root in strange places. benjy was dragged home again before lunch, but returned immediately after, still chewing, and bearing traces of it on both face and fingers. in the interval of his absence, "mis' bramfeel" as he called her, had occasion to go up-stairs. on a certain step of the stairway when her eyes were on a level with the nursery floor, she saw through its open door, something white, stuffed away back under the bureau on will'm's side of the room. wondering what it could be, she went in and poked it out with a cane which the boys had been playing with. to her amazement the bundle proved to be will'm's little white union-suit. again libby waited with beating heart and clasped hands while he was called in and buttoned firmly into it. _she_ forbade him sternly not to take it off again till bedtime, but nothing else happened, and libby breathed freely once more. grandma neal would have spanked him she thought. will'm needed spanking now and then if one could only be sure that it wouldn't be done too hard. mr. branfield did not come home till late that night. he was called out of town on business. as soon as the telephone message came, _she_ gave the cook a holiday, and told libby she was going to get supper herself. libby could choose whatever she and will'm liked best, and they'd surprise him with it after benjy had been dragged home. so libby chose, and was left to keep house while _she_ hurried down to the only place in town where she was sure of getting what libby had chosen, and carried it home herself, and cooked it just as they used to cook them at the junction when she was a little girl and lived there years ago. and libby had the best time helping. as she followed _her_ about the kitchen she thought of the things she intended to tell maudie peters the first time they went back to the junction to visit. _she_ and libby talked a great deal about that prospective visit, for _she_ had made playhouses under the same old thorn-tree by the brook where libby's last one was. and she had coasted down clifford hill many a time, and she had even sat in the third seat from the front in the row next to the western wall, one whole term of school. that was libby's own seat. no wonder she knew just how libby felt about everything when she could remember so many experiences that were like this little girl's who followed her back and forth from table to stove, bringing up all her own childhood before her. will'm sniffed expectantly as he climbed up to the supper table. a delicious and a beloved odor had reached him. he smiled like a full moon when his plate was put in front of him, and his spoon went hurriedly up to his mouth. "oh, rabbit _dravy_!" he sighed ecstatically. _she_ had gone back to the kitchen for something else, and libby took occasion to say reprovingly, "yes, and _she_ went a long, long way to get that rabbit, just because i told her you love 'm so. and _she_ cooked it herself and burned her hand a-doing it. _she_ was gathering a star-flower for you, even if you have been bad and forgot what miss santa claus told you!" when _she_ came back with the rest of the supper, will'm stole a glance at her hands. sure enough, one was bound up in a handkerchief. it had not been blistered by nettles, but it had been blistered for him. hastily swallowing what was in his spoon, he slid down from the table. "why, what's the matter, dear?" she asked in surprise. "don't you like it after all?" he cast one furtive, abashed look at her as he sidled towards the door. there was confession in that look, and penitence and a sturdy resolve to make what atonement he could. then from the hall he called back the rather enigmatical answer, "i haven't _got_ 'em on, but i'm going to _put_ 'em on!" and the "rabbit dravy" waited while he clattered up the stairs to wriggle out of his suit and into the flannels, which benjy's jeers had made him discard just before supper, for the third time that day. chapter vii in the story it was six long years before the princess ina completed her task, but less than a week went by before libby was convinced that the charm was a potent one, and that miss santa claus had spoken truly. but there was one thing she could not understand. in the story, one found the star-flowers only among nettles and briars, and gathered them to the accompaniment of scratches and stings. yet she was finding it not only a pleasure to obey this new authority but a tingling happiness to do anything for her which would call forth some smile of approval or a caress. still, she saw that the story way was the true way in will'm's case, for so many things that he was told to do, made him feel all "cross and scratchy and hot." they interfered with his play or clashed with the ideas he imbibed from benjy. some of benjy's ideas were as "catching" and distorting as the mumps. the conductor's punch did not long continue to be the daily reminder to will'm that libby's ring was to her, for it mysteriously disappeared one day, and was lost for months. it disappeared the very day that a row of little star-shaped holes was found along the edge of the expensive holland window-shade in the front window of the parlor. benjy had suggested punching them. he wanted a lot of little stars to paste all over their shoes. why he wanted them nobody but he could understand. but the punch served its purpose, for the holland shade was not taken down on account of the holes, and whenever the row of little stars met molly branfield's eyes, they reminded her of the day when libby threw herself into her arms, calling her "mother" for the first time, and sobbing out the story of ina and the swans. distressed by will'm's wickedness, libby begged her not to stop loving him even if he did keep on being naughty, and to try the charm on him which would change him into a real little son. many a time in the months which followed, the row of little holes brought a smile of tolerant tenderness, when she was puzzling over ways to deal with the stubbornness of the small boy who resented her authority. she knew that it was not because he was bad that he resented it, but because, as libby suggested, he had "started out wrong in his hooking-up." many a time libby was moved to say mournfully, "oh, if he'd just remembered what miss santa claus told him, this never would have happened!" it was not every day, however, that this crookedness was apparent. often from daylight till dark he went happily from one thing to another, without a single incident to mar the peacefulness of the hours. he liked the new home with its banisters to slide down, and its many windows looking out on streets where something interesting was always happening. he liked to water the flowers in the dining-room windows. it made him feel that he was helping make a spot of summertime in the world, when all out of doors was white with snow. one of the pots of flowers was his, a rose-geranium. even before the wee buds began to swell, it was a thing of joy, for he had only to rub his fingers over a leaf to make it send forth a smell so good that one longed to eat it. he liked the race down the hall every evening trying to beat libby to the door to open it for their father. now that he was acquainted with him again, it seemed the very nicest thing in the world to have a big jolly father who could swing him up on his shoulder and play circus tricks with him just like an acrobat, and who knew fully as much as the president of the united states. and will'm liked the time which often came before that race down the hall--the wait in the firelight, while _she_ played on the piano and he and libby sang with her. there was one song about the farmer feeding his flocks, "with a quack, quack here, and a gobble, gobble there," that he liked especially. whenever they came to the chorus of the flocks and the herds it was such fun to make all the barnyard noises. sometimes with their lusty mooing and lowing the noise would be so great that they would fail to hear the latchkey turn in the door, and first thing they knew there their father would be in the room mooing with them, in a deep voice that thrilled them like a bass drum. libby entered school after the holidays, and benjy started back on his second half-year, but he did not go regularly. many a day when he should have been in his classes, he was playing war in the branfield attic, or circus in the nursery. it was always on those days that the crookedness of will'm was more manifest, and for that reason, a great effort was made periodically to get rid of benjy. but it seemed a hopeless task. he might be set bodily out of doors and told to go home, but even locks and bolts could not keep him out. he oozed in again somewhere, just like smoke. repeated telephone messages to his mother had no effect. she seemed as indifferent to his being a nuisance to the neighbors as he was to his gartersnaps being unfastened. several times, thinking to escape him when he had announced his intention the night before of coming early, mrs. branfield took will'm down town with her, shopping. but he trailed them around the streets just like a little dog till he found them, and attached himself as joyously as if they had whistled to him. and he looked even worse than an unwashed, uncombed little terrier, for he was always unbuttoned and ungartered besides. upon these appearances, will'm, who a moment before had been the most interested and interesting of companions, pointing at the shop windows and asking questions in a high, happy little voice, would pull loose from his companion's hand and fall back beside benjy. the worst of it was that the unwelcome visitor rarely did anything that could be pointed out to will'm as an offense. it was simply that his presence had a subtle, moving quality like yeast, which started fermentation in the branfield household whenever he dropped into it. fortunately, when summer came, benjy's mother departed to the seashore, taking him with her, and will'm made the acquaintance of the children on the next block. there were several boys his own size who swarmed in the branfield yard continually. he had a tent for one thing, which was an unusual attraction, and a slide. up to a reasonable point he had access to a cooky jar and an apple barrel. often, little tarts found their way to the tent on mornings when "the gang" proposed playing elsewhere, and often the long hot afternoons were livened with pitchers of lemonade in which ice clinked invitingly; a nice big chunk apiece, which lasted till the lemonade was gone, and could be used afterward in a sort of game. you dropped them on the ground to see who could pick his up and hold it the longest with his bare toes. will'm had a birthday about this time, with five candles on his cake and five boys, besides libby, to share the feast. he loved all these things. he was proud of having treats to offer the boys which they could not find in any other yard on that street, and in time he began to love the hand which dealt them out. he might have done so sooner if libby had not been so aggravating about it. she always took occasion to tell him afterward that such kindnesses were the little golden star-flowers mother was gathering for him, and that he ought to be ashamed to do even the littlest thing she told him not to, when she was so good to him. unfortunately libby had overheard her mother speak of her as a real little comfort in the way she tried to uphold her authority and help her manage will'm. the remark made her doubly zealous and her efforts, in consequence, doubly offensive to will'm. he was learning early that a saint is one of the most exasperating people in the world to live with. even when they don't _say_ anything, they can make you feel the contrast sometimes so strongly that you _want_ to be bad on purpose, just because they are the way they are. libby's little ring still turned her waking thoughts in the direction of ina and the swans, and her morning remarks usually pointed the same way. the cherry-red stocking with its tinsel fringe hung from the side of her mirror, the most cherished ornament in the room, and a daily reminder of miss santa claus, who was forever enshrined in her little heart as one of the dearest memories of her life. she felt that she owed everything to miss santa claus. but for her she might have started out crooked, and might never have found her way to the mother-love which had grown to be such a precious thing to her that she could not bear for will'm not to share it fully with her. he learned to fight that summer, and nothing made him quite so furious as to have libby interfere when he had some boy down, and by sheer force of will it seemed, since her three years' advantage in age gave her little in strength, pull him off his adversary, flapping and scratching like a little game-cock. sometimes it made him so angry that he wanted to tear her in pieces. the worst of it was, that _she_ always took libby's part on such occasions, and never seemed to understand that it was necessary for him to do these things. she always looked so sorry and worried when he was dragged into the house, roaring and resentful. gradually as summer wore on into the autumn, it began to make him feel uncomfortable when he saw that sorry, worried look. it hurt him worse than when she sent him to his room or tied him to the table leg for punishment. and one night when he had openly defied her and been impudent, she did not say anything, but she did not kiss him good-night as usual. that hurt him worst of all. he lay awake a long time thinking about it. part of the time he was crying softly, but he had his face snuggled close down in the pillow so that libby couldn't hear him. he wished with all his heart that she was his own, real mother. he felt that he needed one. he needed one who could _understand_ and who had a _right_ to punish him. it was because she hadn't that right that he resented her authority. all the boys said she hadn't. if she did no more than call from the window: "don't do that, will'm," they'd say in an undertone, "you don't have to pay any attention to _her_!" they seemed to think it was all right for their mothers to slap them and scold them and cuff them on the ears. he'd seen it done. he wouldn't care how much he was slapped and cuffed, if only somebody who was his truly _own_ did it. somebody who loved him. a queer little feeling had been creeping up in his heart for some time. very often when _she_ spoke to libby she called her "little daughter" and she and libby seemed to belong to each other in a way that shut will'm out and gave him a lonesome left-in-the-cold feeling. will'm was a reasonable child, and he was just, and up there in the dark where he could be honest with himself, he had to acknowledge that it was his own fault that she hadn't kissed him good-night. it was his fault because, having started out crooked, he didn't seem to be able to do anything but to go on crooked to the end. he couldn't tell her, but he wished, oh, how he wished, that _she_ could know how he felt, and know that he was crying up there in the dark about it. he wished he could go back to the junction and be grandma neal's little boy. she always kissed him good-night, even on days when she had to switch him with a peach-tree switch. when he was a little bigger he would just run off and go back to grandma neal. but next morning he was glad that he was not living at the junction, for he started to kindergarten, and a world of new interests opened up before him. benjy came back to town that week, but he did not find quite the same tractable follower. will'm had learned how to play with other boys, and how to make other boys do _his_ bidding, so he did not always allow benjy to dictate. still the leaven of an uneasy presence began working again, and worked on till it was suddenly counteracted by the coming of another christmas season. both libby and will'm began to feel its approach when it was still a month off. they felt it in the mysterious thrills that began to stir the household as sap, rising in a tree, thrills it with stirrings of spring. there were secrets and whisperings. there was counting of pennies and planning of ways to earn more, for they were wiser about christmas this year. they knew that there are three kinds of presents. there is the kind that santa claus puts into your stocking, just because he _is_ santa claus, and the sky road leads from his kingdom of giving straight to the kingdom of little hearts who love and believe in him. then there's the kind that you give to the people you love, just because you love them, and you put your name on those. and third, there's the kind that you give secretly, in the name of santa claus, just to help him out if he is extra busy and should happen to send you word that he needs your services. libby and will'm received no such messages, being so small, but their father had one. he sent a load of coal and some rent money to a man who had lost a month's wages on account of sickness in his family, and it must have been a very happy and delightful feeling that santa claus gave their father for doing it, for his voice sounded that way afterward when he said, "after all, molly, that's the best kind of giving. we ought to do more of it and less of the other." when it came to the first kind of presents, neither libby nor will'm made a choice. they sent their names and addresses up the chimney so that the reindeer might be guided to the right roof-top, and left the rest to the generosity of the reindeer's wise master to surprise them as he saw fit. they were almost sure that the things they daily expressed a wish for would come by the way of the christmas tree as the doll and the tricycle had the year before, "with the love of father and mother." but when it came to the second kind of presents, they had much to consider. they wanted to give to the family and each other, and the cook and their teachers, and the children they played with most and half a dozen people at the junction. the visit which they had planned all year was to be a certainty now. the day after christmas the entire family was to go for a week's visit, to grandma and uncle neal. that last week the children went around the house in one continual thrill of anticipation. such delicious odors of popcorn and boiling candy, of cake and mincemeat in the making floated up from the kitchen! such rustling of tissue paper and scent of sachets as met one on the opening of bureau drawers! and such rapt moments of gift-making when libby sewed with patient, learning fingers, and will'm pasted paper chains and wove paper baskets, as he had been taught in kindergarten! one day the conductor's punch suddenly reappeared, and he seized it with a whoop of joy. now all his creations could be doubly beautiful since they could be star-bordered. as he punched and punched and the tiny stars fell in a shower, the story of ina and the swans stirred in his memory, with all the glamour it had worn when he first heard it over his dish of strawberries. down in his secret soul he determined to do what he wished he had done a year earlier, to begin to follow the example of ina. the family could not fail to notice the almost angelic behavior which began that day. they thought it was because of the watching eye he feared up the chimney, but no one referred to the change. he used to sit in front of the fire sometimes, just as he had done at the junction, rocking and singing, his soft bobbed hair flapping over his ears every time the rockers tilted forward. but he was not singing with any thought that he might be overheard and written down as a good little boy. he was singing just because the story of the camels and the star was so very sweet, and the mere thought of angels and silver bells and the glittering sky road brought a tingling joy. but more than all he was singing because he had begun to weave the big beautiful mantle whose name is love, and the curious little left-out-in-the-cold feeling was gone. christmas eve came at last. when the twilight was just beginning to fall, libby brought down the stockings which were to be hung on each side of the sitting-room fireplace. it would be nearly an hour before their father could come home to drive the nails on which they were to hang, but they wanted everything ready for him. will'm went out to the tool-chest on the screened porch to get the hammer. it took him a long time to find it. libby waited impatiently a few moments, supposing he had stopped to taste something in the kitchen. she was about to run out and warn him not to nip the edges from some tempting bit of pastry, as he had been known to do, but remembering how very hard he had been trying to be good all week, she decided he could be trusted. with the stockings thrown over one arm she stood in front of the piano, idly striking the keys while she waited. she had learned to play several tunes during the year, and now that she was eight years old, she was going to have real lessons after the holidays and learn to read music. how much she had learned since the first time her little fingers were guided over the keys. she struck those earliest-learned notes again: "three blind mice! see how they run!" she could play the whole thing now, faster than flying. she ran down the keys, over and over again. [illustration: "take it back!"] when for about the twentieth time "they all took after the farmer's wife," she stopped short, both hands lifted from the keys to listen. her face blanched until even her lips were pale. such a sound of awful battle was coming from the back yard! recognizing will'm's voice she ran out through the kitchen to the yard. "it's that everlastin' benjy, again!" called the cook as libby darted out the door to rescue will'm from she knew not what. but it was benjy who needed rescuing this time. will'm sat on top, so mighty in his wrath and fury that he loomed up fearsomely to the bigger boy beneath him, whose body he bestrode and whose face he was battering with hard and relentless little fists. both boys were blubbering and crying, but will'm was roaring between blows, "take it back! take it back!" whatever it was, benjy took it back just as libby appeared, and being allowed to stagger up, started for the street, loudly boo-hooing at every step, as he found his way homeward, for once of his own volition. the cries had startled libby but they were as nothing to the sight that met her eyes when she led will'm, so blinded by his own tears that he needed her guidance, to the light of the kitchen door. what she saw sent her screaming into the house, with agonized calls for "mother." she still held on to will'm's hand, pulling him along after her. from forehead to chin, one side of his face was scratched as if a young tiger cat had set his claws in it. a knot was swelling rapidly on his upper lip, and one hand was covered with blood. mrs. branfield gave a gasp as she came running in answer to libby's calls. "why, you poor child!" she cried, gathering him up to her and sitting down in the big rocker with him in her lap. "what happened? what's the matter?" he was sobbing so convulsively now, with long choking gasps, that he couldn't answer. she saw that his face was only scratched, but snatched up his hand to examine the extent of its injuries. as he looked at it too, the power of speech came back to him, in a degree. "that isn't m-my b-blood!" he sobbed. "it's _b-benjy's_ blood!" "oh, will'm!" mourned libby. "on christmas eve, just when you've been trying so hard to be good, too!" she picked up the stockings which she had dropped on running out of the house, and laid his over the back of a chair, as if she realized the hopelessness of hanging it up now, after he had acted so. at that, almost a spasm of sobs shook him. he didn't need anybody to remind him of all he had forfeited and all he had failed in. that was what he was crying about. he didn't mind the smarting of his face or the throbbing of his swollen lip. he was crying to think that the struggle of the last week was all for naught. he was all crooked with _her_ again. _she_ didn't want him to fight and she'd never understand that this time he just _had_ to. the arms that held him were pressing for an answer. "tell me how it happened, dear." between gulps it came. "benjy said for me to come on--and go to the grocery with him! and i said--that my--my mother--didn't want me to!" "yes," encouragingly, as he choked and stopped. he had never called her that before. "and benjy said like he always does, that you w-wasn't my m-m-mother anyhow. and i said you _was_! if he didn't take it back i--_i'd beat him up_!" libby was crying too, now, from sympathy. he'd been told so many times he must not fight that she was afraid he would have to be punished for such a bad fight as this. to be punished on christmas eve was just _too_ awful! she stole an anxious glance towards the chimney, then toward her mother. but her mother was hugging him tight and kissing him wherever she could find a place on his poor little face that wasn't scratched or swollen, and she was saying in a voice that made a lump come into libby's throat, it was so loving and tender, "my dear little boy, if that's why you fought him i'm _glad_ you did it, for you've proved now that you _are_ my little son, my very own!" then she laughed, although she had tears in her eyes herself, and said, "that poor little cheek shows just what fierce nettles and briars you've been through for me, but you brought it, didn't you! the most precious star-flower in all the world to me!" the surprise of it stopped his tears. she _understood_! he could not yet stop the sobbing. that kept on, doing itself. but a feeling, warm and tender that he could not explain, seemed to cover him "from wing-tip to wing-tip!" a bloody little hand stole up around her neck and held her tight. she _was_ his mother, because she _understood_! it was all right between them now. it would _always_ be all right, no matter what benjy and the rest of the world might say. he'd _beat up anybody_ that dared to say they didn't belong to each other, and she _wanted_ him to do it! presently she led him up-stairs to put some healing lotion on his face, and wash away the blood of benjy. libby, in the deep calm that followed the excitement of so many conflicting emotions, sat down in the big rocking chair to wait for her father. her fear for will'm had been so strong, her relief at the happy outcome so great, that she felt all shaken up. a long, long time she sat there, thinking. there was only one more thing needed to make her happiness complete, and that was to have miss santa claus know that the charm had worked out true at last. she felt that they owed her that much--to let her know. presently she slipped out of the chair and knelt in front of the fire so close that it almost singed her. "are you listening up there?" she called softly. "'cause if you are, _please_ tell miss santa claus that everything turned out just as she said it would. i'll be _so_ much obliged." then she scudded back to her chair to listen for her father's latchkey in the door, and her mother's and will'm's voices coming down the stairs, a happier sound than even the sound of the silver bells, that by and by would come jingling down the sky road. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. page , "know" changed to "knew" (he knew only the) page , "ridgley" changed to "ridgely" (at ridgely she) page , "loose" changed to "lose" (no time to lose) transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. the book uses both "doc." and "doc". italic text is denoted by _underscores_. excuse me! [illustration] excuse me! _by_ rupert hughes author of "the old nest" with five illustrations a. l. burt company publishers new york copyright, , by the h. k. fly company contents chapter page i. the wreck of the taxicab ii. the early birds and the worm iii. in darkest chicago iv. a mouse and a mountain v. a queen among women vi. a conspiracy in satin vii. the masked minister viii. a mixed pickle ix. all aboard! x. excess baggage xi. a chance rencounter xii. the needle in the haystack xiii. hostilities begin xiv. the dormitory on wheels xv. a premature divorce xvi. good night, all! xvii. last call for breakfast xviii. in the composite car xix. foiled! xx. foiled again! xxi. matrimony to and fro xxii. in the smoking room xxiii through a tunnel xxiv. the train butcher xxv. the train wrecker xxvi. delilah and the conductor xxvii. the dog-on dog again xxviii. the woman-hater's relapse xxix. jealousy comes aboard xxx. a wedding on wheels xxxi. foiled yet again xxxii. the empty berth xxxiii. fresh trouble daily xxxiv. the complete divorcer xxxv. mr. and mrs. little jimmie xxxvi. a duel for a bracelet xxxvii. down brakes! xxxviii. hands up! xxxix. wolves in the fold xl. a hero in spite of himself xli. clickety-clickety-clickety illustrations no tips were to be expected from such transients _frontispiece_ page "now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up" marjorie fairly forced the dog on him down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go, or i'll scream!" excuse me! chapter i the wreck of the taxicab the young woman in the taxicab scuttling frantically down the dark street, clung to the arm of the young man alongside, as if she were terrified at the lawbreaking, neck-risking speed. but evidently some greater fear goaded her, for she gasped: "can't he go a little faster?" "can't you go a little faster?" the young man alongside howled as he thrust his head and shoulders through the window in the door. but the self-created taxi-gale swept his voice aft, and the taut chauffeur perked his ear in vain to catch the vanishing syllables. "what's that?" he roared. "can't you go a little faster?" the indignant charioteer simply had to shoot one barbed glare of reproach into that passenger. he turned his head and growled: "say, do youse want to lose me me license?" for just one instant he turned his head. one instant was just enough. the unguarded taxicab seized the opportunity, bolted from the track, and flung, as it were, its arms drunkenly around a perfectly respectable lamppost attending strictly to its business on the curb. there ensued a condensed fourth of july. sparks flew, tires exploded, metals ripped, two wheels spun in air and one wheel, neatly severed at the axle, went reeling down the sidewalk half a block before it leaned against a tree and rested. a dozen or more miracles coincided to save the passengers from injury. the young man found himself standing on the pavement with the unhinged door still around his neck. the young woman's arms were round his neck. her head was on his shoulder. it had reposed there often enough, but never before in the street under a lamppost. the chauffeur found himself in the road, walking about on all fours, like a bewildered quadruped. evidently some overpowering need for speed possessed the young woman, for even now she did not scream, she did not faint, she did not murmur, "where am i?" she simply said: "what time is it, honey?" and the young man, not realizing how befuddled he really was, or how his hand trembled, fetched out his watch and held it under the glow of the lamppost, which was now bent over in a convenient but disreputable attitude. "a quarter to ten, sweetheart. plenty of time for the train." "but the minister, honey! what about the minister? how are we going to get to the minister?" the consideration of this riddle was interrupted by a muffled hubbub of yelps, whimpers, and canine hysterics. immediately the young woman forgot ministers, collisions, train-schedules--everything. she showed her first sign of panic. "snoozleums! get snoozleums!" they groped about in the topsy-turvy taxicab, rummaged among a jumble of suitcases, handbags, umbrellas and minor _impedimenta_, and fished out a small dog-basket with an inverted dog inside. snoozleums was ridiculous in any position, but as he slid tail foremost from the wicker basket, he resembled nothing so much as a heap of tangled yarn tumbling out of a work-basket. he was an indignant skein, and had much to say before he consented to snuggle under his mistress' chin. about this time the chauffeur came prowling into view. he was too deeply shocked to emit any language of the garage. he was too deeply shocked to achieve any comment more brilliant than: "that mess don't look much like it ever was a taxicab, does it?" the young man shrugged his shoulders, and stared up and down the long street for another. the young woman looked sorrowfully at the wreck, and queried: "do you think you can make it go?" the chauffeur glanced her way, more in pity for her whole sex than in scorn for this one type, as he mumbled: "make it go? it'll take a steam winch a week to unwrap it from that lamppost." the young man apologized. "i oughtn't to have yelled at you." he was evidently a very nice young man. not to be outdone in courtesy, the chauffeur retorted: "i hadn't ought to have turned me head." the young woman thought, "what a nice chauffeur!" but she gasped: "great heavens, you're hurt!" "it's nuttin' but a scratch on me t'umb." "lend me a clean handkerchief, harry." the young man whipped out his reserve supply, and in a trice it was a bandage on the chauffeur's hand. the chauffeur decided that the young woman was even nicer than the young man. but he could not settle on a way to say to it. so he said nothing, and grinned sheepishly as he said it. the young man named harry was wondering how they were to proceed. he had already studied the region with dismay, when the girl resolved: "we'll have to take another taxi, harry." "yes, marjorie, but we can't take it till we get it." "you might wait here all night wit'out ketchin' a glimp' of one," the chauffeur ventured. "i come this way because you wanted me to take a short cut." "it's the longest short cut i ever saw," the young man sighed, as he gazed this way and that. the place of their shipwreck was so deserted that not even a crowd had gathered. the racket of the collision had not brought a single policeman. they were in a dead world of granite warehouses, wholesale stores and factories, all locked and forbidding, and full of silent gloom. in the daytime this was a big trade-artery of chicago, and all day long it was thunderous with trucks and commerce. at night it was pompeii, so utterly abandoned that the night watchmen rarely slept outside, and no footpad found it worth while to set up shop. the three castaways stared every which way, and every which way was peace. the ghost of a pedestrian or two hurried by in the far distance. a cat or two went furtively in search of warfare or romance. the lampposts stretched on and on in both directions in two forevers. in the faraway there was a muffled rumble and the faint clang of a bell. somewhere a street car was bumping along its rails. "our only hope," said harry. "come along, marjorie." he handed the chauffeur five dollars as a poultice to his wounds, tucked the girl under one arm and the dog-basket under the other, and set out, calling back to the chauffeur: "good night!" "good night!" the girl called back. "good night!" the chauffeur echoed. he stood watching them with the tender gaze that even a chauffeur may feel for young love hastening to a honeymoon. he stood beaming so, till their footsteps died in the silence. then he turned back to the chaotic remnants of his machine. he worked at it hopelessly for some time, before he had reason to look within. there he found the handbags and suitcases, umbrellas and other equipment. he ran to the corner to call after the owners. they were as absent of body as they had been absent of mind. he remembered the street-number they had given him as their destination. he waited till at last a yawning policeman sauntered that way like a lonely beach patrol, and left him in charge while he went to telephone his garage for a wagon and a wrecking crew. it was close on midnight before he reached the number his fares had given him. it was a parsonage leaning against a church. he rang the bell and finally produced from an upper window a nightshirt topped by a frowsy head. he explained the situation, and his possession of certain properties belonging to parties unknown except by their first names. the clergyman drowsily murmured: "oh, yes. i remember. the young man was lieutenant henry mallory, and he said he would stop here with a young lady, and get married on the way to the train. but they never turned up." "lieutenant mallory, eh? where could i reach him?" "he said he was leaving to-night for the philippines." "the philippines! well, i'll be----" the minister closed the window just in time. chapter ii the early birds and the worm in the enormous barn of the railroad station stood many strings of cars, as if a gigantic young gulliver stabled his toys there and invisibly amused himself; now whisking this one away, now backing that other in. some of the trains were noble equipages, fitted to glide across the whole map with cargoes of lilliputian millionaires and their lilliputian ladies. others were humble and shabby linked-up day-coaches and dingy smoking-cars, packed with workers, like ants. cars are mere vehicles, but locomotives have souls. the express engines roll in or stalk out with grandeur and ease. they are like emperors. they seem to look with scorn at the suburban engines snorting and grunting and shaking the arched roof with their plebeian choo-choo as they puff from shop to cottage and back. the trainmen take their cue from the behavior of their locomotives. the conductor of a transcontinental nods to the conductor of a shuttle-train with less cordiality than to a brakeman of his own. the engineers of the limiteds look like senators in overalls. they are far-traveled men, leading a mighty life of adventure. they are pilots of land-ships across land-oceans. they have a right to a certain condescension of manner. but no one feels or shows so much arrogance as the sleeping car porters. they cannot pronounce "supercilious," but they can be it. their disdain for the entire crew of any train that carries merely day-coaches or half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as only a darkey in a uniform can express disdain for poor white trash. of all the haughty porters that ever curled a lip, the haughtiest by far was the dusky attendant in the san francisco sleeper on the trans-american limited. his was the train of trains in that whole system. his car the car of cars. his passengers the surpassengers of all. his train stood now waiting to set forth upon a voyage of two thousand miles, a journey across seven imperial states, a journey that should end only at that marge where the continent dips and vanishes under the breakers of the pacific ocean. at the head of his car, with his little box-step waiting for the foot of the first arrival, the porter stood, his head swelling under his cap, his breast swelling beneath his blue blouse, with its brass buttons like reflections of his own eyes. his name was ellsworth jefferson, but he was called anything from "poarr-turr" to "pawtah," and he usually did not come when he was called. to-night he was wondering perhaps what passengers, with what dispositions, would fall to his lot. perhaps he was wondering what his chicago sweetheart would be doing in the eight days before his return. perhaps he was wondering what his san francisco sweetheart had been doing in the five days since he left her, and how she would pass the three days that must intervene before he reached her again. he had othello's ebon color. did he have othello's green eye? whatever his thoughts, he chatted gaily enough with his neighbor and colleague of the portland sleeper. suddenly he stopped in the midst of a soaring chuckle. "lordy, man, looky what's a-comin'!" the portland porter turned to gaze. "i got my fingers crossed." "i hope you git him." "i hope i don't." "he'll work you hard and cuss you out, and he won't give you even a much obliged." "that's right. he ain't got a usher to carry his things. and he's got enough to fill a van." the oncomer was plainly of english origin. it takes all sorts of people to make up the british empire, and there is no sort lacking--glorious or pretty, or sour or sweet. but this was the type of english globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular among foreigners as he is among his own people. he is almost as unendurable as the americans abroad who twang their banjo brag through europe, and berate france and italy for their innocence of buckwheat cakes. the two porters regarded mr. harold wedgewood with dread, as he bore down on them. he was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage. he asked for the san francisco sleeper, and the portland porter had to turn away to smother his gurgling relief. ellsworth jefferson's heart sank. he made a feeble effort at self-protection. the pullman conductor not being present at the moment, he inquired: "have you got yo' ticket?" "of cawse." "could i see it?" "of cawse not. too much trouble to fish it out." the porter was fading. "do you remember yo' numba?" "of cawse. take these." he began to pile things on the porter like a mountain unloading an avalanche. the porter stumbled as he clambered up the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of the corridor into the slender aisle. he turned again and again to question the invader, but he was motioned and bunted down the car, till he was halted with a "this will do." the englishman selected section three for his own. the porter ventured: "are you sho' this is yo' numba?" "of cawse i'm shaw. how dare you question my----" "i wasn't questionin' you, boss, i was just astin' you." he resigned himself to the despot, and began to transfer his burdens to the seat. but he did nothing to the satisfaction of the englishman. everything must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, the portmanteau there, the gladstone there, the golfsticks there, the greatcoat there, the raincoat there. the porter was puffing like a donkey-engine, and mutiny was growing in his heart. his last commission was the hanging up of the bowler hat. he stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high hook. from here he paused to glare down with an attempt at irony. "is they anything else?" "no. you may get down." the magnificent patronage of this wilted the porter completely. he returned to the lower level, and shuffled along the aisle in a trance. he was quickly recalled by a sharp: "pawtah!" "yassah!" "what time does this bally train start?" "ten-thutty, sah." "but it's only ten now." "yassah. it'll be ten-thutty a little later." "do you mean to tell me that i've got to sit hyah for half an hour--just waitin'?" the porter essayed another bit of irony: "well," he drawled, "i might tell the conducta you're ready. and mebbe he'd start the train. but the time-table says ten-thutty." he watched the effect of his satire, but it fell back unheeded from the granite dome of the englishman, whose only comment was: "oh, never mind. i'll wait." the porter cast his eyes up in despair, and turned away, once more to be recalled. "oh, pawtah!" "yassah!" "i think we'll put on my slippahs." "will we?" "you might hand me that large bag. no, stupid, the othah one. you might open it. no, its in the othah one. ah, that's it. you may set it down." mr. wedgewood brought forth a soft cap and a pair of red slippers. the porter made another effort to escape, his thoughts as black as his face. again the relentless recall: "oh, pawtah, i think we'll unbutton my boots." he was too weak to murmur "yassah." he simply fell on one knee and got to work. there was a witness to his helpless rage--a newcomer, the american counterpart of the englishman in all that makes travel difficult for the fellow travelers. ira lathrop was zealous to resent anything short of perfection, quick and loud of complaint, apparently impossible to please. in everything else he was the opposite of the englishman. he was burly, middle-aged, rough, careless in attire, careless of speech--as uncouth and savage as one can well be who is plainly a man of means. it was not enough that a freeborn afro-american should be caught kneeling to an englishman. but when he had escaped this penance, and advanced hospitably to the newcomer, he must be greeted with a snarl. "say, are you the porter of this car, or that man's nurse?" "i can't tell yet. what's yo' numba, please?" the answer was the ticket. the porter screwed up his eyes to read the pencilled scrawl. "numba se'm. heah she is, boss." "right next to a lot of women, i'll bet. couldn't you put me in the men's end of the car?" "not ve'y well, suh. i reckon the cah is done sold out." with a growl of rage, ira lathrop slammed into the seat his entire hand baggage, one ancient and rusty valise. the porter gazed upon him with increased depression. the passenger list had opened inauspiciously with two of the worst types of travelers the anglo-saxon race has developed. but their anger was not their worst trait in the porter's eyes. he was, in a limited way, an expert in human character. when you meet a stranger you reveal your own character in what you ask about his. with some, the first question is, "who are his people?" with others, "what has he achieved?" with others, "how much is he worth?" each gauges his cordiality according to his estimate. the porter was not curious on any of these points. he showed a democratic indifference to them. his one vital inquiry was: "how much will he tip?" his inspection of his first two charges promised small returns. he buttoned up his cordiality, and determined to waste upon them the irreducible minimum of attention. it would take at least a bridal couple to restore the balance. but bridal couples in their first bloom rarely fell to the lot of that porter, for what bridal couple wants to lock itself in with a crowd of passengers for the first seventy-two hours of wedded bliss? the porter banished the hope as a vanity. little he knew how eagerly the young castaways from that wrecked taxicab desired to be a bridal couple, and to catch this train. but the englishman was restive again: "pawtah! i say, pawtah!" "yassah!" "what time are we due in san francisco?" "san francisco? san francisco? we are doo thah the evenin' of the fo'th day. this bein' monday, that ought to bring us in abote thuzzday evenin'." the yankee felt called upon to check the foreign usurper. "porrterr!" "yassah!" "don't let that fellow monopolize you. he probably won't tip you at all." the porter grew confidential: "oh, i know his kind, sah. they don't tip you for what you do do, but they're ready letter writers to the sooperintendent for what you don't do." "pawtah! i say, pawtah!" "here, porrterr." the porter tried to imitate the irish bird, and be in two places at once. the american had a coin in his hand. the porter caught the gleam of it, and flitted thither. the yankee growled: "don't forget that i'm on the train, and when we get to 'frisco there may be something more." the porter had the coin in his hand. its heft was light. he sighed: "i hope so." the englishman was craning his head around owlishly to ask: "i say, pawtah, does this train ever get wrecked?" "well, it hasn't yet," and he murmured to the yankee, "but i has hopes." the englishman's voice was querulous again. "i say, pawtah, open a window, will you? the air is ghastly, abso-ripping-lutely ghastly." the yankee growled: "no wonder we had the revolutionary war!" then he took from his pocket an envelope addressed to ira lathrop & co., and from the envelope he took a contract, and studied it grimly. the envelope bore a chinese stamp. the porter, as he struggled with an obstinate window, wondered what sort of passenger fate would send him next. chapter iii in darkest chicago the castaways from the wrecked taxicab hurried along the doleful street. both of them knew their chicago, but this part of it was not their chicago. they hailed a pedestrian, to ask where the nearest street car line might be, and whither it might run. he answered indistinctly from a discreet distance, as he hastened away. perhaps he thought their question merely a footpad's introduction to a sandbagging episode. in chicago at night one never knows. "as near as i can make out what he said, marjorie," the lieutenant pondered aloud, "we walk straight ahead till we come to umtyump street, and there we find a rarara car that will take us to bloptyblop avenue. i never heard of any such streets, did you?" "never," she panted, as she jog-trotted alongside his military pace. "let's take the first car we meet, and perhaps the conductor can put us off at the street where the minister lives." "perhaps." there was not much confidence in that "perhaps." when they reached the street-carred street, they found two tracks, but nothing occupying them, as far as they could peer either way. a small shopkeeper in a tiny shop proved to be a delicatessen merchant so busily selling foreign horrors to aliens, that they learned nothing from him. at length, in the far-away, they made out a headlight, and heard the grind and squeal of a car. lieutenant mallory waited for it, watch in hand. he boosted marjorie's elbow aboard and bombarded the conductor with questions. but the conductor had no more heard of their street than they had of his. their agitation did not disturb his stoic calm, but he invited them to come along to the next crossing, where they could find another car and more learned conductors; or, what promised better, perhaps a cab. he threw marjorie into a panic by ordering her to jettison snoozleums, but the lieutenant bought his soul for a small price, and overlooked the fact that he did not ring up their fares. the young couple squeezed into a seat and talked anxiously in sharp whispers. "wouldn't it be terrible, harry, if, just as we got to the minister's, we should find papa there ahead of us, waiting to forbid the bands, or whatever it is? wouldn't it be just terrible?" "yes, it would, honey, but it doesn't seem probable. there are thousands of ministers in chicago. he could never find ours. fact is. i doubt if we find him ourselves." her clutch tightened till he would have winced, if he had not been a soldier. "what do you mean, harry?" "well, in the first place, honey, look what time it is. hardly more than time enough to get the train, to say nothing of hunting for that preacher and standing up through a long rigmarole." "why, harry mallory, are you getting ready to jilt me?" "indeed i'm not--not for worlds, honey, but i've got to get that train, haven't i?" "couldn't you wait over one train--just one tiny little train?" "my own, own honey love, you know it's impossible! you must remember that i've already waited over three trains while you tried to make up your mind." "and you must remember, darling, that it's no easy matter for a girl to decide to sneak away from home and be married secretly, and go all the way out to that hideous manila with no trousseau and no wedding presents and no anything." "i know it isn't, and i waited patiently while you got up the courage. but now there are no more trains. i shudder to think of this train being late. we're not due in san francisco till thursday evening, and my transport sails at sunrise friday morning. oh, lord, what if i should miss that transport! what if i should!" "what if we should miss the minister?" "it begins to look a great deal like it." "but, harry, you wouldn't desert me now--abandon me to my fate?" "well, it isn't exactly like abandonment, seeing that you could go home to your father and mother in a taxicab." she stared at him in horror. "so you don't want me for your wife! you've changed your mind! you're tired of me already! only an hour together, and you're sick of your bargain! you're anxious to get rid of me! you----" "oh, honey, i want you more than anything else on earth, but i'm a soldier, dearie, a mere lieutenant in the regular army, and i'm the slave of the government. i've gone through west point, and they won't let me resign respectably and if i did, we'd starve. they wouldn't accept my resignation, but they'd be willing to courtmartial me and dismiss me the service in disgrace. then you wouldn't want to marry me--and i shouldn't have any way of supporting you if you did. i only know one trade, and that's soldiering." "don't call it a trade, beloved, it's the noblest profession in all the world, and you're the noblest soldier that ever was, and in a year or two you'll be the biggest general in the army." he could not afford to shatter such a devout illusion or quench the light of faith in those beloved and loving eyes. he tacitly admitted his ability to be promoted commander-in-chief in a year or two. he allowed that glittering possibility to remain, used it as a basis for argument. "then, dearest, you must help me to do my duty." she clasped his upper arm as if it were an altar and she an iphigenia about to be sacrificed to save the army. and she murmured with utter heroism: "i will! do what you like with me!" he squeezed her hand between his biceps and his ribs and accepted the offering in a look drenched with gratitude. then he said, matter-of-factly: "we'll see how much time we have when we get to--whatever the name of that street is." the car jolted and wailed on its way like an old drifting rocking chair. the motorman was in no hurry. the passengers seemed to have no occasion for haste. somebody got on or got off at almost every corner, and paused for conversation while the car waited patiently. but eventually the conductor put his head in and drawled: "hay! here's where you get off at." they hastened to debark and found themselves in a narrow, gaudily-lighted region where they saw a lordly transfer-distributor, a profound scholar in chicago streets. he informed them that the minister's street lay far back along the path they had come; they should have taken a car in the opposite direction, transferred at some remote center, descended at some unheard-of street, walked three blocks one way and four another, and there they would have been. mallory looked at his watch, and marjorie's hopes dropped like a wrecked aeroplane, for he grimly asked how long it would take them to reach the railroad station. "well, you'd ought to make it in forty minutes," the transfer agent said--and added, cynically, "if the car makes schedule." "good lord, the train starts in twenty minutes!" "well, i tell you--take this here green car to wexford avenoo--there's usually a taxicab or two standin' there." "thank you. hop on, marjorie." marjorie hopped on, and they sat down, mallory with eyes and thoughts on nothing but the watch he kept in his hand. during this tense journey the girl perfected her soul for graceful martyrdom. "i'll go to the train with you, harry, and then you can send me home in a taxicab." her nether lip trembled and her eyes were filmed, but they were brave, and her voice was so tender that it wooed his mind from his watch. he gazed at her, and found her so dear, so devoted and so pitifully exquisite, that he was almost overcome by an impulse to gather her into his arms there and then, indifferent to the immediate passengers or to his far-off military superiors. an hour ago they were young lovers in all the lilt and thrill of elopement. she had clung to him in the gloaming of their taxicab, as it sped like a genie at their whim to the place where the minister would unite their hands and raise his own in blessing. thence the new husband would have carried the new wife away, his very own, soul and body, duty and beauty. then, ah, then in their minds the future was an unwaning honeymoon, the journey across the continent a stroll along a lover's lane, the pacific ocean a garden lake, and the philippines a chain of fortunate isles decreed especially for their eden. and then the taxicab encountered a lamppost. they thought they had merely wrecked a motor car--and lo, they had wrecked a paradise. the railroad ceased to be a lover's lane and became a lingering torment; the ocean was a weltering sahara, and the philippines a dry tortugas of exile. mallory realized for the first time what heavy burdens he had taken on with his shoulder straps; what a dismal life of restrictions and hardships an officer's life is bound to be. it was hard to obey the soulless machinery of discipline, to be a brass-buttoned slave. he felt all the hot, quick resentment that turns a faithful soldier into a deserter. but it takes time to evolve a deserter, and mallory had only twenty minutes. the handcuffs and leg-irons of discipline hobbled him. he was only a little cog in a great clock, and the other wheels were impinging on him and revolving in spite of himself. in the close-packed seats where they were jostled and stared at, the soldier could not even attempt to explain to his fascinated bride the war of motives in his breast. he could not voice the passionate rebellion her beauty had whipped up in his soul. perhaps if romeo and juliet had been forced to say farewell on a chicago street car instead of a veronese balcony, their language would have lacked savor, too. perhaps young mr. montague and young miss capulet, instead of wailing, "no, that is not the lark whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads," would have done no better than mr. mallory and miss newton. in any case, the best these two could squeeze out was: "it's just too bad, honey." "but i guess it can't be helped, dear." "it's a mean old world, isn't it?" "awful!" and then they must pile out into the street again so lost in woe that they did not know how they were trampled or elbowed. marjorie's despair was so complete that it paralyzed instinct. she forgot snoozleums! a thoughtful passenger ran out and tossed the basket into mallory's arms even as the car moved off. fortune relented a moment and they found a taxicab waiting where they had expected to find it. once more they were cosy in the flying twilight, but their grief was their only baggage, and the clasp of their hands talked all the talk there was. anxiety within anxiety tormented them and they feared another wreck. but as they swooped down upon the station, a kind-faced tower clock beamed the reassurance that they had three minutes to spare. the taxicab drew up and halted, but they did not get out. they were kissing good-byes, fervidly and numerously, while a grinning station-porter winked at the winking chauffeur. marjorie simply could not have done with farewells. "i'll go to the gate with you," she said. he told the chauffeur to wait and take the young lady home. the lieutenant looked so honest and the girl so sad that the chauffeur simply touched his cap, though it was not his custom to allow strange fares to vanish into crowded stations, leaving behind nothing more negotiable than instructions to wait. chapter iv a mouse and a mountain all the while the foiled elopers were eloping, the san francisco sleeper was filling up. it had been the receptacle of assorted lots of humanity tumbling into it from all directions, with all sorts of souls, bodies, and destinations. the porter received each with that expert eye of his. his car was his laboratory. a railroad journey is a sort of test-tube of character; strange elements meet under strange conditions and make strange combinations. the porter could never foresee the ingredients of any trip, nor their actions and reactions. he had no sooner established mr. wedgewood of london and mr. ira lathrop of chicago, in comparative repose, than his car was invaded by a woman who flung herself into the first seat. she was flushed with running, and breathing hard, but she managed one gasp of relief: "thank goodness, i made it in time." the mere sound of a woman's voice in the seat back of him was enough to disperse ira lathrop. with not so much as a glance backward to see what manner of woman it might be, he jammed his contract into his pocket, seized his newspapers and retreated to the farthest end of the car, jouncing down into berth number one, like a sullen snapping turtle. miss anne gattle's modest and homely valise had been brought aboard by a leisurely station usher, who set it down and waited with a speaking palm outstretched. she had her tickets in her hand, but transferred them to her teeth while she searched for money in a handbag old fashioned enough to be called a reticule. the usher closed his fist on the pittance she dropped into it and departed without comment. the porter advanced on her with a demand for "tickets, please." she began to ransack her reticule with flurried haste, taking out of it a small purse, opening that, closing it, putting it back, taking it out, searching the reticule through, turning out a handkerchief, a few hairpins, a few trunk keys, a baggage check, a bottle of salts, a card or two and numerous other maidenly articles, restoring them to place, looking in the purse again, restoring that, closing the reticule, setting it down, shaking out a book she carried, opening her old valise, going through certain white things blushingly, closing it again, shaking her skirts, and shaking her head in bewilderment. she was about to open the reticule again, when the porter exclaimed: "i see it! don't look no mo'. i see it!" when she cast up her eyes in despair, her hatbrim had been elevated enough to disclose the whereabouts of the tickets. with a murmured apology, he removed them from her teeth and held them under the light. after a time he said: "as neah as i can make out from the--the undigested po'tion of this ticket, yo' numba is six." "that's it--six!" "that's right up this way." "let me sit here till i get my breath," she pleaded, "i ran so hard to catch the train." "well, you caught it good and strong." "i'm so glad. how soon do we start?" "in about half a houah." "really? well, better half an hour too soon than half a minute too late." she said it with such a copy-book primness that the porter set her down as a school-teacher. it was not a bad guess. she was a missionary. with a pupil-like shyness he volunteered: "yo' berth is all ready whenever you wishes to go to baid." he caught her swift blush and amended it to--"to retiah." "retire?--before all the car?" said miss anne gattle, with prim timidity. "no, thank you! i intend to sit up till everybody else has retired." the porter retired. miss gattle took out a bit of more or less useful fancy stitching and set to work like another dorcas. her needle had not dived in and emerged many times before she was holding it up as a weapon of defense against a sudden human mountain that threatened to crush her. a vague round face, huge and red as a rising moon, dawned before her eyes and from it came an uncertain voice: "esscuzhe me, mad'm, no 'fensh intended." the words and the breath that carried them gave the startled spinster an instant proof that her vis-à-vis did not share her prohibition principles or practices. she regarded the elephant with mouselike terror, and the elephant regarded the mouse with elephantine fright, then he removed himself from her landscape as quickly as he could and lurched along the aisle, calling out merrily to the porter: "chauffeur! chauffeur! don't go so fasht 'round these corners." he collided with a small train-boy singing his nasal lay, but it was the behemoth and not the train-boy that collapsed into a seat, sprawling as helplessly as a mammoth oyster on a table-cloth. the porter rushed to his aid and hoisted him to his feet with an uneasy sense of impending trouble. he felt as if someone had left a monstrous baby on his doorstep, but all he said was: "tickets, please." there ensued a long search, fat, flabby hands flopping and fumbling from pocket to pocket. once more the porter was the discoverer. "i see it. don't look no mo'. here it is--up in yo' hatband." he lifted it out and chuckled. "had it right next his brains and couldn't rememba!" he took up the appropriately huge luggage of the bibulous wanderer and led him to the other end of the aisle. "numba two is yours, sah. right heah--all nice and cosy, and already made up." the big man looked through the curtains into the cabined confinement, and groaned: "that! haven't you got a man's size berth?" "sorry, sah. that's as big a bunk as they is on the train." "have i got to be locked up in that pigeon-hole for--for how many days is it to reno?" "reno?" the porter greeted that meaningful name with a smile. "we're doo in reno the--the--the mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah. yassah." he put the baggage down and started away, but the sad fat man seized his hand, with great emotion: "don't leave me all alone in there, porter, for i'm a broken-hearted man." "is that so? too bad, sah." "were you ever a broken-hearted man, porter?" "always, sah." "did you ever put your trust in a false-hearted woman?" "often, sah." "was she ever true to you, porter?" "never, sah." "porter, we are partners in mis-sis-ery." and he wrung the rough, black hand with a solemnity that embarrassed the porter almost as much as it would have embarrassed the passenger himself if he could have understood what he was doing. the porter disengaged himself with a patient but hasty: "i'm afraid you'll have to 'scuse me. i got to he'p the other passengers on bode." "don't let me keep you from your duty. duty is the--the----" but he could not remember what duty was, and he would have dropped off to sleep, if he had not been startled by a familiar voice which the porter had luckily escaped. "pawtah! pawtah! can't you raise this light--or rather can't you lower it? pawtah! this light is so infernally dim i can't read." to the englishman's intense amazement his call brought to him not the porter, but a rising moon with the profound query: "whass a li'l thing like dim light, when the light of your life has gone out?" "i beg your pardon?" without further invitation, the mammoth descended on the englishman's territory. "i'm a broken-hearted man, mr.--mr.--i didn't get your name." "er--ah--i dare say." "thanks, i will sit down." he lifted a great carry-all and airily tossed it into the aisle, set the gladstone on the lap of the infuriated englishman, and squeezed into the seat opposite, making a sad mix-up of knees. "my name's wellington. ever hear of li'l jimmie wellington? that's me." "any relation to the duke?" "nagh!" he no longer interested mr. wedgewood. but mr. wellington was not aware that he was being snubbed. he went right on getting acquainted: "are you married, mr.--mr.----?" "no!" "my heartfelt congrashlations. hang on to your luck, my boy. don't let any female take it away from you." he slapped the englishman on the elbow amiably, and his prisoner was too stifled with wrath to emit more than one feeble "pawtah!" mr. wellington mused on aloud: "oh, if i had only remained shingle. but she was so beautiful and she swore to love, honor and obey. mrs. wellington is a queen among women, mind you, and i have nothing to say against her except that she has the temper of a tarantula." he italicized the word with a light fillip of his left hand along the back of the seat. he did not notice that he filliped the angry head of mr. ira lathrop in the next seat. he went on with his portrait of his wife. "she has the 'stravaganza of a sultana"--another fillip for mr. lathrop--"the zhealousy of a cobra, the flirtatiousness of a humming bird." mr. lathrop was glaring round like a man-eating tiger, but wellington talked on. "she drinks, swears, and smokes cigars, otherwise she's fine--a queen among women." neither this amazing vision of womankind, nor this beautiful example of longing for confession and sympathy awakened a response in the englishman's frozen bosom. his only action was another violent effort to disengage his cramped knees from the knees of his tormentor; his only comment a vain and weakening cry for help, "pawtah! pawtah!" wellington's bleary, teary eyes were lighted with triumph. "finally i saw i couldn't stand it any longer so i bought a tic-hic-et to reno. i 'stablish a residensh in six monfths--get a divorce--no shcandal. even m'own wife won't know anything about it." the englishman was almost attracted by this astounding picture of the divorce laws in america. it sounded so barbarically quaint that he leaned forward to hear more, but mr. wellington's hand, like a mischievous runaway, had wandered back into the shaggy locks atop of mr. lathrop. his right hand did not let his left know what it was doing, but proceeded quite independently to grip as much of lathrop's hair as it would hold. then as mr. wellington shook with joy at the prospect of "dear old reno!" he began unconsciously to draw ira lathrop's head after his hair across the seat. the pain of it shot the tears into lathrop's eyes, and as he writhed and twisted he was too full of profanity to get any one word out. when he managed to wrench his skull free, he was ready to murder his tormentor. but as soon as he confronted the doddering and blinking toper, he was helpless. drunken men have always been treated with great tenderness in america, and when wellington, seeing lathrop's white hair, exclaimed with rapture: "why, hello, pop! here's pop!" the most that lathrop could do was to tear loose those fat, groping hands, slap them like a school teacher, and push the man away. but that one shove upset mr. wellington and sent him toppling down upon the pit of the englishman's stomach. for wedgewood, it was suddenly as if all the air had been removed from the world. he gulped like a fish drowning for lack of water. he was a long while getting breath enough for words, but his first words were wild demands that mr. wellington remove himself forthwith. wellington accepted the banishment with the sorrowful eyes of a dying deer, and tottered away wagging his fat head and wailing: "i'm a broken-hearted man, and nobody gives a ----." at this point he caromed over into ira lathrop's berth and was welcomed with a savage roar: "what the devil's the matter with you?" "i'm a broken-hearted man, that's all." "oh, is that all," lathrop snapped, vanishing behind his newspaper. the desperately melancholy seeker for a word of human kindness bleared at the blurred newspaper wall a while, then waded into a new attempt at acquaintance. laying his hand on lathrop's knee, he stammered: "esscuzhe me, mr.--mr.----" from behind the newspaper came a stingy answer: "lathrop's my name--if you want to know." "pleased to meet you, mr. lothrop." "lathrop!" "lathrop! my name's wellington. li'l jimmie wellington. ever hear of me?" he waited with the genial smile of a famous man; the smile froze at lathrop's curt, "don't think so." he tried again: "ever hear of well-known chicago belle, mrs. jimmie wellington?" "yes, i've heard of her!" there was an ominous grin in the tone. wellington waved his hand with modest pride. "well, i'm jimmie." "serves you right." this jolt was so discourteous that wellington decided to protest: "mister latham!" "lathrop!" the name came out with a whip-snap. he tried to echo it, "la-_throp_!" "i don't like that throp. that's a kind of a seasick name, isn't it?" finding the newspaper still intervening between him and his prey, he calmly tore it down the middle and pushed through it like a moon coming through a cloud. "but a man can't change his name by marrying, can he? that's the worst of it. a woman can. think of a heartless cobra di capello in woman's form wearing my fair name--and wearing it out. mr. la-_throp_, did you ever put your trust in a false-hearted woman?" "never put my trust in anybody." "didn't you ever love a woman?" "no!" "well, then, didn't you ever marry a woman?" "not one. i've had the measles and the mumps, but i've never had matrimony." "oh, lucky man," beamed wellington. "hang on to your luck." "i intend to," said lathrop, "i was born single and i like it." "oh, how i envy you! you see, mrs. wellington--she's a queen among women, mind you--a queen among women, but she has the 'stravagance of a----" lathrop had endured all he could endure, even from a privileged character like little jimmy wellington. he rose to take refuge in the smoking-room. but the very vigor of this departure only served to help wellington to his feet, for he seized lathrop's coat and hung on, through the door, down the little corridor, always explaining: "mrs. wellington is a queen among women, mind you, but i can't stand her temper any longer." he had hardly squeezed into the smoking-room when the porter and an usher almost invisible under the baggage they carried brought in a new passenger. her first question was: "oh, porter, did a box of flowers, or candy, or anything, come for me?" "what name would they be in, miss?" "mrs. wellington--mrs. james wellington." chapter v a queen among women miss anne gattle, seated in mrs. jimmie wellington's seat, had not heard mr. jimmie wellington's sketch of his wife. but she needed hardly more than a glance to satisfy herself that she and mrs. jimmie were as hopelessly antipathetic as only two polite women can be. mrs. jimmie was accounted something of a snob in chicago society, but perhaps the missionary was a trifle the snobbisher of the two when they met. miss gattle could overlook a hundred vices in a zulu queen more easily than a few in a fellow countrywoman. she did not like mrs. jimmie, and she was proud of it. when the porter said, "i'm afraid you got this lady's seat," miss gattle shot one glance at the intruder and rose stiffly. "then i suppose i'll have to----" "oh, please don't go, there's plenty of room," mrs. wellington insisted, pressing her to remain. this nettled miss gattle still more, but she sank back, while the porter piled up expensive traveling-bags and hat boxes till there was hardly a place to sit. but even at that mrs. jimmie felt called on to apologize: "i haven't brought much luggage. how i'll ever live four days with this, i can't imagine. it will be such a relief to get my trunks at reno." "reno?" echoed miss gattle. "do you live there?" "well, theoretically, yes." "i don't understand you." "i've got to live there to get it." "to get it? oh!" a look of sudden and dreadful realization came over the missionary. mrs. wellington interpreted it with a smile of gay defiance: "do you believe in divorces?" anne gattle stuck to her guns. "i must say i don't. i think a law ought to be passed stopping them." "so do i," mrs. wellington amiably agreed, "and i hope they'll pass just such a law--after i get mine." then she ventured a little shaft of her own. "you don't believe in divorces. i judge you've never been married." "not once!" the spinster drew herself up, but mrs. wellington disarmed her with an unexpected bouquet: "oh, lucky woman! don't let any heartless man delude you into taking the fatal step." anne gattle was nothing if not honest. she confessed frankly: "i must say that nobody has made any violent efforts to compel me to. that's why i'm going to china." "to china!" mrs. wellington gasped, hardly believing her ears. "my dear! you don't intend to marry a laundryman?" "the idea! i'm going as a missionary." "a missionary? why leave chicago?" mrs. wellington's eye softened more or less convincingly: "oh, lovely! how i should dote upon being a missionary. i really think that after i get my divorce i might have a try at it. i had thought of a convent, but being a missionary must be much more exciting." she dismissed the dream with an abrupt shake of the head. "excuse me, but do you happen to have any matches?" "matches! i never carry them!" "they never have matches in the women's room, and i've used my last one." miss gattle took another reef in her tight lips. "do you smoke cigarettes?" mrs. wellington's echoed disgust with disgust: "oh, no, indeed. i loathe them. i have the most dainty little cigars. did you ever try one?" miss gattle stiffened into one exclamation point: "cigars! me!" mrs. jimmie was so well used to being disapproved of that it never disturbed her. she went on as if the face opposite were not alive with horror: "i should think that cigars might be a great consolation to a lady missionary in the long lone hours of--what do missionaries do when they're not missionarying?" "that depends." there was something almost spiritual in mrs. jimmie's beatific look: "i can't tell you what consolation my cigars have given me in my troubles. mr. wellington objected--but then mr. wellington objected to nearly everything i did. that's why i am forced to this dreadful step." "cigars?" "divorces." "divorces!" "well, this will be only my second--my other was such a nuisance. i got that from jimmie, too. but it didn't take. then we made up and remarried. rather odd, having a second honeymoon with one's first husband. but remarriage didn't succeed any better. jimmie fell off the water-wagon with an awful splash, and he quite misunderstood my purely platonic interest in sammy whitcomb, a nice young fellow with a fool of a wife. did you ever meet mrs. sammy whitcomb--no? oh, but you are a lucky woman! indeed you are! well, when jimmie got jealous, i just gave him up entirely. i'm running away to reno. i sent a note to my husband's club, saying that i had gone to europe, and he needn't try to find me. poor fellow, he will. he'll hunt the continent high and low for me, but all the while i'll be in nevada. rather good joke on little jimmie, eh?" "excruciating!" "but now i must go. now i must go. i've really become quite addicted to them." "divorces?" "cigars. do stay here till i come back. i have so much to say to you." miss gattle shook her head in despair. she could understand a dozen heathen dialects better than the speech of so utter a foreigner as her fellow-countrywoman. mrs. jimmie hastened away, rather pleased at the shocks she had administered. she enjoyed her own electricity. in the corridor she administered another thrill--this time to a tall young man--a stranger, as alert for flirtation as a weasel for mischief. he huddled himself and his suitcases into as flat a space as possible, murmuring: "these corridors are so narrow, aren't they?" "aren't they?" said mrs. jimmie. "so sorry to trouble you." "don't mention it." she passed on, their glances fencing like playful foils. then she paused: "excuse me. could you lend me a match? they never have matches in the women's room." he succeeded in producing a box after much shifting of burdens, and he was rewarded with a look and a phrase: "you have saved my life." he started to repeat his "don't mention it," but it seemed inappropriate, so he said nothing, and she vanished behind a door. he turned away, saying to himself that it promised to be a pleasant journey. he was halted by another voice--another woman's voice: "pardon me, but is this the car for reno?" he turned to smile, "i believe so!" then his eyes widened as he recognized the speaker. "mrs. sammy whitcomb!" it promised to be a curious journey. chapter vi a conspiracy in satin the tall man emptied one hand of its suitcase to clasp the hand the newcomer granted him. he held it fast as he exclaimed: "don't tell me that you are bound for reno!" she whimpered: "i'm afraid so, mr. ashton." he put down everything to take her other hand, and tuned his voice to condolence: "why, i thought you and sam whitcomb were--" "oh, we were until that shameless mrs. wellington----" "mrs. wellington? don't believe i know her." "i thought everybody had heard of mrs. jimmie wellington." "mrs. jimmie--oh, yes, i've heard of her!" everybody seemed to have heard of mrs. jimmie wellington. "what a dance she has led her poor husband!" mrs. whitcomb said. "and my poor sammy fell into her trap, too." ashton, zealous comforter, took a wrathful tone: "i always thought your husband was the most unmitigated----" but mrs. whitcomb bridled at once. "how dare you criticize sammy! he's the nicest boy in the world." ashton recovered quickly. "that's what i started to say. will he contest the--divorce?" "of course not," she beamed. "the dear fellow would never deny me anything. sammy offered to get it himself, but i told him he'd better stay in chicago and stick to business. i shall need such a lot of alimony." "too bad he couldn't have come along," ashton insinuated. but the irony was wasted, for she sighed: "yes, i shall miss him terribly. but we feared that if he were with me it might hamper me in getting a divorce on the ground of desertion." she was trying to look earnest and thoughtful and heartbroken, but the result was hardly plausible, for mrs. sammy whitcomb could not possibly have been really earnest or really thoughtful; and her heart was quite too elastic to break. she proved it instantly, for when she heard behind her the voice of a young man asking her to let him pass, she turned to protest, but seeing that he was a handsome young man, her starch was instantly changed to sugar. and she rewarded his good looks with a smile, as he rewarded hers with another. then ashton intervened like a dog in the manger and dragged her off to her seat, leaving the young man to exclaim: "some tamarind, that!" another young man behind him growled: "cut out the tamarinds and get to business. mallory will be here any minute." "i hate to think what he'll do to us when he sees what we've done to him." "oh, he won't dare to fight in the presence of his little bridey-widey. do you see the porter in there?" "yes, suppose he objects." "well, we have the tickets. we'll claim it's our section till mallory and mrs. mallory come." they moved on into the car, where the porter confronted them. when he saw that they were loaded with bundles of all shapes and sizes, he waved them away with scorn: "the emigrant sleepa runs only toosdays and thuzzdays." from behind the first mass of packages came a brisk military answer: "you black hound! about face--forward march! section number one." the porter retreated down the aisle, apologizing glibly. "'scuse me for questionin' you, but you-all's baggage looked kind o' eccentric at first." the two young men dumped their parcels on the seats and began to unwrap them hastily. "if mallory catches us, he'll kill us," said lieutenant shaw. lieutenant hudson only laughed and drew out a long streamer of white satin ribbon. its glimmer, and the glimmering eyes of the young man excited mrs. whitcomb so much that after a little hesitance she moved forward, followed by the jealous ashton. "oh, what's up?" she ventured. "it looks like something bridal." "talk about womanly intuition!" said lieutenant hudson, with an ingratiating salaam. and then they explained to her that their classmate at west point, being ordered suddenly to the philippines, had arranged to elope with his beloved marjorie newton; had asked them to get the tickets and check the baggage while he stopped at a minister's to "get spliced and hike for manila by this train." having recounted this plan in the full belief that it was even at that moment being carried out successfully, lieutenant hudson, with a ghoulish smile, explained: "being old friends of the bride and groom, we want to fix their section up in style and make them truly comfortable." "delicious!" gushed mrs. whitcomb. "but you ought to have some rice and old shoes." "here's the rice," said hudson. "here's the old shoes," said shaw. "lovely!" cried mrs. whitcomb, but then she grew soberer. "i should think, though, that they--the young couple--would have preferred a stateroom." "of course," said hudson, almost blushing, "but it was taken. this was the best we could do for them." "that's why we want to make it nice and bridelike," said shaw. "perhaps you could help us--a woman's touch----" "oh, i'd love to," she glowed, hastening into the section among the young men and the bundles. the unusual stir attracted the porter's suspicions. he came forward with a look of authority: "'scuse me, but wha--what's all this?" "vanish--get out," said hudson, poking a coin at him. as he turned to obey, mrs. whitcomb checked him with: "oh, porter, could you get us a hammer and some nails?" the porter almost blanched: "good lawd, miss, you ain't allowin' to drive nails in that woodwork, is you?" that woodwork was to him what the altar is to the priest. but hudson, resorting to heroic measures, hypnotized him with a two-dollar bill: "here, take this and see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing." the porter caressed it and chuckled: "i'm blind, deaf and speechless." he turned away, only to come back at once with a timid "'scuse me!" "you here yet?" growled hudson. anxiously the porter pleaded: "i just want to ast one question. is you all fixin' up for a bridal couple?" "foolish question, number eight million, forty-three," said shaw. "answer, no, we are." the porter's face glistened like fresh stove polish as he gloated over the prospect. "i tell you, it'll be mahty refreshin' to have a bridal couple on bode! this dog-on old reno train don't carry nothin' much but divorcees. i'm just nachally hongry for a bridal couple." "brile coup-hic-le?" came a voice, like an echo that had somehow become intoxicated in transit. it was little jimmie wellington looking for more sympathy. "whass zis about brile couple?" "why, here's little buttercup!" sang out young hudson, looking at him in amazed amusement. "did i un'stan' somebody say you're preparing for a brile coupl'?" lieutenant shaw grinned. "i don't know what you understood, but that's what we're doing." immediately wellington's great face began to churn and work like a big eddy in a river. suddenly he was weeping. "excuse these tears, zhentlemen, but i was once--i was once a b-b-bride myself." "he looks like a whole wedding party," was ashton's only comment on the copious grief. it was poor wellington's fate to hunt as vainly for sympathy as diogenes for honesty. the decorators either ignored him or shunted him aside. they were interested in a strange contrivance of ribbons and a box that shaw produced. "that," hudson explained, "is a little rice trap. we hang that up there and when the bridal couple sit down--biff! a shower of rice all over them. it's bad, eh?" everybody agreed that it was a happy thought and even jimmie wellington, like a great baby, bounding from tears to laughter on the instant, was chortling: "a rishe trap? that's abslootly splendid--greates' invensh' modern times. i must stick around and see her when she flops." and then he lurched forward like a too-obliging elephant. "let me help you." mrs. whitcomb, who had now mounted a step ladder and poised herself as gracefully as possible, shrieked with alarm, as she saw wellington's bulk rolling toward her frail support. if hudson and shaw had not been football veterans at west point and had not known just what to do when the center rush comes bucking the line, they could never have blocked that flying wedge. but they checked him and impelled him backward through his own curtains into his own berth. finding himself on his back, he decided to remain there. and there he remained, oblivious of the carnival preparations going on just outside his canopy. chapter vii the masked minister being an angel must have this great advantage at least, that one may sit in the grandstand overlooking the earth and enjoy the ludicrous blunders of that great blind man's buff we call life. this night, if any angels were watching chicago, the mallory mix-up must have given them a good laugh, or a good cry--according to their natures. here were mallory and marjorie, still merely engaged, bitterly regretting their inability to get married and to continue their journey together. there in the car were the giggling conspirators preparing a bridal mockery for their sweet confusion. then the angels might have nudged one another and said: "oh, it's all right now. there goes a minister hurrying to their very car. mallory has the license in his pocket, and here comes the parson. hooray!" and then the angelic cheer must have died out as the one great hurrah of a crowded ball-ground is quenched in air when the home team's vitally needed home run swerves outside the line and drops useless as a stupid foul ball. in a shabby old hack, were two of the happiest runaways that ever sought a train. they were not miserable like the young couple in the taxicab. they were white-haired both. they had been married for thirty years. yet this was their real honeymoon, their real elopement. the little woman in the timid gray bonnet clapped her hands and tittered like a schoolgirl. "oh, walter, i can't believe we're really going to leave ypsilanti for a while. oh, but you've earned it after thirty years of being a preacher." "hush. don't let me hear you say the awful word," said the little old man in the little black hat and the close-fitting black bib. "i'm so tired of it, sally, i don't want anybody on the train to know it." "they can't help guessing it, with your collar buttoned behind." and then the amazing minister actually dared to say, "here's where i change it around." what's more, he actually did it. actually took off his collar and buttoned it to the front. the old carriage seemed almost to rock with the earthquake of the deed. "why, walter temple!" his wife exclaimed. "what would they say in ypsilanti?" "they'll never know," he answered, defiantly. "but your bib?" she said. "i've thought of that, too," he cried, as he whipped it off and stuffed it into a handbag. "look, what i've bought." and he dangled before her startled eyes a long affair which the sudden light from a passing lamppost revealed to be nothing less than a flaring red tie. the little old lady touched it to make sure she was not dreaming it. then, omitting further parley with fate, she snatched it away, put it round his neck, and, since her arms were embracing him, kissed him twice before she knotted the ribbon into a flaming bow. she sat back and regarded the vision a moment, then flung her arms around him and hugged him till he gasped: "watch out-watch out. don't crush my cigars." "cigars! cigars!" she echoed, in a daze. and then the astounding husband produced them in proof. "genuine lillian russells--five cents straight." "but i never saw you smoke." "haven't taken a puff since i was a young fellow," he grinned, wagging his head. "but now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up." she squeezed his hand with an earlier ardor: "now you're the old walter temple i used to know." [illustration: "now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up"....] "sally," he said, "i've been traveling through life on a half-fare ticket. now i'm going to have my little fling. and you brace up, too, and be the old mischievous sally i used to know. aren't you glad to be away from those sewing circles and gossip-bees, and----" "ugh! don't ever mention them," she shuddered. then she, too, felt a tinge of recurring springtide. "if you start to smoking, i think i'll take up flirting once more." he pinched her cheek and laughed. "as the saying is, go as far as you desire and i'll leave the coast clear." he kept his promise, too, for they were no sooner on the train and snugly bestowed in section five, than he was up and off. "where are you going?" she asked. "to the smoking-room," he swaggered, brandishing a dangerous looking cigar. "oh, walter," she snickered, "i feel like a young runaway." "you look like one. be careful not to let anybody know that you're a"--he lowered his voice--"an old preacher's wife." "i'm as ashamed of it as you are," she whispered. then he threw her a kiss and a wink. she threw him a kiss and winked, too. and he went along the aisle eyeing his cigar gloatingly. as he entered the smoking-room, lighted the weed and blew out a great puff with a sigh of rapture, who could have taken him, with his feet cocked up, and his red tie rakishly askew, for a minister? and sally herself was busy disguising herself, loosening up her hair coquettishly, smiling the primness out of the set corners of her mouth and even--let the truth be told at all costs--even passing a pink-powdered puff over her pale cheeks with guilty surreptition. thus arrayed she was soon joining the conspirators bedecking the bower for the expected bride and groom. she was the youngest and most mischievous of the lot. she felt herself a bride again, and vowed to protect this timid little wife to come from too much hilarity at the hands of the conspirators. chapter viii a mixed pickle mrs. whitcomb had almost blushed when she had murmured to lieutenant hudson: "i should think the young couple would have preferred a stateroom." and mr. hudson had flinched a little as he explained: "yes, of course. we tried to get it, but it was gone." it was during the excitement over the decoration of the bridal section, that the stateroom-tenants slipped in unobserved. first came a fluttering woman whose youthful beauty had a certain hue of experience, saddening and wisering. the porter brought her in from the station-platform, led her to the stateroom's concave door and passed in with her luggage. but she lingered without, a peri at the gate of paradise. when the porter returned to bow her in, she shivered and hesitated, and then demanded: "oh, porter, are you sure there's nobody else in there?" the porter chuckled, but humored her panic. "i ain't seen nobody. shall i look under the seat?" to his dismay, she nodded her head violently. he rolled his eyes in wonderment, but returned to the stateroom, made a pretense of examination, and came back with a face full of reassurance. "no'm, they's nobody there. take a mighty small-size burglar to squeeje unda that baid--er--berth. no'm, nobody there." "oh!" the gasp was so equivocal that he made bold to ask: "is you pleased or disappointed?" the mysterious young woman was too much agitated to rebuke the impudence. she merely sighed: "oh, porter, i'm so anxious." "i'm not--now," he muttered, for she handed him a coin. "porter, have you seen anybody on board that looks suspicious?" "evvabody looks suspicious to me, missy. but what was you expecting--especial?" "oh, porter, have you seen anybody that looks like a detective in disguise?" "well, they's one man looks 's if he was disguised as a balloon, but i don't believe he's no slooch-hound." "well, if you see anything that looks like a detective and he asks for mrs. fosdick----" "mrs. what-dick?" "mrs. fosdick! you tell him i'm not on board." and she gave him another coin. "yassum," said the porter, lingering willingly on such fertile soil. "i'll tell him mrs. fosdick done give me her word she wasn't on bode." "yes!--and if a woman should ask you." "what kind of a woman?" "the hideous kind that men call handsome." "oh, ain't they hideous, them handsome women?" "well, if such a woman asks for mrs. fosdick--she's my husband's first wife--but of course that doesn't interest you." "no'm--yes'm." "if she comes--tell her--tell her--oh, what shall we tell her?" the porter rubbed his thick skull: "lemme see--we might say you--i tell you what we'll tell her: we'll tell her you took the train for new york; and if she runs mighty fast she can just about ketch it." "fine, fine!" and she rewarded his genius with another coin. "and, porter." he had not budged. "porter, if a very handsome man with luscious eyes and a soulful smile asks for me----" "i'll th'ow him off the train!" "oh, no--no!--that's my husband--my present husband. you may let him in. now is it all perfectly clear, porter?" "oh, yassum, clear as clear." thus guaranteed she entered the stateroom, leaving the porter alone with his problem. he tried to work it out in a semi-audible mumble: "lemme see! if your present husband's absent wife gits on bode disguised as a handsome hideous woman i'm to throw him--her--off the train and let her--him--come in--oh, yassum, you may rely on me." he bowed and held out his hand again. but she was gone. he shuffled on into the car. he had hardly left the little space before the stateroom when a handsome man with luscious eyes, but without any smile at all, came slinking along the corridor and tapped cautiously on the door. silence alone answered him at first, then when he had rapped again, he heard a muffled: "go away. i'm not in." he put his lips close and softly called: "edith!" at this sesame the door opened a trifle, but when he tried to enter, a hand thrust him back and a voice again warned him off. "you musn't come in." "but i'm your husband." "that's just why you musn't come in." the door opened a little wider to give him a view of a downcast beauty moaning: "oh, arthur, i'm so afraid." "afraid?" he sniffed. "with your husband here?" "that's the trouble, arthur. what if your former wife should find us together?" "but she and i are divorced." "in some states, yes--but other states don't acknowledge the divorce. that former wife of yours is a fiend to pursue us this way." "she's no worse than your former husband. he's pursuing us, too. my divorce was as good as yours, my dear." "yes, and no better." the angels looking on might have judged from the ready tempers of the newly married and not entirely unmarried twain that their new alliance promised to be as exciting as their previous estates. perhaps the man subtly felt the presence of those eternal eavesdroppers, for he tried to end the love-duel in the corridor with an appeasing caress and a tender appeal: "but let's not start our honeymoon with a quarrel." his partial wife returned the caress and tried to explain: "i'm not quarreling with you, dear heart, but with the horrid divorce laws. why, oh, why did we ever interfere with them?" he made a brave effort with: "we ended two unhappy marriages, edith, to make one happy one." "but i'm so unhappy, arthur, and so afraid." he seemed a trifle afraid himself and his gaze was askance as he urged: "but the train will start soon, edith--and then we shall be safe." mrs. fosdick had a genius for inventing unpleasant possibilities. "but what if your former wife or my former husband should have a detective on board?" "a detective?--poof!" he snapped his fingers in bravado. "you are with your husband, aren't you?" "in illinois, yes," she admitted, very dolefully. "but when we come to iowa, i'm a bigamist, and when we come to nebraska, you're a bigamist, and when we come to wyoming, we're not married at all." it was certainly a tangled web they had woven, but a ray of light shot through it into his bewildered soul. "but we're all right in utah. come, dearest." he took her by the elbow to escort her into their sanctuary, but still she hung back. "on one condition, arthur--that you leave me as soon as we cross the iowa state line, and not come back till we get to utah. remember, the iowa state line!" "oh, all right," he smiled. and seeing the porter, he beckoned him close and asked with careless indifference: "oh, porter, what time do we reach the iowa state line?" "two fifty-five in the mawning, sah." "two fifty-five a.m.?" the wretch exclaimed. "two fifty-five a.m., yassah," the porter repeated, and wondered why this excerpt from the time-table should exert such a dramatic effect on the luscious-eyed fosdick. he had small time to meditate the puzzle, for the train was about to be launched upon its long voyage. he went out to the platform, and watched a couple making that way. as their only luggage was a dog-basket he supposed that they were simply come to bid some of his passengers good-bye. no tips were to be expected from such transients, so he allowed them to help themselves up the steps. mallory and his marjorie had tried to kiss the farewell of farewells half a dozen times, but she could not let him go at the gate. she asked the guard to let her through, and her beauty was bribe enough. again and again, she and mallory paused. he wanted to take her back to the taxicab, but she would not be so dismissed. she must spend the last available second with him. "i'll go as far as the steps of the car," she said. when they were arrived there, two porters, a sleeping car conductor and several smoking saunterers profaned the tryst. so she whispered that she would come aboard, for the corridor would be a quiet lane for the last rites. and now that he had her actually on the train, mallory's whole soul revolted against letting her go. the vision of her standing on the platform sad-eyed and lorn, while the train swept him off into space was unendurable. he shut his eyes against it, but it glowed inside the lids. and then temptation whispered him its old "why not?" while it was working in his soul like a fermenting yeast, he was saying: "to think that we should owe all our misfortune to an infernal taxicab's break-down." out of the anguish of her loneliness crept one little complaint: "if you had really wanted me, you'd have had two taxicabs." "oh, how can you say that? i had the license bought and the minister waiting." "he's waiting yet." "and the ring--there's the ring." he fished it out of his waistcoat pocket and held it before her as a golden amulet. "a lot of good it does now," said marjorie. "you won't even wait over till the next train." "i've told you a thousand times, my love," he protested, desperately, "if i don't catch the transport, i'll be courtmartialed. if this train is late, i'm lost. if you really loved me you'd come along with me." her very eyes gasped at this astounding proposal. "why, harry mallory, you know it's impossible." like a sort of benevolent satan, he laid the ground for his abduction: "you'll leave me, then, to spend three years without you--out among those manila women." she shook her head in terror at this vision. "it would be too horrible for words to have you marry one of those mahogany sirens." he held out the apple. "better come along, then." "but how can i? we're not married." he answered airily: "oh, i'm sure there's a minister on board." "but it would be too awful to be married with all the passengers gawking. no, i couldn't face it. good-bye, honey." she turned away, but he caught her arm: "don't you love me?" "to distraction. i'll wait for you, too." "three years is a long wait." "but i'll wait, if you will." with such devotion he could not tamper. it was too beautiful to risk or endanger or besmirch with any danger of scandal. he gave up his fantastic project and gathered her into his arms, crowded her into his very soul, as he vowed: "i'll wait for you forever and ever and ever." her arms swept around his neck, and she gave herself up as an exile from happiness, a prisoner of a far-off love: "good-bye, my husband-to-be." "good-bye my wife-that-was-to-have-been-and-will-be-yet-maybe." "good-bye." "good-bye." "good-bye." "good-bye." "i must go." "yes, you must." "one last kiss." "one more--one long last kiss." and there, entwined in each other's arms, with lips wedded and eyelids clinched, they clung together, forgetting everything past, future, or present. love's anguish made them blind, mute, and deaf. they did not hear the conductor crying his, "all aboard!" down the long wall of the train. they did not hear the far-off knell of the bell. they did not hear the porters banging the vestibules shut. they did not feel the floor sliding out with them. and so the porter found them, engulfed in one embrace, swaying and swaying, and no more aware of the increasing rush of the train than we other passengers on the earth-express are aware of its speed through the ether-routes on its ancient schedule. the porter stood with his box-step in his hand, and blinked and wondered. and they did not even know they were observed. chapter ix all aboard! the starting of the train surprised the ironical decorators in the last stages of their work. their smiles died out in a sudden shame, as it came over them that the joke had recoiled on their own heads. they had done their best to carry out the time-honored rite of making a newly married couple as miserable as possible--and the newly married couple had failed to do its share. the two lieutenants glared at each other in mutual contempt. they had studied much at west point about ambushes, and how to avoid them. could mallory have escaped the pit they had digged for him? they looked at their handiwork in disgust. the cosy-corner effect of white ribbons and orange flowers, gracefully masking the concealed rice-trap, had seemed the wittiest thing ever devised. now it looked the silliest. the other passengers were equally downcast. meanwhile the two lovers in the corridor were kissing good-byes as if they were hoping to store up honey enough to sustain their hearts for a three years' fast. and the porter was studying them with perplexity. he was used, however, to waking people out of dreamland, and he began to fear that if he were discovered spying on the lovers, he might suffer. so he coughed discreetly three or four times. since the increasing racket of the train made no effect on the two hearts beating as one, the small matter of a cough was as nothing. finally the porter was compelled to reach forward and tap mallory's arm, and stutter: "'scuse me, but co-could i git b-by?" the embrace was untied, and the lovers stared at him with a dazed, where-am-i? look. marjorie was the first to realize what awakened them. she felt called upon to say something, so she said, as carelessly as if she had not just emerged from a young gentleman's arms: "oh, porter, how long before the train starts?" "train's done started, missy." this simple statement struck the wool from her eyes and the cotton from her ears, and she was wide enough awake when she cried: "oh, stop it--stop it!" "that's mo'n i can do, missy," the porter expostulated. "then i'll jump off," marjorie vowed, making a dash for the door. but the porter filled the narrow path, and waved her back. "vestibule's done locked up--train's going lickety-split." feeling that he had safely checkmated any rashness, the porter squeezed past the dumbfounded pair, and went to change his blue blouse for the white coat of his chambermaidenly duties. mallory's first wondering thought was a rapturous feeling that circumstances had forced his dream into a reality. he thrilled with triumph: "you've got to go with me now." "yes--i've got to go," marjorie assented meekly; then, sublimely, "it's fate. kismet!" they clutched each other again in a fiercely blissful hug. marjorie came back to earth with a bump: "are you really sure there's a minister on board?" "pretty sure," said mallory, sobering a trifle. "but you said you were sure?" "well, when you say you're sure, that means you're not quite sure." it was not an entirely satisfactory justification, and marjorie began to quake with alarm: "suppose there shouldn't be?" "oh, then," mallory answered carelessly, "there's bound to be one to-morrow." marjorie realized at once the enormous abyss between then and the morrow, and she gasped: "tomorrow! and no chaperon! oh, i'll jump out of the window." mallory could prevent that, but when she pleaded, "what shall we do?" he had no solution to offer. again it was she who received the first inspiration. "i have it," she beamed. "yes, marjorie?" he assented, dubiously. "we'll pretend not to be married at all." he seized the rescuing ladder: "that's it! not married--just friends." "till we can get married----" "yes, and then we can stop being friends." "my love--my friend!" they embraced in a most unfriendly manner. an impatient yelp from the neglected dog-basket awoke them. "oh, lord, we've brought snoozleums." "of course we have." she took the dog from the prison, tucked him under her arm, and tried to compose her bridal face into a merely friendly countenance before they entered the car. but she must pause for one more kiss, one more of those bittersweet good-byes. and mallory was nothing loath. hudson and shaw were still glumly perplexed, when the porter returned in his white jacket. "i bet they missed the train; all this work for nothing," hudson grumbled. but shaw, seeing the porter, caught a gleam of hope, and asked anxiously: "say, porter, have you seen anything anywhere that looks like a freshly married pair?" "well," and the porter rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as he chuckled, "well, they's a mighty lovin' couple out theah in the corridor." "that's them--they--it!" instantly everything was alive and in action. it was as if a bugle had shrilled in a dejected camp. "get ready!" shaw commanded. "here's rice for everybody." "everybody take an old shoe," said hudson. "you can't miss in this narrow car." "there's a kazoo for everyone, too," said shaw, as the outstretched hands were equipped with wedding ammunition. "do you know the 'wedding march'?" "i ought to by this time," said mrs. whitcomb. right into the tangle of preparation, old ira lathrop stalked, on his way back to his seat to get more cigars. "have some rice for the bridal couple?" said ashton, offering him of his own double-handful. but lathrop brushed him aside with a romance-hater's growl. "watch out for your head, then," cried hudson, and lathrop ducked just too late to escape a neck-filling, hair-filling shower. an old shoe took him a clip abaft the ear, and the old woman-hater dropped raging into the same berth where the spinster, anne gattle, was trying to dodge the same downpour. still there was enough of the shrapnel left to overwhelm the two young "friends," who marched into the aisle, trying to look indifferent and prepared for nothing on earth less than for a wedding charivari. mallory should have done better than to entrust his plans to fellows like hudson and shaw, whom he had known at west point for diabolically joyous hazers and practical jokers. even as he sputtered rice and winced from the impact of flying footgear, he was cursing himself as a double-dyed idiot for asking such men to engage his berth for him. he had a sudden instinct that they had doubtless bedecked his trunk and marjorie's with white satin furbelows and ludicrous labels. but he could not shelter himself from the white sleet and the black thumps. he could hardly shelter marjorie, who cowered behind him and shrieked even louder than the romping tormentors. when the assailants had exhausted the rice and shoes, they charged down the aisle for the privilege of kissing the bride. mallory was dragged and bunted and shunted here and there, and he had to fight his way back to marjorie with might and main. he was tugging and striking like a demon, and yelling, "stop it! stop it!" hudson took his punishment with uproarious good nature, laughing: "oh, shut up, or we'll kiss you!" but shaw was scrubbing his wry lips with a seasick wail of: "wow! i think i kissed the dog." there was, of necessity, some pause for breath, and the combatants draped themselves limply about the seats. mallory glared at the twin benedict arnolds and demanded: "are you two thugs going to san francisco with us?" "don't worry," smiled hudson, "we're only going as far as kedzie avenue, just to start the honeymoon properly." if either of the elopers had been calmer, the solution of the problem would have been simple. marjorie could get off at this suburban station and drive home from there. but their wits were like pied type, and they were further jumbled, when shaw broke in with a sudden: "come, see the little dovecote we fixed for you." before they knew it, they were both haled along the aisle to the white satin atrocity. "love in a bungalow," said hudson. "sit down--make yourselves perfectly at home." "no--never--oh, oh, oh!" cried marjorie, darting away and throwing herself into the first empty seat--ira lathrop's berth. mallory followed to console her with caresses and murmurs of, "there, there, don't cry, dearie!" hudson and shaw followed close with mawkish mockery: "don't cry, dearie." and now mrs. temple intervened. she had enjoyed the initiation ceremony as well as anyone. but when the little bride began to cry, she remembered the pitiful terror and shy shame she had undergone as a girl-wife, and she hastened to marjorie's side, brushing the men away like gnats. "you poor thing," she comforted. "come, my child, lean on me, and have a good cry." hudson grinned, and put out his own arms: "she can lean on me, if she'd rather." mrs. temple glanced up with indignant rebuke: "her mother is far away, and she wants a mother's breast to weep on. here's mine, my dear." the impudent shaw tapped his own military chest: "she can use mine." infuriated at this bride-baiting, mallory rose and confronted the two imps with clenched fists: "you're a pretty pair of friends, you are!" the imperturbable shaw put out a pair of tickets as his only defence: "here are your tickets, old boy." and hudson roared jovially: "we tried to get you a stateroom, but it was gone." "and here are your baggage checks," laughed shaw, forcing into his fists a few pasteboards. "we got your trunks on the train ahead, all right. don't mention it--you're entirely welcome." it was the porter that brought the first relief from the ordeal. "if you gemmen is gettin' off at kedzie avenue, you'd better step smart. we're slowin' up now." marjorie was sobbing too audibly to hear, and mallory swearing too inaudibly to heed the opportunity kedzie avenue offered. and hudson was yelling: "well, good-bye, old boy and old girl. sorry we can't go all the way." he had the effrontery to try to kiss the bride good-bye, and shaw was equally bold, but mallory's fury enabled him to beat them off. he elbowed and shouldered them down the aisle, and sent after them one of his own shoes. but it just missed shaw's flying coattails. mallory stood glaring after the departing traitors. he was glad that they at least were gone, till he realized with a sickening slump in his vitals, that they had not taken with them his awful dilemma. and now the train was once more clickety-clicking into the night and the west. chapter x excess baggage never was a young soldier so stumped by a problem in tactics as lieutenant harry mallory, safely aboard his train, and not daring to leave it, yet hopelessly unaware of how he was to dispose of his lovely but unlabelled baggage. hudson and shaw had erected a white satin temple to hymen in berth number one, had created such commotion, and departed in such confusion, that there had been no opportunity to proclaim that he and marjorie were "not married--just friends." and now the passengers had accepted them as that enormous fund of amusement to any train, a newly wedded pair. to explain the mistake would have been difficult, even among friends. but among strangers--well, perhaps a wiser and a colder brain than harry mallory's could have stood there and delivered a brief oration restoring truth to her pedestal. but mallory was in no condition for such a stoic delivery. he mopped his brow in agony, lost in a blizzard of bewilderments. he drifted back toward marjorie, half to protect and half for companionship. he found mrs. temple cuddling her close and mothering her as if she were a baby instead of a bride. "did the poor child run away and get married?" marjorie's frantic "boo-hoo-hoo" might have meant anything. mrs. temple took it for assent, and murmured with glowing reminiscence: "just the way doctor temple and i did." she could not see the leaping flash of wild hope that lighted up mallory's face. she only heard his voice across her shoulder: "doctor? doctor temple? is your husband a reverend doctor?" "a reverend doctor?" the little old lady repeated weakly. "yes--a--a preacher?" the poor old congregation-weary soul was abruptly confronted with the ruination of all the delight in her little escapade with her pulpit-fagged husband. if she had ever dreamed that the girl who was weeping in her arms was weeping from any other fright than the usual fright of young brides, fresh from the preacher's benediction, she would have cast every other consideration aside, and told the truth. but her husband's last behest before he left her had been to keep their precious pretend-secret. she felt--just then--that a woman's first duty is to obey her husband. besides, what business was it of this young husband's what her old husband's business was? before she had fairly begun to debate her duty, almost automatically, with the instantaneous instinct of self-protection, her lips had uttered the denial: "oh--he's--just a--plain doctor. there he is now." mallory cast one miserable glance down the aisle at dr. temple coming back from the smoking room. as the old man paused to stare at the bridal berth, whose preparation he had not seen, he was just enough befuddled by his first cigar for thirty years to look a trifle tipsy. the motion of the train and the rakish tilt of his unwonted crimson tie confirmed the suspicion and annihilated mallory's new-born hope, that perhaps repentant fate had dropped a parson at their very feet. he sank into the seat opposite marjorie, who gave him one terrified glance, and burst into fresh sobs: "oh--oh--boo-hoo--i'm so unhap--hap--py." perhaps mrs. temple was a little miffed at the couple that had led her astray and opened her own honeymoon with a wanton fib. in any case, the best consolation she could offer marjorie was a perfunctory pat, and a cynicism: "there, there, dear! you don't know what real unhappiness is yet. wait till you've been married a while." and then she noted a startling lack of completeness in the bride's hand. "why--my dear!--where's your wedding ring?" with what he considered great presence of mind, mallory explained: "it--it slipped off--i--i picked it up. i have it here." and he took the little gold band from his waistcoat and tried to jam it on marjorie's right thumb. "not on the thumb!" mrs. temple cried. "don't you know?" "you see, it's my first marriage." "you poor boy--this finger!" and mrs. temple, raising marjorie's limp hand, selected the proper digit, and held it forward, while mallory pressed the fatal circlet home. and then mrs. temple, having completed their installation as man and wife, utterly confounded their confusion by her final effort at comfort: "well, my dears, i'll go back to my seat, and leave you alone with your dear husband." "my dear what?" marjorie mumbled inanely, and began to sniffle again. whereupon mrs. temple resigned her to mallory, and consigned her to fate with a consoling platitude: "cheer up, my dear, you'll be all right in the morning." marjorie and mallory's eyes met in one wild clash, and then both stared into the window, and did not notice that the shades were down. chapter xi a chance rencounter while mrs. temple was confiding to her husband that the agitated couple in the next seat had just come from a wedding-factory, and had got on while he was lost in tobacco land, the people in the seat on the other side of them were engaged in a little drama of their own. ira lathrop, known to all who knew him as a woman-hating snapping-turtle, was so busily engaged trying to drag the farthest invading rice grains out of the back of his neck, that he was late in realizing his whereabouts. when he raised his head, he found that he had crowded into a seat with an uncomfortable looking woman, who crowded against the window with old-maidenly timidity. he felt some apology to be necessary, and he snarled: "disgusting things, these weddings!" after he heard this, it did not sound entirely felicitous, so he grudgingly ventured: "excuse me--you married?" she denied the soft impeachment so heartily that he softened a little: "you're a sensible woman. i guess you and i are the only sensible people on this train." "it--seems--so," she giggled. it was the first time her spinstership had been taken as material for a compliment. something in the girlish giggle and the strangely young smile that swept twenty years from her face and belied the silver lines in her hair, seemed to catch the old bachelor's attention. he stared at her so fiercely that she looked about for a way of escape. then a curiously anxious, almost a hungry, look softened his leonine jowls into a boyish eagerness, and his growl became a sort of gruff purr: "say, you look something like an old sweetheart--er--friend--of mine. were you ever in brattleboro, vermont?" a flush warmed her cheek, and a sense of home warmed her prim speech, as she confessed: "i came from there originally." "so did i," said ira lathrop, leaning closer, and beaming like a big sun: "i don't suppose you remember ira lathrop?" the old maid stared at the bachelor as if she were trying to see the boy she had known, through the mask that time had modeled on his face. and then she was a girl again, and her voice chimed as she cried: "why, ira!--mr. lathrop!--is it you?" she gave him her hand--both her hands, and he smothered them in one big paw and laid the other on for extra warmth, as he nodded his savage head and roared as gentle as a sucking dove: "well, well! annie--anne--miss gattle! what do you think of that?" they gossiped across the chasm of years about people and things, and knew nothing of the excitement so close to them, saw nothing of chicago slipping back into the distance, with its many lights shooting across the windows like hurled torches. suddenly a twinge of ancient jealousy shot through the man's heart, recurring to old emotions. "so you're not married, annie. whatever became of that fellow who used to hang round you all the time?" "charlie selby?" she blushed at the name, and thrilled at the luxury of meeting jealousy. "oh, he entered the church. he's a minister out in ogden, utah." "i always knew he'd never amount to much," was lathrop's epitaph on his old rival. then he started with a new twinge: "you bound for ogden, too?" "oh, no," she smiled, enraptured at the new sensation of making a man anxious, and understanding all in a flash the motives that make coquettes. then she told him her destination. "i'm on my way to china." "china!" he exclaimed. "so'm i!" she stared at him with a new thought, and gushed: "oh, ira--are you a missionary, too?" "missionary? hell, no!" he roared. "excuse me--i'm an importer--anne, i--i----" but the sonorous swear reverberated in their ears like a smitten bell, and he blushed for it, but could not recall it. chapter xii the needle in the haystack the almost-married couple sat long in mutual terror and a common paralysis of ingenuity. marjorie, for lack of anything better to do, was absent-mindedly twisting snoozleums's ears, while he, that pocket abridgment of a dog, in a well meaning effort to divert her from her evident grief, made a great pretence of ferocity, growling and threatening to bite her fingers off. the new ring attracted his special jealousy. he was growing discouraged at the ill-success of his impersonation of a wolf, and dejected at being so crassly ignored, when he suddenly became, in his turn, a center of interest. marjorie was awakened from her trance of inanition by the porter's voice. his plantation voice was ordinarily as thick and sweet as his own new orleans sorghum, but now it had a bitterness that curdled the blood: "'scuse me, but how did you-all git that theah dog in this heah cah?" "snoozleums is always with me," said marjorie briskly, as if that settled it, and turned for confirmation to the dog himself, "aren't you, snoozleums?" "well," the porter drawled, trying to be gracious with his great power, "the rules don't 'low no live stock in the sleepin' cars, 'ceptin' humans." marjorie rewarded his condescension with a blunt: "snoozleums is more human than you are." "i p'sume he is," the porter admitted, "but he can't make up berths. anyway, the rules says dogs goes with the baggage." marjorie swept rules aside with a defiant: "i don't care. i won't be separated from my snoozleums." she looked to mallory for support, but he was too sorely troubled with greater anxieties to be capable of any action. the porter tried persuasion: "you betta lemme take him, the conducta is wuss'n what i am. he th'owed a couple of dogs out the window trip befo' last." "the brute!" "oh, yassum, he is a regulah brute. he just loves to hear 'm splosh when they light." noting the shiver that shook the girl, the porter offered a bit of consolation: "better lemme have the pore little thing up in the baggage cah. he'll be in charge of a lovely baggage-smasher." "are you sure he's a nice man?" "oh, yassum, he's death on trunks, but he's a natural born angel to dogs." "well, if i must, i must," she sobbed. "poor little snoozleums! can he come back and see me to-morrow?" marjorie's tears were splashing on the puzzled dog, who nestled close, with a foreboding of disaster. "i reckon p'haps you'd better visit him." "poor dear little snoozleums--good night, my little darling. poor little child--it's the first night he's slept all by his 'ittle lonesome, and----" the porter was growing desperate. he clapped his hands together impatiently and urged: "i think i hear that conducta comin'." the ruse succeeded. marjorie fairly forced the dog on him. "quick--hide him--hurry!" she gasped, and sank on the seat completely crushed. "i'll be so lonesome without snoozleums." mallory felt called upon to remind her of his presence. "i--i'm here, marjorie." she looked at him just once--at him, the source of all her troubles--buried her head in her arms, and resumed her grief. mallory stared at her helplessly, then rose and bent over to whisper: "i'm going to look through the train." "oh, don't leave me," she pleaded, clinging to him with a dependence that restored his respect. "i must find a clergyman," he whispered. "i'll be back the minute i find one, and i'll bring him with me." [illustration: marjorie fairly forced the dog on him....] the porter thought he wanted the dog back, and quickened his pace till he reached the corridor, where mallory overtook him and asked, in an effort at casual indifference, if he had seen anything of a clergyman on board. "ain't seen nothin' that even looks like one," said the porter. then he hastened ahead to the baggage car with the squirming snoozleums, while mallory followed slowly, going from seat to seat and car to car, subjecting all the males to an inspection that rendered some of them indignant, others of them uneasy. if dear old doctor temple could only have known what mallory was hunting, he would have snatched off the mask, and thrown aside the secular scarlet tie at all costs. but poor mallory, unable to recognize a clergyman so dyed-in-the-wool as doctor temple, sitting in the very next seat--how could he be expected to pick out another in the long and crowded train? all clergymen look alike when they are in convention assembled, but sprinkled through a crowd they are not so easily distinguished. in the sleeping car bound for portland, mallory picked one man as a clergyman. he had a lean, ascetic face, solemn eyes, and he was talking to his seat-mate in an oratorical manner. mallory bent down and tapped the man's shoulder. the effect was surprising. the man jumped as if he were stabbed, and turned a pale, frightened face on mallory, who murmured: "excuse me, do you happen to be a clergyman?" a look of relief stole over the man's features, followed closely by a scowl of wounded vanity: "no, damn you, i don't happen to be a parson. i have chosen to be--well, if you had watched the billboards in chicago during our run, you would not need to ask who i am!" mallory mumbled an apology and hurried on, just overhearing his victim's sigh: "such is fame!" he saw two or three other clerical persons in that car, but feared to touch their shoulders. one man in the last seat held him specially, and he hid in the turn of the corridor, in the hope of eavesdropping some clue. this man was bent and scholastic of appearance, and wore heavy spectacles and a heavy beard, which mallory took for a guaranty that he was not another actor. and he was reading what appeared to be printer's proofs. mallory felt certain that they were a volume of sermons. he lingered timorously in the environs for some time before the man spoke at all to the dreary-looking woman at his side. then the stranger spoke. and this is what he said and read: "i fancy this will make the bigots sit up and take notice, mother: 'if there ever was a person named moses, it is certain, from the writings ascribed to him, that he disbelieved the egyptian theory of a life after death, and combated it as a heathenish superstition. the judaic idea of a future existence was undoubtedly acquired from the assyrians, during the captivity.'" he doubtless read much more, but mallory fled to the next car. there he found a man in a frock coat talking solemnly to another of equal solemnity. the seat next them was unoccupied, and mallory dropped into it, perking his ears backward for news. "was you ever in moline?" one voice asked. "was i?" the other muttered. "wasn't i run out of there by one of my audiences. i was givin' hypnotic demonstrations, and i had a run-in with one of my 'horses,' and he done me dirt. right in the midst of one of his cataleptic trances, he got down from the chairs where i had stretched him out and hollered: 'he's a bum faker, gents, and owes me two weeks' pay.' thank gawd, there was a back door openin' on a dark alley leadin' to the switch yard. i caught a caboose just as a freight train was pullin' out." mallory could hardly get strength to rise and continue his search. on his way forward he met the conductor, crossing a vestibule between cars. a happy thought occurred to mallory. he said: "excuse me, but have you any preachers on board?" "none so far." "are you sure?" "positive." "how can you tell?" "well, if a grown man offers me a half-fare ticket, i guess that's a pretty good sign, ain't it?" mallory guessed that it was, and turned back, hopeless and helpless. chapter xiii hostilities begin during mallory's absence, marjorie had met with a little adventure of her own. ira lathrop finished his re-encounter with anne gattle shortly after mallory set out stalking clergymen. in the mingled confusion of finding his one romantic flame still glowing on a vestal altar, and of shocking her with an escape of profanity, he backed away from her presence, and sank into his own berth. he realized that he was not alone. somebody was alongside. he turned to find the great tear-sprent eyes of marjorie staring at him. he rose with a recrudescence of his woman-hating wrath, and dashing up the aisle, found the porter just returning from the baggage car. he seized the black factotum and growled: "say, porter, there's a woman in my berth." the porter chuckled, incredulous: "woman in yo' berth!" "yes--get her out." "yassah," the porter nodded, and advanced on marjorie with a gentle, "'scuse me, missus--ye' berth is numba one." "i don't care," snapped marjorie, "i won't take it." "but this un belongs to that gentleman." "he can have mine--ours--mr. mallory's," cried marjorie, pointing to the white-ribboned tent in the farther end of the car. then she gripped the arms of the seat, as if defying eviction. the porter stared at her in helpless chagrin. then he shuffled back and murmured: "i reckon you'd betta put her out." lathrop withered the coward with one contemptuous look, and strode down the aisle with a determined grimness. he took his ticket from his pocket as a clinching proof of his title, and thrust it out at marjorie. she gave it one indifferent glance, and then her eyes and mouth puckered, as if she had munched a green persimmon, and a long low wail like a distant engine-whistle, stole from her lips. ira lathrop stared at her in blank wrath, doddered irresolutely, and roared: "agh, let her have it!" the porter smiled triumphantly, and said: "she says you kin have her berth." he pointed at the bridal arbor. lathrop almost exploded at the idea. now he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see little jimmie wellington emerging from his berth with an enormous smile: "say, pop, have you seen lovely rice-trap? stick around till she flops." but lathrop flung away to the smoking room. little jimmie turned to the jovial negro: "porter, porter." "i'm right by you." "what time d'you say we get to reno?" "mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah." "well, call me just before we roll in." and he rolled in. his last words floated down the aisle and met mrs. little jimmie wellington just returning from the women's room, where she had sought nepenthe in more than one of her exquisite little cigars. the familiar voice, familiarly bibulous, smote her ear with amazement. she beckoned the porter to her anxiously. "porter! porter! do you know the name of the man who just hurried in?" "no'm," said the porter. "i reckon he's so broken up he ain't got any name left." "it couldn't be," mrs. jimmie mused. "things can be sometimes," said the porter. "you may make up my berth now," said mrs. wellington, forgetting that anne gattle was still there. mrs. wellington hastened to apologize, and begged her to stay, but the spinster wanted to be far away from the disturbing atmosphere of divorce. she was dreaming already with her eyes open, and she sank into number six in a lotus-eater's reverie. mrs. wellington gathered certain things together and took up her handbag, to return to the women's room, just as mrs. whitcomb came forth from the curtains of her own berth, where she had made certain preliminaries to disrobing, and put on a light, decidedly negligée negligée. the two women collided in the aisle, whirled on one another, as women do when they jostle, recognized each other with wild stares of amazement, set their teeth, and made a simultaneous dash along the corridor, shoulder wrestling with shoulder. they reached the door marked "women" at the same instant, and as neither would have dreamed of offering the other a courtesy, they squeezed through together in a kilkenny jumble. chapter xiv the dormitory on wheels of all the shocking institutions in human history, the sleeping car is the most shocking--or would be, if we were not so used to it. there can be no doubt that we are the most moral nation on earth, for we admit it ourselves. perhaps we prove it, too, by the arcadian prosperity of these two-story hotels on wheels, where miscellaneous travelers dwell in complete promiscuity, and sleep almost side by side, in apartments, or compartments, separated only by a plank and a curtain, and guarded only by one sleepy negro. after the fashion of the famous country whose inhabitants earned a meagre sustenance by taking in each other's washing, so in sleeping carpathia we attain a meagre respectability by everybody's chaperoning everybody else. so topsy-turvied, indeed, are our notions, once we are aboard a train, that the staterooms alone are regarded with suspicion; we question the motives of those who must have a room to themselves!--a room with a real door! that locks!! and, now, on this sleeping car, prettily named "snowdrop," scenes were enacting that would have thrown our great-grandmothers into fits--scenes which, if we found them in france, or japan, we should view with alarm as almost unmentionable evidence of the moral obliquity of those nations. but this was our own country--the part of it which admits that it is the best part--the moralest part, the staunch middle west. this was illinois. yet dozens of cars were beholding similar immodesties in chastest illinois, and all over the map, thousands of people, in hundreds of cars, were permitting total strangers to view preparations which have always, hitherto, been reserved for the most intimate and legalized relations. the porter was deftly transforming the day-coach into a narrow lane entirely surrounded by portières. behind most of the portières, fluttering in the lightest breeze, and perilously following the hasty passer-by, homely offices were being enacted. the population of this little town was going to bed. the porter was putting them to sleep as if they were children in a nursery, and he a black mammy. the frail walls of little sanctums were bulging with the bodies of people disrobing in the aisle, with nothing between them and the beholder's eye but a clinging curtain that explained what it did not reveal. from apertures here and there disembodied feet were protruding and mysterious hands were removing shoes and other things. women in risky attire were scooting to one end of the car, and men in shirt sleeves, or less, were hastening to the other. when mallory returned to the "snowdrop," his ear was greeted by the thud of dropping shoes. he found marjorie being rapidly immured, like poe's prisoner, in a jail of closing walls. she was unspeakably ill at ease, and by the irony of custom, the one person on whom she depended for protection was the one person whose contiguity was most alarming--and all for lack of a brief trialogue, with a clergyman, as the _tertium quid_. when mallory's careworn face appeared round the edge of the partition now erected between her and the abode of doctor and mrs. temple, marjorie shivered anew, and asked with all anxiety: "did you find a minister?" perhaps the recording angel overlooked mallory's answer: "not a damn' minister." when he dropped at marjorie's side, she edged away from him, pleading: "oh, what shall we do?" he answered dismally and ineffectively: "we'll have to go on pretending to be--just friends." "but everybody thinks we're married." "that's so!" he admitted, with the imbecility of fatigued hope. they sat a while listening to the porter slipping sheets into place and thumping pillows into cases, a few doors down the street. he would be ready for them at any moment. something must be done, but what? what? chapter xv a premature divorce suddenly marjorie's heart gave a leap of joy. she was having another idea. "i'll tell you, harry. we'll pretend to quarrel, and then----" "and then you can leave me in high dudgeon." the ruse struck him as a trifle unconvincing. "don't you think it looks kind of improbable on--on--such an occasion?" marjorie blushed, and lowered her eyes and her voice: "can you suggest anything better?" "no, but----" "then, we'll have to quarrel, darling." he yielded, for lack of a better idea: "all right, beloved. how shall we begin?" on close approach, the idea did seem rather impossible to her. "how could i ever quarrel with you, my love?" she cooed. he gazed at her with a rush of lovely tenderness: "and how could i ever speak crossly to you?" "we never shall have a harsh word, shall we?" she resolved. "never!" he seconded. so that resolution passed the house unanimously. they held hands in luxury a while, then she began again: "still, we must pretend. you start it, love." "no, you start it," he pleaded. "you ought to," she beamed. "you got me into this mess." the word slipped out. mallory started: "mess! how is it my fault? good lord, are you going to begin chucking it up?" "well, you must admit, darling," marjorie urged, "that you've bungled everything pretty badly." it was so undeniable that he could only groan: "and i suppose i'll hear of this till my dying day, dearest." marjorie had a little temper all her own. so she defended it: "if you are so afraid of my temper, love, perhaps you'd better call it all off before it's too late." "i didn't say anything about your temper, sweetheart," mallory insisted. "you did, too, honey. you said i'd chuck this up till your dying day. as if i had such a disposition! you can stay here." she rose to her feet. he pressed her back with a decisive motion, and demanded: "where are you going?" "up in the baggage car with snoozleums," she sniffled. "he's the only one that doesn't find fault with me." mallory was stung to action by this crisis: "wait," he said. he leaned out and motioned down the alley. "porter! wait a moment, darling. porter!" the porter arrived with a half-folded blanket in his hands, and his usual, "yassah!" beckoning him closer, mallory mumbled in a low tone: "is there an extra berth on this car?" the porter's eyes seemed to rebuke his ears. "does you want this upper made up?" "no--of course not." "ex--excuse me, i thought----" "don't you dare to think!" mallory thundered. "isn't there another lower berth?" the porter breathed hard, and gave this bridal couple up as a riddle that followed no known rules. he went to find the sleeping car conductor, and returned with the information that the diagram showed nobody assigned to number three. "then i'll take number three," said mallory, poking money at the porter. and still the porter could not understand. "now, lemme onderstan' you-all," he stammered. "does you both move over to numba three, or does yo'--yo' lady remain heah, while jest you preambulates?" "just i preambulate, you black hound!" mallory answered, in a threatening tone. the porter could understand that, at least, and he bristled away with a meek: "yassah. numba three is yours, sah." the troubled features of the baffled porter cleared up as by magic when he arrived at number three, for there he found his tyrant and tormentor, the english invader. he remembered how indignantly mr. wedgewood had refused to show his ticket, how cocksure he was of his number, how he had leased the porter's services as a sort of private nurse, and had paid no advance royalties. and now he was sprawled and snoring majestically among his many luggages, like a sleeping lion. revenge tasted good to the humble porter; it tasted like a candied yam smothered in 'possum gravy. he smacked his thick lips over this revenge. with all the insolence of a servant in brief authority, he gloated over his prey, and prodded him awake. then murmured with hypocritical deference: "excuse me, but could i see yo' ticket for yo' seat?" "certainly not! it's too much trouble," grumbled the half asleeper. "confound you!" the porter lured him on: "is you sho' you got one?" wedgewood was wide awake now, and surly as any englishman before breakfast: "of cawse i'm shaw. how dare you?" "too bad, but i'm 'bleeged to ask you to gimme a peek at it." "this is an outrage!" "yassah, but i just nachelly got to see it." wedgewood gathered himself together, and ransacked his many pockets with increasing anger, muttering under his breath. at length he produced the ticket, and thrust it at the porter: "thah, you idiot, are you convinced now?" the porter gazed at the billet with ill-concealed triumph. "yassah. i's convinced," mr. wedgewood settled back and closed his eyes. "i's convinced that you is in the wrong berth!" "impossible! i won't believe you!" the englishman raged, getting to his feet in a fury. "perhaps you'll believe mista ticket," the porter chortled. "he says numba ten, and that's ten across the way and down the road a piece." "this is outrageous! i decline to move." "you may decline, but you move just the same," the porter said, reaching out for his various bags and carryalls. "the train moves and you move with it." wedgewood stood fast: "you had no right to put me in here in the first place." the porter disdained to refute this slander. he stumbled down the aisle with the bundles. "it's too bad, it's sutt'nly too bad, but you sholy must come along." wedgewood followed, gesticulating violently. "here--wait--how dare you! and that berth is made up. i don't want to go to bed now!" "mista ticket says, 'go to baid!'" "of all the disgusting countries! heah, don't put that thah--heah." the porter flung his load anywhere, and absolved himself with a curt, "i's got otha passengers to wait on now." "i shall certainly report you to the company," the englishman fumed. "yassah, i p'sume so." "have i got to go to bed now? really, i----" but the porter was gone, and the irate foreigner crawled under his curtains, muttering: "i shall write a letter to the _london times_ about this." to add to his misery, mrs. whitcomb came from the women's room, and as she passed him, she prodded him with one sharp elbow and twisted the corner of her heel into his little toe. he thrust his head out with his fiercest, "how dare you!" but mrs. whitcomb was fresh from a prolonged encounter with mrs. wellington, and she flung back a venomous glare that sent the englishman to cover. the porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to the vestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. when he had regained composure, he came back to mallory, and bent over him to say: "yo' berth is empty, sah. shall i make it up?" mallory nodded, and turned to marjorie, with a sad, "good night, darling." the porter rolled his eyes again, and turned away, only to be recalled by marjorie's voice: "porter, take this old handbag out of here." the porter thought of the vanquished lathrop, exiled to the smoking room, and he answered: "that belongs to the gemman what owns this berth." "put it in number one," marjorie commanded, with a queenly gesture. the porter obeyed meekly, wondering what would happen next. he had no sooner deposited lathrop's valise among the incongruous white ribbons, than marjorie recalled him to say: "and, porter, you may bring me my own baggage." "yo' what--missus?" "our handbags, idiot," mallory explained, peevishly. "i ain't seen no handbags of you-alls," the porter protested. "you-all didn't have no handbags when you got on this cah." mallory jumped as if he had been shot. "good lord, i remember! we left 'em in the taxicab!" the porter cast his hands up, and walked away from the tragedy. marjorie stared at mallory in horror. "we had so little time to catch the train," mallory stammered. marjorie leaped to her feet: "i'm going up in the baggage car." "for the dog?" "for my trunk." and now mallory annihilated her completely, for he gasped: "our trunks went on the train ahead!" marjorie fell back for one moment, then bounded to her feet with shrill commands: "porter! porter! i want you to stop this train this minute!" the porter called back from the depths of a berth: "this train don't stop till to-morrow noon." marjorie had strength enough for only one vain protest: "do you mean to say that i've got to go to san francisco in this waist--a waist that has seen a whole day in chicago?" the best consolation mallory could offer was companionship in misery. he pushed forward one not too immaculate cuff. "well, this is the only linen i have." "don't speak to me," snapped marjorie, beating her heels against the floor. "but, my darling!" "go away and leave me. i hate you!" mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berth number three, an allegory of despair. about this time, little jimmie wellington, having completed more or less chaotic preparations for sleep, found that he had put on his pyjamas hindside foremost. after vain efforts to whirl round quickly and get at his own back, he put out a frowsy head, and called for help. "say, porter, porter!" "i'm still on the train," answered the porter, coming into view. "you'll have to hook me up." the porter rendered what aid and correction he could in wellington's hippopotamine toilet. wellington was just wide enough awake to discern the undisturbed bridal-chamber. he whined: "say, porter, that rice-trap. aren't they going to flop the rice-trap?" the porter shook his head sadly. "don't look like that floppers a'goin' to flip. that dog-on bridal couple is done divorced a'ready!" chapter xvi good night, all! the car was settling gradually into peace. but there was still some murmur and drowsy energy. shoes continued to drop, heads to bump against upper berths, the bell to ring now and then, and ring again and again. the porter paid little heed to it; he was busy making up number five (ira lathrop's berth) for marjorie, who was making what preparations she could for her trousseauless, husbandless, dogless first night out. finally the englishman, who had almost rung the bell dry of electricity, shoved from his berth his indignant and undignified head. once more the car resounded with the cry of "pawtah! pawtah!" the porter moved up with noticeable deliberation. "did you ring, sah?" "did i ring! paw-tah, you may draw my tub at eight-thutty in the mawning." "draw yo'--what, sah?" the porter gasped. "my tub." "ba-ath tub?" "bahth tub." "lawdy, man. is you allowin' to take a ba-ath in the mawnin'?" "of course i am." "didn't you have one befo' you stahted?" "how dare you! of cawse i did." "well, that's all you git." "do you mean to tell me that there is no tub on this beastly train?" wedgewood almost fell out of bed with the shock of this news. "we do not carry tubs--no, sah. there's a lot of tubs in san francisco, though." "no tub on this train for four days!" wedgewood sighed. "but whatever does one do in the meanwhile?" "one just waits. yassah, one and all waits." "it's ghahstly, that's what it is, ghahstly." "yassah," said the porter, and mumbled as he walked away, "but the weather is gettin' cooler." he finished preparing marjorie's bunk, and was just suggesting that mallory retreat to the smoking room while number three was made up, when there was a commotion in the corridor, and a man in checked overalls dashed into the car. his ear was slightly red, and he held at arm's length, as if it were a venomous monster, snoozleums. and he yelled: "say, whose durn dog is this? he bit two men, and he makes so much noise we can't sleep in the baggage car." marjorie went flying down the aisle to reclaim her lost lamb in wolf's clothing, and snoozleums, the returned prodigal, yelped and leaped, and told her all about the indignities he had been subjected to, and his valiant struggle for liberty. marjorie, seeing only snoozleums, stepped into the fatal berth number one, and paid no heed to the dangling ribbons. mallory, eager to restore himself to her love by loving her dog, crowded closer to her side, making a hypocritical ado over the pup. everybody was popping his or her face out to learn the cause of such clamor. among the bodiless heads suspended along the curtains, like dyak trophies, appeared the great mask of little jimmie wellington. he had been unable to sleep for mourning the wanton waste of that lovely rice-trap. when he peered forth, his eyes hardly believed themselves. the elusive bride and groom were actually in the trap--the hen pheasant and the chanticleer. but the net did not fall. he waited to see them sit down, and spring the infernal machine. but they would not sit. in fact, marjorie was muttering to harry--tenderly, now, since he had won her back by his efforts to console snoozleums--she was muttering tenderly: "we must not be seen together, honey. go away, i'll see you in the morning." and mallory was saying with bitterest resignation: "good night--my friend." and they were shaking hands! this incredible bridal couple was shaking hands with itself--disintegrating! then wellington determined to do at least his duty by the sacred rites. the gaping passengers saw what was probably the largest pair of pyjamas in chicago. they saw little jimmie, smothering back his giggles like a schoolboy, tiptoe from his berth, enter the next berth, brushing the porter aside, climb on the seat, and clutch the ribbon that pulled the stopper from the trap. down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice, and with it came little jimmie wellington, who lost what little balance he had, and catapulted into their midst like the offspring of an iceberg. it was at this moment that mrs. wellington, hearing the loud cries of the panic-stricken marjorie, rushed from the women's room, absent-mindedly combing a totally detached section of her hair. she recognized familiar pyjamas waving in air, and with one faint gasp: "jimmie! on this train!" she swooned away. she would have fallen, but seeing that no one paid any attention to her, she recovered consciousness on her own hook, and vanished into her berth, to meditate on the whys and wherefores of her husband's presence in this car. [illustration: down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice....] dr. temple in a nightgown and trousers, roger ashton in a collarless estate, and the porter, managed to extricate mr. wellington from his plight, and stow him away, though it was like putting a whale to bed. mallory, seeing that marjorie had fled, vented his wild rage against fate in general, and rice traps in particular, by tearing the bridal bungalow to pieces, and then he stalked into the smoking room, where ira lathrop, homeless and dispossessed, was sound asleep, with his feet in the chair. he was dreaming that he was a boy in brattleboro, the worst boy in brattleboro, trying to get up the courage to spark pretty anne gattle, and throwing rocks at the best boy in town, charlie selby, who was always at her side. the porter woke ira, an hour later, and escorted him to the late bridal section. marjorie had fled with her dog, as soon as she could grope her way through the deluge of rice. she hopped into her berth, and spent an hour trying to clear her hair of the multitudinous grains. and as for snoozleums, his thick wool was so be-riced that for two days, whenever he shook himself, he snew. eventually, the car quieted, and nothing was heard but the rumble and click of the wheels on the rails, the creak of timbers, and the frog-like chorus of a few well-trained snorers. as the porter was turning down the last of the lights, a rumpled pate was thrust from the stateroom, and the luscious-eyed man whispered: "porter, what time did you say we crossed the iowa state line?" "two fifty-five a.m." from within the stateroom came a deep sigh, then with a dismal groan: "call me at two fifty-five a.m.," the door was closed. poor mallory, pyjamaless and night-shirtless, lay propped up on his pillows, staring out of the window at the swiftly shifting night scene. the state of illinois was being pulled out from under the train like a dark rug. farmhouses gleamed or dreamed lampless. the moonlight rippled on endless seas of wheat and indian corn. little towns slid up and away. large towns rolled forward, and were left behind. ponds, marshes, brooks, pastures, thickets and great gloomy groves flowed past as on a river. but the same stars and the moon seemed to accompany the train. if the flying witness had been less heavy of heart, he would have found the reeling scene full of grace and night beauty. but he could not see any charm in all the world, except his tantalizing other self, from whom a great chasm seemed to divide him, though she was only two windows away. he had not yet fallen asleep, and he was still pondering how to attain his unmarried, unmarriable bride, when the train rolled out in air above a great wide river, very noble under the stars. he knew it for the mississippi. he heard a faint knocking on a door at the other end of the car. he heard sounds as of kisses, and then somebody tiptoed along the aisle stealthily. he did not know that another bridegroom was being separated from his bride because they were too much married. somewhere in iowa he fell asleep. chapter xvii last call for breakfast it was still iowa when mallory awoke. into his last moments of heavy sleep intruded a voice like a town-crier's voice, crying: "lass call for breakfuss in the rining rar," and then, again louder, "lass call for breakfuss in rinin-rar," and, finally and faintly, "lasscall breakfuss ri'rar." mallory pushed up his window shade. the day was broad on rolling prairies like billows established in the green soil. he peeked through his curtains. most of the other passengers were up and about, their beds hidden and beddings stowed away behind the bellying veneer of the upperworks of the car. all the berths were made up except his own and number two, in the corner, where little jimmie wellington's nose still played a bagpipe monody, and one other berth, which he recognized as marjorie's. his belated sleep and hers had spared them both the stares and laughing chatter of the passengers. but this bridal couple's two berths, standing like towers among the seats had provided conversation for everybody, had already united the casual group of strangers into an organized gossip-bee. mallory got into his shoes and as much of his clothes as was necessary for the dash to the washroom, and took on his arm the rest of his wardrobe. just as he issued from his lonely chamber, marjorie appeared from hers, much disheveled and heavy-eyed. the bride and groom exchanged glances of mutual terror, and hurried in opposite directions. the spickest and spannest of lieutenants soon realized that he was reduced to wearing yesterday's linen as well as yesterday's beard. this was intolerable. a brave man can endure heartbreaks, loss of love, honor and place, but a neat man cannot abide the traces of time in his toilet. lieutenant mallory had seen rough service in camp and on long hikes, when he gloried in mud and disorder, and he was to see campaigns in the philippines, when he should not take off his shoes or his uniform for three days at a time. but that was the field, and this car was a drawing room. in this crisis in his affairs, little jimmie wellington waddled into the men's room, floundering about with every lurch of the train, like a cannon loose in the hold of a ship. he fumbled with the handles on a basin, and made a crazy toilet, trying to find some abatement of his fever by filling a glass at the ice-water tank and emptying it over his head. these drastic measures restored him to some sort of coherency, and mallory appealed to him for help in the matter of linen. wellington effusively offered him everything he had, and mallory selected from his store half a dozen collars, any one of which would have gone round his neck nearly twice. wellington also proffered his safety razor, and made him a present of a virgin wafer of steel for his very own. with this assistance, mallory was enabled to make himself fairly presentable. when he returned to his seat, the three curtained rooms had been whisked away by the porter. there was no place now to hide from the passengers. he sat down facing the feminine end of the car, watching for marjorie. the passengers were watching for her, too, hoping to learn what unheard-of incident could have provoked the quarrel that separated a bride and groom at this time, of all times. to the general bewilderment, when marjorie appeared, mallory and she rushed together and clasped hands with an ardor that suggested a desire for even more ardent greeting. the passengers almost sprained their ears to hear how they would make up such a dreadful feud. but all they heard was: "we'll have to hurry, marjorie, if we want to get any breakfast." "all right, honey. come along." then the inscrutable couple scurried up the aisle, and disappeared in the corridor, leaving behind them a mighty riddle. they kissed in the corridor of that car, kissed in the vestibule, kissed in the two corridors of the next car, and were caught kissing in the next vestibule by the new conductor. the dining car conductor, who flattered himself that he knew a bride and groom when he saw them, escorted them grandly to a table for two; and the waiter fluttered about them with extraordinary consideration. they had a plenty to talk of in prospect and retrospect. they both felt sure that a minister lurked among the cars somewhere, and they ate with a zest to prepare for the ceremony, arguing the best place for it, and quarreling amorously over details. mallory was for one of the vestibules as the scene of their union, but marjorie was for the baggage car, till she realized that snoozleums might be unwilling to attend. then she swung round to the vestibule, but mallory shifted to the observation platform. marjorie had left snoozleums with mrs. temple, who promised to hide him when the new conductor passed through the car, and she reminded harry to get the waiter to bring them a package of bones for their only "child," so far. on the way back from the dining car they kissed each other good-bye again at all the trysting places they had sanctified before. the sun was radiant, the world good, and the very train ran with jubilant rejoicing. they could not doubt that a few more hours would see them legally man and wife. mallory restored marjorie to her place in their car, and with smiles of assurance, left her for another parson-hunt through the train. she waited for him in a bridal agitation. he ransacked the train forward in vain, and returned, passing marjorie with a shake of the head and a dour countenance. he went out to the observation platform, where he stumbled on ira lathrop and anne gattle, engaged in a conversation of evident intimacy, for they jumped when he opened the door, as if they were guilty of some plot. mallory mumbled his usual, "excuse me," whirled on his heel, and dragged his discouraged steps back through the observation room, where various women and a few men of evident unclericality were draped across arm chairs and absorbed in lazy conversation or bobbing their heads over magazines that trembled with the motion of the train. mrs. wellington was busily writing at the desk, but he did not know who she was, and he did not care whom she was writing to. he did not observe the baleful glare of mrs. whitcomb, who sat watching mrs. wellington, knowing all too well who she was, and suspecting the correspondent--mrs. whitcomb was tempted to spell the word with one "r." mallory stumbled into the men's portion of the composite car. here he nodded with a sickly cheer to the sole occupant, dr. temple, who was looking less ministerial than ever in an embroidered skull cap. the old rascal was sitting far back on his lumbar vertebræ. one of his hands clasped a long glass filled with a liquid of a hue that resembled something stronger than what it was--mere ginger ale. the other hand toyed with a long black cigar. the smoke curled round the old man's head like the fumes of a sultan's narghilé, and through the wisps his face was one of oriental luxury. mallory's eyes were caught from this picture of beatitude by the entrance, at the other door, of a man who had evidently swung aboard at the most recent stop--for mallory had not seen him. his gray hair was crowned with a soft black hat, and his spare frame was swathed in a frock coat that had seen better days. his soft gray eyes seemed to search timidly the smoke-clouded atmosphere, and he had a bashful air which mallory translated as one of diffidence in a place where liquors and cigars were dispensed. with equal diffidence mallory advanced, and in a low tone accosted the newcomer cautiously: "excuse me--you look like a clergyman." "the hell you say!" mallory pursued the question no further. chapter xviii in the composite car it was the gentle stranger's turn to miss his guess. he bent over the chair into which mallory had flopped, and said in a tense, low tone: "you look like a t'oroughbred sport. i'm trying to make up a game of stud poker. will you join me?" mallory shook his heavy head in refusal, and with dull eyes watched the man, whose profession he no longer misunderstood, saunter up to the blissful doctor from ypsilanti, and murmur again: "will you join me?" "join you in what, sir?" said dr. temple, with alert courtesy. "a little game." "i don't mind," the doctor smiled, rising with amiable readiness. "the checkers are in the next room." "quit your kiddin'," the stranger coughed. "how about a little freeze-out?" "freeze-out?" said dr. temple. "it sounds interesting. is it something like authors?" the newcomer shot a quick glance at this man, whose innocent air he suspected. but he merely drawled: "well, you play it with cards." "would you mind teaching me the rules?" said the old sport from ypsilanti. the gambler was growing suspicious of this too, too childlike innocence. he whined: "say, what's your little game, eh?" but decided to risk the venture. he sat down at a table, and dr. temple, bringing along his glass, drew up a chair. the gambler took a pack of cards from his pocket, and shuffled them with a snap that startled dr. temple and a dexterity that delighted him. "go on, it's beautiful to see," he exclaimed. the gambler set the pack down with the one word "cut!" but since the old man made no effort to comply, the gambler did not insist. he took up the pack again and ran off five cards to each place with a grace that staggered the doctor. mallory was about to intervene for the protection of the guileless physician when the conductor chanced to saunter in. the gambler, seeing him, snatched dr. temple's cards from his hand and slipped the pack into his pocket. "what's the matter now?" dr. temple asked, but the newcomer huskily answered: "wait a minute. wait a minute." the conductor took in the scene at a glance and, stalking up to the table, spoke with the grimness of a sea-captain: "say, i've got my eye on you. don't start nothin'." the stranger stared at him wonderingly and demanded: "why, what you drivin' at?" "you know all right," the conductor growled, and then turned on the befuddled old clergyman, "and you, too." "me, too?" the preacher gasped. "yes, you, too," the conductor repeated, shaking an accusing forefinger under his nose. "your actions have been suspicious from the beginning. we've all been watching you." dr. temple was so agitated that he nearly let fall his secret. "why, do you realize that i'm a----" "ah, don't start that," sneered the conductor, "i can spot a gambler as far as i can see one. you and your side partner here want to look out, that's all, or i'll drop you at the next tank." then he walked out, his very shoulder blades uttering threats. dr. temple stared after him, but the gambler stared at dr. temple with a mingling of accusation and of homage. "so you're one of us," he said, and seizing the old man's limp hand, shook it heartily: "i got to slip it to you. your make-up is great. you nearly had me for a come-on. great!" and then he sauntered out, leaving the clergyman's head swimming. dr. temple turned to mallory for explanations, but mallory only waved him away. he was not quite convinced himself. he was convinced only that whatever else anybody might be, nobody apparently desired to be a clergyman in these degenerate days. the conductor returned and threw into dr. temple the glare of two basilisk eyes. the old man put out a beseeching hand and began: "my good man, you do me a grave injustice." the conductor snapped back: "you say a word to me and i'll do you worse than that. and if i spot you with a pack of cards in your hand again, i'll tie you to the cow-ketcher." then he marched off again. the doctor fell back into a chair, trying to figure it out. then ashton and fosdick and little jimmie wellington and wedgewood strolled in and, dropping into chairs, ordered drinks. before the doctor could ask anybody to explain, ashton was launched on a story. his mind was a suitcase full of anecdotes, mostly of the smoking-room order. wherever three or four men are gathered together, they rapidly organize a clearing-house of off-color stories. the doctor listened in spite of himself, and in spite of himself he was amused, for stories that would be stupid if they were decent, take on a certain verve and thrill from their very forbiddenness. the dear old clergyman felt that it would be priggish to take flight, but he could not make the corners of his mouth behave. strange twitchings of the lips and little steamy escapes of giggle-jets disturbed him. and when ashton, who was a practiced raconteur, finished a drolatic adventure with the epilogue, "and the next morning they were at niagara falls," the old doctor was helpless with laughter. some superior force, a devil no doubt, fairly shook him with glee. "oh, that's bully," he shrieked, "i haven't heard a story like that for ages." "why, where have you been, dr. temple?" asked ashton, who could not imagine where a man could have concealed himself from such stories. but he laughed loudest of all when the doctor answered: "you see, i live in ypsilanti. they don't tell me stories like that." "they--who?" said fosdick. "why, my pa--my patients," the doctor explained, and laughed so hard that he forgot to feel guilty, laughed so hard that his wife in the next room heard him and giggled to mrs. whitcomb: "listen to dear walter. he hasn't laughed like that since he was a--a medical student." then she buried her face guiltily in a book. "wasn't it good?" dr. temple demanded, wiping his streaming eyes and nudging the solemn-faced englishman, who understood his own nation's humor, but had not yet learned the yankee quirks. wedgewood made a hollow effort at laughter and answered: "extremely--very droll, but what i don't quite get was--why the porter said----" the others drowned him in a roar of laughter, but ashton was angry. "why, you blamed fool, that's where the joke came in. don't you see, the bridegroom said to the bride----" then he lowered his voice and diagrammed the story on his fingers. mrs. temple was still shaking with sympathetic laughter, never dreaming what her husband was laughing at. she turned to mrs. whitcomb, but mrs. whitcomb was still glaring at mrs. wellington, who was still writing with flying fingers and underscoring every other word. "some people seem to think they own the train," mrs. whitcomb raged. "that creature has been at the writing desk an hour. the worst of it is, i'm sure she's writing to _my_ husband." mrs. temple looked shocked, but another peal of laughter came through the partition between the male and female sections of the car, and she beamed again. then mrs. wellington finished her letter, glanced it over, addressed an envelope, sealed and stamped it with a deliberation that maddened mrs. whitcomb. when at last she rose, mrs. whitcomb was in the seat almost before mrs. wellington was out of it. mrs. wellington paused at another wave of laughter from the men's room. she commented petulantly: "what good times men have. they've formed a club in there already. we women can only sit around and hate each other." "why, i don't hate anybody, do you?" mrs. temple exclaimed, looking up from the novel she had found on the book shelves. mrs. wellington dropped into the next chair: "on a long railroad journey i hate everybody. don't you hate long journeys?" "it's the first i ever took," mrs. temple apologized, radiantly, "and i'm having the--what my oldest boy would call the time of my life. and dear walter--such goings on for him! a few minutes ago i strolled by the door and i saw him playing cards with a stranger, and smoking and drinking, too, all at once." "boys will be boys," said mrs. wellington. "but for dr. temple of all people----" "why shouldn't a doctor? it's a shame the way men have everything. think of it, a special smoking room. and women have no place to take a puff except on the sly." mrs. temple stared at her in awe: "the woman in this book smokes!--perfumed things!" "all women smoke nowadays," said mrs. wellington, carelessly. "don't you?" the politest thing mrs. temple could think of in answer was: "not yet." "really!" said mrs. wellington, "don't you like tobacco?" "i never tried it." "it's time you did. i smoke cigars myself." mrs. temple almost collapsed at this double shock: "ci--cigars?" "yes; cigarettes are too strong for me; will you try one of my pets?" mrs. temple was about to express her repugnance at the thought, but mrs. wellington thrust before her a portfolio in which nestled such dainty shapes of such a warm and winsome brown, that mrs. temple paused to stare, and, like mother eve, found the fruit of knowledge too interesting once seen to reject with scorn. she hung over the cigar case in hesitant excitement one moment too long. then she said in a trembling voice: "i--i should like to try once--just to see what it's like. but there's no place." mrs. wellington felt that she had already made a proselyte to her own beloved vice, and she rushed her victim to the precipice: "there's the observation platform, my dear. come on out." mrs. temple was shivering with dismay at the dreadful deed: "what would they say in ypsilanti?" "what do you care? be a sport. your husband smokes. if it's right for him, why not for you?" mrs. temple set her teeth and crossed the rubicon with a resolute "i will!" mrs. wellington led the timid neophyte along the wavering floor of the car and flung back the door of the observation car. she found ira lathrop holding anne gattle's hand and evidently explaining something of great importance, for their heads were close together. they rose and with abashed faces and confused mumblings of half swallowed explanations, left the platform to mrs. wellington and her new pupil. shortly afterward little jimmie wellington grew restive and set out for a brief constitutional and a breath of air. he carried a siphon to which he had become greatly attached, and made heavy going of the observation room, but reached the door in fairly good order. he swung it open and brought in with it the pale and wavering ghost of mrs. temple, who had been leaning against it for much-needed support. wellington was stupefied to observe smoke pouring round mrs. temple's form, and he resolved to perform a great life-saving feat. he decided that the poor little woman was on fire and he poised the siphon like a fire extinguisher, with the noble intention of putting her out. he pressed the handle, and a stream of vichy shot from the nozzle. fortunately, his aim was so very wobbly that none of the extinguisher touched mrs. temple. wellington was about to play the siphon at her again when he saw her take from her lips a toy cigar and emit a stream of cough-shaken smoke. the poor little experimentalist was too wretched to notice even so large a menace as wellington. she threw the cigar away and gasped: "i think i've had enough." from the platform came a voice very well known to little jimmie. it said: "you'll like the second one better." mrs. temple shuddered at the thought, but wellington drew himself up majestically and called out: "like second one better, eh? i suppozhe it's the same way with husbandsh." then he stalked back to the smoking room, feeling that he had annihilated his wife, but knowing from experience that she always had a come-back. he knew it would be good, but he was afraid to hear it. he rolled into the smoking room, and sprawling across doctor temple's shoulders, dragged him from the midst of a highly improper story with alarming news. "doc., your wife looks kind o' seedy. better go to her at once." dr. temple leaped to his feet and ran to his wife's aid. he found her a dismal, ashen sight. "sally! what on earth ails you?" "been smok-oking," she hiccoughed. the world seemed to be crashing round dr. temple's head. he could only gurgle, "sally!" mrs. temple drew herself up with weak defiance: "well, i saw you playing cards and drinking." in the presence of such innocent deviltry he could only smile: "aren't we having an exciting vacation? but to think of you smoking!--and a cigar!" she tossed her head in pride. "and it didn't make me sick--much." she clutched a chair. he tried to support her. he could not help pondering: "what would they say in yp-hip-silanti?" "who cares?" she laughed. "i--i wish the old train wouldn't rock so." "i--i've smoked too much, too," said dr. temple with perfect truth, but mrs. temple, remembering that long glass she had seen, narrowed her eyes at him: "are you sure it was the smoke?" "sally!" he cried, in abject horror at her implied suspicion. then she turned a pale green. "oh, i feel such a qualm." "in your conscience, sally?" "no, not in my conscience. i think i'll go back to my berth and lie down." "let me help you, mother." and darby and joan hurried along the corridor, crowding it as they were crowding their vacation with belated experience. chapter xix foiled! it was late in the forenoon before the train came to the end of its iron furrow across that fertile space between two of the world's greatest rivers, which the indians called "iowa," nobody knows exactly why. in contrast with the palisades of the mississippi, the missouri twists like a great brown dragon wallowing in congenial mud. the water itself, as bob brudette said, is so muddy that the wind blowing across it raises a cloud of dust. a sonorous bridge led the way into nebraska, and the train came to a halt at omaha. mallory and marjorie got out to stretch their legs and their dog. if they had only known that the train was to stop there the quarter of an hour, and if they had only known some preacher there and had had him to the station, the ceremony could have been consummated then and there. the horizon was fairly saw-toothed with church spires. there were preachers, preachers everywhere, and not a dominie to do their deed. after they had strolled up and down the platform, and up and down, and up and down till they were fain of their cramped quarters again, marjorie suddenly dug her nails into mallory's arm. "honey! look!--look!" honey looked, and there before their very eyes stood as clerical a looking person as ever announced a strawberry festival. mallory stared and stared, till marjorie said: "don't you see? stupid! it's a preacher! a preacher!" "it looks like one," was as far as mallory would commit himself, and he was turning away. he had about come to the belief that anything that looked like a parson was something else. but marjorie whirled him round again, with a shrill whisper to listen. and he overheard in tones addicted to the pulpit: "yes, deacon, i trust that the harvest will be plentiful at my new church. it grieves me to leave the dear brothers and sisters in the lord in omaha, but i felt called to wider pastures." and a lady who was evidently mrs. deacon spoke up: "we'll miss you terrible. we all say you are the best pastor our church ever had." mallory prepared to spring on his prey and drag him to his lair, but marjorie held him back. "he's taking our train, lord bless his dear old soul." and mallory could have hugged him. but he kept close watch. to the rapture of the wedding-hungry twain, the preacher shook hands with such of his flock as had followed him to the station, picked up his valise and walked up to the porter, extending his ticket. but the porter said--and mallory could have throttled him for saying it: "'scuse me, posson, but that's yo' train ova yonda. you betta move right smaht, for it's gettin' ready to pull out." with a little shriek of dismay, the parson clutched his valise and set off at a run. mallory dashed after him and marjorie after mallory. they shouted as they ran, but the conductor of the east-bound train sang out "all aboard!" and swung on. the parson made a sprint and caught the ultimate rail of the moving train. mallory made a frantic leap at a flying coat-tail and missed. as he and marjorie stood gazing reproachfully at the train which was giving a beautiful illustration of the laws of retreating perspective, they heard wild howls of "hi! hi!" and "hay! hay!" and turned to see their own train in motion, and the porter dancing a zulu step alongside. chapter xx foiled again mallory tucked marjorie under his arm and marjorie tucked snoozleums under hers, and they did a sort of three-legged race down the platform. the porter was pale blue with excitement, and it was with the last gasp of breath in all three bodies that they scrambled up the steps of the only open vestibule. the porter was mad enough to give them a piece of his mind, and they were meek enough to take it without a word of explanation or resentment. and the train sped on into the heart of nebraska, along the unpoetic valley of the platte. when lunch-time came, they ate it together, but in gloomy silence. they sat in marjorie's berth throughout the appallingly monotonous afternoon in a stupor of disappointment and helpless dejection, speaking little and saying nothing then. whenever the train stopped, mallory watched the on-getting passengers with his keenest eye. he had a theory that since most people who looked like preachers were decidedly lay, it might be well to take a gambler's chance and accost the least ministerial person next. so, in his frantic anxiety, he selected a horsey-looking individual who got on at north platte. he looked so much like a rawhided ranchman that mallory stole up on him and asked him to excuse him, but did he happen to be a clergyman? the man replied by asking mallory if he happened to be a flea-bitten maverick, and embellished his question with a copious flow of the words ministers use, but with a secular arrangement of them. in fact he split one word in two to insert a double-barrelled curse. all that mallory could do was to admit that he was a flea-bitten what-he-said, and back away. after that, if a vicar in full uniform had marched down the aisle heading a procession of choir-boys, mallory would have suspected him. he vowed in his haste that marjorie might die an old maid before he would approach anybody else on that subject. nebraska would have been a nice long state for a honeymoon, but its four hundred-odd miles were a dreary length for the couple so near and yet so far. the railroad clinging to the meandering platte made the way far longer, and mallory and marjorie felt like pyramus and thisbe wandering along an eternal wall, through which they could see, but not reach, one another. they dined together as dolefully as if they had been married for forty years. then the slow twilight soaked them in its melancholy. the porter lighted up the car, and the angels lighted up the stars, but nothing lighted up their hopes. "we've got to quarrel again, my beloved," mallory groaned to marjorie. somehow they were too dreary even to nag one another with an outburst for the benefit of the eager-eyed passengers. a little excitement bestirred them as they realized that they were confronted with another night-robeless night and a morrow without change of gear. "what a pity that we left our things in the taxicab," marjorie sighed. and this time she said, "we left them," instead of "you left them." it was very gracious of her, but mallory did not acknowledge the courtesy. instead he gave a start and a gasp: "good lord, marjorie, we never paid the second taxicab!" "great heavens, how shall we ever pay him? he's been waiting there twenty-four hours. how much do you suppose we owe him?" "about a year of my pay, i guess." "you must send him a telegram of apology and ask him to read his meter. he was such a nice man--the kindest eyes--for a chauffeur." "but how can i telegraph him? i don't know his name, or his number, or his company, or anything." "it's too bad. he'll go through life hating us and thinking we cheated him." "well, he doesn't know our names either." and then they forgot him temporarily for the more immediate need of clothes. all the passengers knew that they had left behind what baggage they had not sent ahead, and much sympathy had been expressed. but most people would rather give you their sympathy than lend you their clothes. mallory did not mind the men, but marjorie dreaded the women. she was afraid of all of them but mrs. temple. she threw herself on the little lady's mercy and was asked to help herself. she borrowed a nightgown of extraordinary simplicity, a shirt waist of an ancient mode, and a number of other things. if there had been anyone there to see she would have made a most anachronistic bride. mallory canvassed the men and obtained a shockingly purple shirt from wedgewood, who meant to put him at his ease, but somehow failed when he said in answer to mallory's thanks: "god bless my soul, old top, don't you think of thanking me. i ought to thank you. you see, the idiot who makes my shirts, made that by mistake, and i'd be no end grateful if you'd jolly well take the loathsome thing off my hands. i mean to say, i shouldn't dream of being seen in it myself. you quite understand, don't you?" ashton contributed a maroon atrocity in hosiery, with equal tact: "if they fit you, keep 'em. i got stung on that batch of socks. that pair was originally lavender, but they washed like that. keep 'em. i wouldn't be found dead in 'em." the mysterious fosdick, who lived a lonely life in the observation car and slept in the other sleeper, lent mallory a pair of pyjamas evidently intended for a bridegroom of romantic disposition. mallory blushed as he accepted them and when he found himself in them, he whisked out the light, he was so ashamed of himself. once more the whole car gaped at the unheard of behavior of its newly wedded pair. the poor porter had been hungry for a bridal couple, but as he went about gathering up the cast-off footwear of his large family and found mallory's big shoes at number three and marjorie's tiny boots at number five, he shook his head and groaned. "times has suttainly changed for the wuss if this is a bridal couple, gimme divorcees." chapter xxi matrimony to and fro and the next morning they were in wyoming--well toward the center of that state. they had left behind the tame levels and the truly rural towns and they were among foothills and mountains, passing cities of wildly picturesque repute, like cheyenne, and laramie, bowie, and medicine bow, and bitter creek, whose very names imply literature and war whoops, cow-boy yelps, barking revolvers, another redskin biting the dust, cattle stampedes, town-paintings, humorous lynchings and bronchos in epileptic frenzy. but the talk of this train was concerned with none of these wonders, which the novelists and the magazinist have perhaps a trifle overpublished. the talk of this train was concerned with the eighth wonder of the world, a semi-detached bridal couple. mrs. whitcomb was eager enough to voice the sentiment of the whole populace, when she looked up from her novel in the observation room and, nudging mrs. temple, drawled: "by the way, my dear, has that bridal couple made up its second night's quarrel yet?" "the mallorys?" mrs. temple flushed as she answered, mercifully. "oh, yes, they were very friendly again this morning." mrs. whitcomb's countenance was cynical: "my dear, i've been married twice and i ought to know something about honeymoons, but this honeyless honeymoon----" she cast up her eyes and her hands in despair. the women were so concerned about mr. and "mrs." mallory, that they hardly noticed the uncomfortable plight of the wellingtons, or the curious behavior of the lady from the stateroom who seemed to be afraid of something and never spoke to anybody. the strange behavior of anne gattle and ira lathrop even escaped much comment, though they were forever being stumbled on when anybody went out to the observation platform. when they were dislodged from there, they sat playing checkers and talking very little, but making eyes at one another and sighing like furnaces. they had evidently concocted some secret of their own, for ira, looking at his watch, murmured sentimentally to anne: "only a few hours more, annie." and anne turned geranium-color and dropped a handful of checkers. "i don't know how i can face it." ira growled like a lovesick lion: "aw, what do you care?" "but i was never married before, ira," anne protested, "and on a train, too." "why, all the bridal couples take to the railroads." "i should think it would be the last place they'd go," said anne--a sensible woman, anne! "look at the mallories--how miserable they are." "i thought they were happy," said ira, whose great virtue it was to pay little heed to what was none of his business. "oh, ira," cried anne, "i hope we shan't begin to quarrel as soon as we are married." "as if anybody could quarrel with you, anne," he said. "do you think i'll be so monotonous as that?" she retorted. her spunk delighted him beyond words. he whispered: "anne, you're so gol-darned sweet if i don't get a chance to kiss you, i'll bust." "why, ira--we're on the train." "da--darn the train! who ever heard of a fellow proposing and getting engaged to a girl and not even kissing her." "but our engagement is so short." "well, i'm not going to marry you till i get a kiss." perhaps innocent old anne really believed this blood-curdling threat. it brought her instantly to terms, though she blushed: "but everybody's always looking." "come out on the observation platform." "oh, ira, again?" "i dare you." "i take you--but" seeing that mrs. whitcomb was trying to overhear, she whispered: "let's pretend it's the scenery." so ira rose, pushed the checkers aside, and said in an unusually positive tone: "ah, miss gattle, won't you have a look at the landscape?" "oh, thank you, mr. lathrop," said anne, "i just love scenery." they wandered forth like the sleeping beauty and her princely awakener, and never dreamed what gigglings and nudgings and wise head-noddings went on back of them. mrs. wellington laughed loudest of all at the lovers whose heads had grown gray while their hearts were still so green. it was shortly after this that the wellingtons themselves came into prominence in the train life. as the train approached green river, and its copper-basined stream, the engineer began to set the air-brakes for the stop. jimmie wellington, boozily half-awake in the smoking room, wanted to know what the name of the station was. everybody is always eager to oblige a drunken man, so ashton and fosdick tried to get a window open to look out. the first one they labored at, they could not budge after a biceps-breaking tug. the second flew up with such ease that they went over backward. ashton put his head out and announced that the approaching depot was labelled "green river." wellington burbled: "what a beautiful name for a shtation." ashton announced that there was something beautifuller still on the platform--"oh, a peach!--a nectarine! and she's getting on this train." even doctor temple declared that she was a dear little thing, wasn't she? wellington pushed him aside, saying: "stand back, doc., and let me see; i have a keen sense of beau'ful." "be careful," cried the doctor, "he'll fall out of the window." "not out of that window," ashton sagely observed, seeing the bulk of wellington. as the train started off again, little jimmie distributed alcoholic smiles to the green riverers on the platform and called out: "goo'bye, ever'body. you're all abslootly--ow! ow!" he clapped his hand to his eye and crawled back into the car, groaning with pain. "what's the matter," said wedgewood. "got something in your eye?" "no, you blamed fool. i'm trying to look through my thumb." "poor fellow!" sympathized doctor temple, "it's a cinder!" "a cinder! it's at leasht a ton of coal." "i say, old boy, let me have a peek," said wedgewood, screwing in his monocle and peering into the depths of wellington's eye. "i can't see a bally thing." "of course not, with that blinder on," growled the miserable wretch, weeping in spite of himself and rubbing his smarting orb. "don't rub that eye," ashton counselled, "rub the other eye." "it's my eye; i'll rub it if i want to. get me a doctor, somebody. i'm dying." "here's doctor temple," said ashton, "right on the job." wellington turned to the old clergyman with pathetic trust, and the deceiver writhed in his disguise. the best he could think of was: "will somebody lend me a lead pencil?" "what for?" said wellington, uneasily. "i am going to roll your upper lid up on it," said the doctor. "oh, no, you're not," said the patient. "you can roll your own lids!" then the conductor, still another conductor, wandered on the scene and asked as if it were not a world-important matter: "what's the matter--pick up a cinder?" "yes. perhaps you can get it out," the alleged doctor appealed. the conductor nodded: "the best way is this--take hold of the winkers." "the what?" mumbled wellington. "grab the winkers of your upper eyelid in your right hand----" "i've got 'em." "now grab the winkers of your lower eyelid in your left hand. now raise the right hand, push the under lid under the overlid and haul the overlid over the underlid; when you have the overlid well over the under----" wellington waved him away: "say, what do you think i'm trying to do? stuff a mattress? get out of my way. i want my wife--lead me to my wife." "an excellent idea," said dr. temple, who had been praying for a reconciliation. he guided wellington with difficulty to the observation room and, finding mrs. wellington at the desk as usual, he began: "oh, mrs. wellington, may i introduce you to your husband?" mrs. wellington rose haughtily, caught a sight of her suffering consort and ran to him with a cry of "jimmie!" "lucretia!" "what's happened--are you killed?" "i'm far from well. but don't worry. my life insurance is paid up." "oh, my poor little darling," mrs. jimmie fluttered, "what on earth ails you?" she turned to the doctor. "is he going to die?" "i think not," said the doctor. "it's only a bad case of cinder-in-the-eyetis." thus reassured, mrs. wellington went into the patient's eye with her handkerchief. "is that the eye?" she asked. "no!" he howled, "the other one." she went into that and came out with the cinder. "there! it's just a tiny speck." wellington regarded the mote with amazement. "is that all? it felt as if i had pike's peak in my eye." then he waxed tender. "oh, lucretia, how can i ever----" but she drew away with a disdainful: "give me back my hand, please." "now, lucretia," he protested, "don't you think you're carrying this pretty far?" "only as far as reno," she answered grimly, which stung him to retort: "you'd better take the beam out of your own eye, now that you've taken the cinder out of mine," but she, noting that they were the center of interest, observed: "all the passengers are enjoying this, my dear. you'd better go back to the café." wellington regarded her with a revulsion to wrath. he thundered at her: "i will go back, but allow me to inform you, my dear madam, that i'll not drink another drop--just to surprise you." mrs. wellington shrugged her shoulders at this ancient threat and jimmie stumbled back to his lair, whither the men followed him. feeling sympathy in the atmosphere, little jimmie felt impelled to pour out his grief: "jellmen, i'm a brok'n-heartless man. mrs. well'n'ton is a queen among women, but she has temper of tarant----" wedgewood broke in: "i say, old boy, you've carried this ballast for three days now, wherever did you get it?" wellington drew himself up proudly for a moment before he slumped back into himself. "well, you see, when i announced to a few friends that i was about to leave mrs. well'n'ton forever and that i was going out to--to--you know." "reno. we know. well?" "well, a crowd of my friends got up a farewell sort of divorce breakfast--and some of 'em felt so very sad about my divorce that they drank a little too much, and the rest of my friends felt so very glad about my divorce, that they drank a little too much. and, of course, i had to join both parties." "and that breakfast," said ashton, "lasted till the train started, eh?" wellington glowered back triumphantly. "lasted till the train started? jellmen, that breakfast is going yet!" chapter xxii in the smoking room wellington's divorce breakfast reminded ashton of a story. ashton was one of the great that-reminds-me family. perhaps it was to the credit of the englishman that he missed the point of this story, even though jimmie wellington saw it through his fog, and dr. temple turned red and buried his eyes in the eminently respectable pages of the _scientific american_. ashton and wellington and fosdick exchanged winks over the britisher's stare of incomprehension, and ashton explained it to him again in words of one syllable, with signboards at all the difficult spots. finally a gleam of understanding broke over wedgewood's face and he tried to justify his delay. "oh, yes, of cawse i see it now. yes, i rather fancy i get you. it's awfully good, isn't it? i think i should have got it before but i'm not really myself; for two mawnings i haven't had my tub." wellington shook with laughter: "if you're like this now, what will you be when you get to sin san frasco--i mean frinsansisco--well, you know what i mean." ashton reached round for the electric button as if he were conferring a favor: "the drinks are on you, wedgewood. i'll ring." and he rang. "awf'lly kind of you," said wedgewood, "but how do you make that out?" "the man that misses the point, pays for the drinks." and he rang again. wellington protested. "but i've jolly well paid for all the drinks for two days." wellington roared: "that's another point you've missed." and ashton rang again, but the pale yellow individual who had always answered the bell with alacrity did not appear. "where's that infernal buffet waiter?" ashton grumbled. wedgewood began to titter. "we were out of scotch, so i sent him for some more." "when?" "two stations back. i fancy we must have left him behind." "well, why in thunder didn't you say so?" ashton roared. "it quite escaped my mind," wedgewood grinned. "rather good joke on you fellows, what?" "well, i don't see the point," ashton growled, but the triumphant englishman howled: "that's where _you_ pay!" wedgewood had his laugh to himself, for the others wanted to murder him. ashton advised a lynching, but the conductor arrived on the scene in time to prevent violence. fosdick informed him of the irretrievable loss of the useful buffet waiter. the conductor promised to get another at ogden. ashton wailed: "have we got to sit here and die of thirst till then?" the conductor refused to "back up for a coon," but offered to send in a sleeping-car porter as a temporary substitute. as he started to go, fosdick, who had been incessantly consulting his watch, checked him to ask: "oh, conductor, when do we get to the state-line of dear old utah?" "dear old utah!" the conductor grinned. "we'd 'a' been there already if we hadn't 'a' fell behind a little." "just my luck to be late," fosdick moaned. "what you so anxious to be in utah for, fosdick?" ashton asked, suspiciously. "you go on to 'frisco, don't you?" fosdick was evidently confused at the direct question. he tried to dodge it: "yes, but--funny how things have changed. when we started, nobody was speaking to anybody except his wife, now----" "now," said ashton, drily, "everybody's speaking to everybody except his wife." "you're wrong there," little jimmie interrupted. "i wasn't speaking to my wife in the first place. we got on as strangersh and we're strangersh yet. mrs. well'n'ton is a----" "a queen among women, we know! dry up," said ashton, and then they heard the querulous voice of the porter of their sleeping car: "i tell you, i don't know nothin' about the buffet business." the conductor pushed him in with a gruff command: "crawl in that cage and get busy." still the porter protested: "mista pullman engaged me for a sleepin' car, not a drinkin' car. i'm a berth-maker, not a mixer." he cast a resentful glance through the window that served also as a bar, and his whole tone changed: "say, is you goin' to allow me loose amongst all them beautiful bottles? say, man, if you do, i can't guarantee my conduck." "if you even sniff one of those bottles," the conductor warned him, "i'll crack it over your head." "that won't worry me none--as long as my mouf's open." he smacked his chops over the prospect of intimacy with that liquid treasury. "lordy! well, i'll try to control my emotions--but remember, i don't guarantee nothin'." the conductor started to go, but paused for final instructions: "and remember--after we get to utah you can't serve any hard liquor at all." "what's that? don't they 'low nothin' in that old utah but ice-cream soda?" "that's about all. if you touch a drop, i'll leave you in utah for life." "oh, lordy, i'll be good!" the conductor left the excited black and went his way. ashton was the first to speak: "say, porter, can you mix drinks?" the porter ruminated, then confessed: "well, not on the outside, no, sir. if you-all is thirsty you better order the simplest things you can think of. if you was to command anything fancy, lord knows what you'd get. supposin' you was to say, 'gimme a tom collins.' i'd be just as liable as not to pass you a jack johnson." "well, can you open beer?" "oh, i'm a natural born beer-opener." "rush it out then. my throat is as full of alkali dust as these windows." the porter soon appeared with a tray full of cotton-topped glasses. the day was hot and the alkali dust very oppressive, and the beer was cold. dr. temple looked on it when it was amber, and suffered himself to be bullied into taking a glass. he felt that he was the greatest sinner on earth, but worst of all was the fact that when he had fallen, the forbidden brew was not sweet. he was inexperienced enough to sip it and it was like foaming quinine on his palate. but he kept at it from sheer shame, and his luxurious transgression was its own punishment. the doleful mallory was on his way to join the "club". crossing the vestibule he had met the conductor, and had ventured to quiz him along the old lines: "excuse me, haven't you taken any clergymen on board this train yet?" "devil a one." "don't you ever carry any preachers on this road?" "usually we get one or two. last trip we carried a whole methodist convention." "a whole convention last trip! just my luck!" the unenlightened conductor turned to call back: "say, up in the forward car we got a couple of undertakers. they be of any use to you?" "not yet." then mallory dawdled on into the smoking room, where he found his own porter, who explained that he had been "promoted to the bottlery." "do we come to a station stop soon?" mallory asked. "well, not for a considerable interval. do you want to get out and walk up and down?" "i don't," said mallory, taking from under his coat snoozleums, whom he had smuggled past the new conductor. "meanwhile, porter, could you give him something to eat to distract him?" the porter grinned, and picking up a bill of fare held it out. "i got a meenuel. it ain't written in dog, but you can explain it to him. what would yo' canine desiah, sah?" snoozleums put out a paw and mallory read what it indicated: "he says he'd like a filet chateaubriand, but if you have any old bones, he'll take those." the porter gathered snoozleums in and disappeared with him into the buffet, mallory calling after him: "don't let the conductor see him." dr. temple advanced on the disconsolate youth with an effort at cheer: "how is our bridegroom this beautiful afternoon?" mallory glanced at his costume: "i feel like a rainbow gone wrong. just my luck to have to borrow from everybody. look at me! this collar of mr. wellington's makes me feel like a peanut in a rubber tire." he turned to fosdick. "i say, mr. fosdick, what size collar do you wear?" "fourteen and a half," said fosdick. "fourteen and a half!--why don't you get a neck? you haven't got a plain white shirt, have you? our english friend lent me this, but it's purple, and mr. ashton's socks are maroon, and this peacock blue tie is very unhappy." "i think i can fit you out," said fosdick. "and if you had an extra pair of socks," mallory pleaded,--"just one pair of unemotional socks." "i'll show you my repertoire." "all right, i'll see you later." then he went up to wellington, with much hesitance of manner. "by the way, mr. wellington, do you suppose mrs. wellington could lend miss--mrs.--could lend marjorie some--some----" wellington waved him aside with magnificent scorn: "i am no longer in mrs. wellington's confidence." "oh, excuse me," said mallory. he had noted that the wellingtons occupied separate compartments, but for all he knew their reason was as romantic as his own. chapter xxiii through a tunnel mrs. jimmie wellington, who had traveled much abroad and learned in england the habit of smoking in the corridors of expensive hotels, had acquired also the habit, as travelers do, of calling england freer than america. she determined to do her share toward the education of her native country, and chose, for her topic, tobacco as a feminine accomplishment. she had grown indifferent to stares and audible comment and she could fight a protesting head waiter to a standstill. if monuments and tablets are ever erected to the first woman who smoked publicly in this place or that, mrs. jimmie wellington will be variously remembered and occupy a large place in historical record. the narrow confines of the women's room on the sleeping car soon palled on her, and she objected to smoking there except when she felt the added luxury of keeping some other woman outside--fuming, but not smoking. and now mrs. jimmie had staked out a claim on the observation platform. she sat there, puffing like a major-general, and in one portion of nebraska two farmers fell off their agricultural vehicles at the sight of her cigar-smoke trailing after the train. in wyoming three cowboys followed her for a mile, yipping and howling their compliments. feeling the smoke mood coming on, mrs. wellington invited mrs. temple to smoke with her, but mrs. temple felt a reminiscent qualm at the very thought, so mrs. jimmie sauntered out alone, to the great surprise of ira lathrop, whose motto was, "two heads are better than one," and who was apparently willing to wait till anne gattle's head grew on his shoulder. "i trust i don't intrude," mrs. wellington said. "oh, no. oh, yes." anne gasped in fiery confusion as she fled into the car, followed by the purple-faced ira, who slammed the door with a growl: "that wellington woman would break up anything." the prim little missionary toppled into the nearest chair: "oh, ira, what will she think?" "she can't think!" ira grumbled. "in a little while she'll know." "don't you think we'd better tell everybody before they begin to talk?" ira glowed with pride at the thought and murmured with all the ardor of a senile romeo: "i suppose so, ducky darling. i'll break it--i mean i'll tell it to the men, and you tell the women." "all right, dear, i'll obey you," she answered, meekly. "obey me!" ira laughed with boyish swagger. "and you a missionary!" "well, i've converted one heathen, anyway," said anne as she darted down the corridor, followed by ira, who announced his intention to "go to the baggage car and dig up his old prince albert." in their flight forward they passed the mysterious woman in the stateroom. they were too full of their own mystery to give thought to hers. mrs. fosdick went timidly prowling toward the observation car, suspecting everybody to be a spy, as mallory suspected everybody to be a clergyman in disguise. as she stole along the corridor past the men's clubroom she saw her husband--her here-and-there husband--wearily counting the telegraph posts and summing them up into miles. she tapped on the glass and signalled to him, then passed on. he answered with a look, then pretended not to have noticed, and waited a few moments before he rose with an elaborate air of carelessness. he beckoned the porter and said: "let me know the moment we enter utah, will you?" "yassah. we'll be comin' along right soon now. we got to pass through the big aspen tunnel, after that, befo' long, we splounce into old utah." "don't forget," said fosdick, as he sauntered out. ashton perked up his ears at the promise of a tunnel and kept his eye on his watch. fosdick entered the observation room with a hungry look in his luscious eyes. his now-and-then wife put up a warning finger to indicate mrs. whitcomb's presence at the writing desk. fosdick's smile froze into a smirk of formality and he tried to chill his tone as if he were speaking to a total stranger. "good afternoon." mrs. fosdick answered with equal ice: "good afternoon. won't you sit down?" "thanks. very picturesque scenery, isn't it?" "isn't it?" fosdick seated himself, looked about cautiously, noted that mrs. whitcomb was apparently absorbed in her letter, then lowered his voice confidentially. his face kept up a strained pretense of indifference, but his whisper was passionate with longing: "has my poor little wifey missed her poor old hubby?" "oh, so much!" she whispered. "has poor little hubby missed his poor old wife?" "horribly. was she lonesome in that dismal stateroom all by herself?" "oh, so miserable! i can't stand it much longer." fosdick's face blazed with good news: "in just a little while we come to the utah line--then we're safe." "god bless utah!" the rapture died from her face as she caught sight of dr. temple, who happened to stroll in and go to the bookshelves, and taking out a book happened to glance near-sightedly her way. "be careful of that man, dearie," mrs. fosdick hissed out of one side of her mouth. "he's a very strange character." her husband was infected with her own terror. he asked, huskily: "what do you think he is?" "a detective! i'm sure he's watching us. he followed you right in here." "we'll be very cautious--till we get to utah." the old clergyman, a little fuzzy in brain from his début in beer, continued innocently to confirm the appearance of a detective by drifting aimlessly about. he was looking for his wife, but he kept glancing at the uneasy fosdicks. he went to the door, opened it, saw mrs. wellington finishing a cigar, and retreated precipitately. seeing mrs. temple wandering in the corridor, he motioned her to a chair near the fosdicks and she sat by his side, wondering at his filmy eyes. the fosdicks, glancing uncomfortably at dr. temple, rose and selected other chairs further away. then roger ashton sauntered in, his eyes searching for a proper companion through the tunnel. he saw mrs. wellington returning from the platform, just tossing away her cigar and blowing out the last of its grateful vapor. with an effort at sarcasm, he went to her and offered her one of his own cigars, smiling: "have another." she took it, looked it over, and parried his irony with a formula she had heard men use when they hate to refuse a gift-cigar: "thanks. i'll smoke it after dinner, if you don't mind." "oh, i don't mind," he laughed, then bending closer he murmured: "they tell me we are coming to a tunnel, a nice, long, dark, dismal tunnel." mrs. wellington would not take a dare. she felt herself already emancipated from jimmie. so she answered ashton's hint with a laughing challenge: "how nice of the conductor to arrange it." ashton smacked his lips over the prospect. and now the porter, having noted ashton's impatience to reach the tunnel, thought to curry favor and a quarter by announcing its approach. he bustled in and made straight for ashton just as the tunnel announced itself with a sudden swoop of gloom, a great increase of the train-noises and a far-off clang of the locomotive bell. out of the egyptian darkness came the unmistakable sounds of osculation in various parts of the room. doubtless, it was repeated in other parts of the train. there were numerous cooing sounds, too, but nobody spoke except mrs. temple, who was heard to murmur: "oh, walter, dear, what makes your breath so funny!" next came a little yowl of pain in mrs. fosdick's voice, and then daylight flooded the car with a rush, as if time had made an instant leap from midnight to noon. there were interesting disclosures. mrs. temple was caught with her arms round the doctor's neck, and she blushed like a spoony girl. mrs. fosdick was trying to disengage her hair from mr. fosdick's scarf-pin. mrs. whitcomb alone was deserted. mr. ashton was gazing devotion at mrs. wellington and trying to tell her with his eyes how velvet he had found her cheek. but she was looking reproachfully at him from a chair, and saying, not without regret: "i heard everybody kissing everybody, but i was cruelly neglected." ashton's eyes widened with unbelief, he heard a snicker at his elbow, and whirled to find the porter rubbing his black velvet cheek and writhing with pent-up laughter. mrs. wellington glanced the same way, and a shriek of understanding burst from her. it sent the porter into a spasm of yah-yahs till he caught ashton's eyes and saw murder in them. the porter fled to the platform and held the door fast, expecting to be lynched. but ashton dashed away in search of concealment and soap. the porter remained on the platform for some time, planning to leap overboard and take his chances rather than fall into ashton's hands, but at length, finding himself unpursued, he peered into the car and, seeing that ashton had gone, he returned to his duties. he kept a close watch on ashton, but on soberer thoughts ashton had decided that the incident would best be consigned to silence and oblivion. but for all the rest of that day he kept rubbing his lips with his handkerchief. the porter, noting that the train had swept into a granite gorge like an enormously magnified aisle in a made-up sleeping car, recognized the presence of echo canyon, and with it the entrance into utah. he hastened to impart the tidings to mr. fosdick and held out his hand as he extended the information. fosdick could hardly believe that his twelve-hundred-mile exile was over. "we're in utah?" he exclaimed. "yassah," and the porter shoved his palm into view. fosdick filled it with all his loose change, then whirled to his wife and cried: "edith! we are in utah now! embrace me!" she flung herself into his arms with a gurgle of bliss. the other passengers gasped with amazement. this sort of thing was permissible enough in a tunnel, but in the full light of day----! fosdick, noting the sensation he had created, waved his hand reassuringly and called across his wife's shoulder: "don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. she's my wife!" he added in a whisper meant for her ear alone: "at least till we get to nevada!" then she whispered something in his ear and they hurried from the car. they left behind them a bewilderment that eclipsed the wonder of the mallories. that couple spoke to each other at least during the day time. here was a married pair that did not speak at all for two days and two nights and then made a sudden and public rush to each other's arms! dr. temple summed up the general feeling when he said: "i don't believe in witches, but if i did, i'd believe that this train is bewitched." later he decided that fosdick was a mormon elder and that mrs. fosdick was probably a twelfth or thirteenth spouse he was smuggling in from the east. the theory was not entirely false, for fosdick was one of the many victims of the crazy-quilt of american divorce codes, though he was the most unwilling of polygamists. and dr. temple gave up his theory in despair the next morning when he found the fosdicks still on the train, and once more keeping aloof from each other. chapter xxiv the train butcher mallory was dragging out a miserable existence with a companion who was neither maid, wife, nor widow and to whom he was neither bachelor, husband, nor relict. they were suffering brain-fag from their one topic of conversation, and heart-fag from rapture deferred. marjorie had pretended to take a nap and mallory had pretended that he would leave her for her own sake. their contradictory chains were beginning to gall. mallory sat in the smoking room, and threw aside a half-finished cigar. life was indeed nauseous when tobacco turned rank on his lips. he watched without interest the stupendous scenery whirling past the train; granite ravines, infernal grotesques of architecture and diablerie, the giant's teapot, the devil's slide, the pulpit rock, the hanging rock, splashes of mineral color, as if titanic paint pots had been spilled or flung against the cliffs, sudden hushes of green pine-worlds, dreary graveyards of sand and sagebrush, mountain streams in frothing panics. his jaded soul could not respond to any of these thrillers, the dime-novels and melodramatic third-acts of nature. but with the arrival of a train-boy, who had got on at evanston with a batch of salt lake city newspapers, he woke a little. the other men came trooping round, like sheep at a herd-boy's whistle or chickens when a pan of grain is brought into the yard. the train "butcher" had a nasal sing-song, but his strain might have been the pied piper's tune emptying hamelin of its grown-ups. the charms of flirtation, matrimonial bliss and feminine beauty were forgotten, and the males flocked to the delights of stock-market reports, political or racing or dramatic or sporting or criminal news. even ashton braved the eyes of his fellow men for the luxury of burying his nose in a fresh paper. "papers, gents? yes? no?" the train butcher chanted. "salt lake papers, ogden papers, all the latest papers, comic papers, magazines, periodicals." "here, boy," said ashton, snapping his fingers, "what's the latest new york paper?" "last sat'day's." "six days old? i read that before i left new york. well, give me that salt lake paper. it has yesterday's stock market, i suppose." "yes, sir." he passed over the sheet and made change, without abating his monody: "papers, gents. yes? no? salt lake pa----" "whash latesh from chicago?" said wellington. "monday's." "i read that before--that breakfast began," laughed little jimmie. "well, give me _salt lake bazoo_. it has basheball news, i s'pose." "yes, sir," the butcher answered, and his tone grew reverent as he said: "the giants won. mr. mattyson was pitching. papers, gents, all the latest papers, magazines, periodicals." wedgewood extended a languid hand: "what's the latest issue of the _london times_?" "never heard of it." wedgewood almost fainted, and returned to his baedeker of the united states. dr. temple summoned the lad: "i don't suppose you have the _ypsilanti eagle_?" the butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "i carry newspapers, not poultry." "well, give me the----" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesque appearance, and the adventure attracted him. "i'll take this--also the _outlook_." he folded the pink within the green, and entered into a new and startling world--a sort of journalistic slumming tour. "give me any old thing," said mallory, and flung open an ogden journal till he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "by jove, a ten-inning game! matthewson in the box!" "mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said little jimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, while the butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the great event. about this time, marjorie, tired of her pretence at slumber, strolled into the observation car, glancing into the men's room, where she saw nothing but newspapers. then mrs. wellington saw her, and smiled: "come in and make yourself at home." "thanks," said marjorie, bashfully, "i was looking for my--my----" "husband?" "my dog." "how is he this morning?" "my dog?" "your husband." "oh, he's as well as could be expected." "where did you get that love of a waist?" mrs. wellington laughed. "mrs. temple lent it to me. isn't it sweet?" "exquisite! the latest ypsilanti mode." marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked than from being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on mrs. wellington's mercy. "i'm so unhappy in this. couldn't you lend me or sell me something a little smarter?" "i'd love to, my dear," said mrs. wellington, "but i left home on short notice myself. i shall need all my divorce trousseau in reno. otherwise--i--but here's your husband. you two ought to have some place to spoon. i'll leave you this whole room." and she swept out, nodding to mallory, who had divined marjorie's presence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt the need of finishing the story of the great ball game. husband-like, he felt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casual smile across the top of the paper. marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned: "we're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?" "mr. and miss fit," said mallory, from behind the paper. "oh, harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded. "marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind the paper. "well, mrs. wellington said we ought to have some place to spoon, and she went away and left us, and--there you stand--and----" this pierced even the baseball news, and he threw his arms around her with glow of devotion. she snuggled closer, and cooed: "aren't we having a nice long engagement? we've traveled a million miles, and the preacher isn't in sight yet. what have you been reading--wedding announcements?" "no--i was reading about the most wonderful exhibition. mattie was in the box--and in perfect form." "mattie?" marjorie gasped uneasily. "mattie!" he raved, "and in perfect form." and now the hidden serpent of jealousy, which promised to enliven their future, lifted its head for the first time, and mallory caught his first glimpse of an unsuspected member of their household. marjorie demanded with an ominous chill: "and who's mattie? some former sweetheart of yours?" "my dear," laughed mallory. but marjorie was up and away, with apt temper: "so mattie was in the box, was she? what is it to you, where she sits? you dare to read about her and rave over her perfect form, while you neglect your wife--or your--oh, what am i, anyway?" mallory stared at her in amazement. he was beginning to learn what ignorant heathen women are concerning so many of the gods and demi-gods of mankind. then, with a tenderness he might not always show, he threw the paper down and took her in his arms: "you poor child. mattie is a man--a pitcher--and you're the only woman i ever loved--and you are liable to be my wife any minute." the explanation was sufficient, and she crawled into the shelter of his arm with little noises that served for apology, forgiveness and reconciliation. then he made the mistake of mentioning the sickening topic of deferred hope: "a minister's sure to get on at the next stop--or the next." marjorie's nerves were frayed by too much enduring, and it took only a word to set them jangling: "if you say minister to me again, i'll scream." then she tried to control herself with a polite: "where is the next stop?" "ogden." "where's that? on the map?" "well, it's in utah." "utah!" she groaned. "they marry by wholesale there, and we can't even get a sample." chapter xxv the train wrecker the train-butcher, entering the observation room, found only a loving couple. he took in at a glance their desire for solitude. a large part of his business was the forcing of wares on people who did not want them. his voice and his method suggested the mosquito. seeing mallory and marjorie mutually absorbed in reading each other's eyes, and evidently in need of nothing on earth less than something else to read, the train-butcher decided that his best plan of attack was to make himself a nuisance. it is a plan successfully adopted by organ-grinders, street pianists and other blackmailers under the guise of art, who have nothing so welcome to sell as their absence. mallory and marjorie heard the train-boy's hum, but they tried to ignore it. "papers, gents and ladies? yes? no? paris fashions, lady?" he shoved a large periodical between their very noses, but marjorie threw it on the floor, with a bitter glance at her own borrowed plumage: "don't show me any paris fashions!" then she gave the boy his congé by resuming her chat with mallory: "how long do we stop at ogden?" the train-boy went right on auctioning his papers and magazines, and poking them into the laps of his prey. and they went right on talking to one another and pushing his papers and magazines to the floor. "i think i'd better get off at ogden, and take the next train back. that's just what i'll do. nothing, thank you!" this last to the train-boy. "but you can't leave me like this," mallory urged excitedly, with a side glance of "no, no!" to the train-boy. "i can, and i must, and i will," marjorie insisted. "i'll go pack my things now." "but, marjorie, listen to me." "will you let me alone!" this to the gadfly, but to mallory a dejected wail: "i--i just remembered. i haven't anything to pack." "and you'll have to give back that waist to mrs. temple. you can't get off at ogden without a waist." "i'll go anyway. i want to get home." "marjorie, if you talk that way--i'll throw you off the train!" she gasped. he explained: "i wasn't talking to you; i was trying to stop this phonograph." then he rose, and laid violent hands on the annoyer, shoved him to the corridor, seized his bundle of papers from his arm, and hurled them at his head. they fell in a shower about the train-butcher, who could only feel a certain respect for the one man who had ever treated him as he knew he deserved. he bent to pick up his scattered merchandise, and when he had gathered his stock together, put his head in, and sang out a sincere: "excuse me." but mallory did not hear him, he was excitedly trying to calm the excited girl, who, having eloped with him, was preparing now to elope back without him. "darling, you can't desert me now," he pleaded, "and leave me to go on alone?" "well, why don't you do something?" she retorted, in equal desperation. "if i were a man, and i had the girl i loved on a train, i'd get her married if i had to wreck the----" she caught her breath, paused a second in intense thought, and then, with sudden radiance, cried: "harry, dear!" "yes, love!" "i have an idea--an inspiration!" "yes, pet," rather dubiously from him, but with absolute exultation from her: "let's wreck the train!" "i don't follow you, sweetheart." "don't you see?" she began excitedly. "when there are train wrecks a lot of people get killed, and things. a minister always turns up to administer the last something or other--well----" "well?" "well, stupid, don't you see? we wreck a train, a minister comes, we nab him, he marries us, and--there we are! everything's lovely!" he gave her one of those looks with which a man usually greets what a woman calls an inspiration. he did not honor her invention with analysis. he simply put forward an objection to it, and, man-like, chose the most hateful of all objections: "it's a lovely idea, but the wreck would delay us for hours and hours, and i'd miss my transport----" "harry mallory, if you mention that odious transport to me again, i know i'll have hydrophobia. i'm going home." "but, darling," he pleaded, "you can't desert me now, and leave me to go on alone?" she had her answer glib: "if you really loved me, you'd----" "oh, i know," he cut in. "you've said that before. but i'd be court-martialled. i'd lose my career." "what's a career to a man who truly loves?" "it's just as much as it is to anybody else--and more." she could hardly controvert this gracefully, so she sank back with grim resignation. "well, i've proposed my plan, and you don't like it. now, suppose you propose something." the silence was oppressive. they sat like stoughton bottles. there the conductor found them some time later. he gave them a careless look, selected a chair at the end of the car, and began to sort his tickets, spreading them out on another chair, making notes with the pencil he took from atop his ear, and shoved back from time to time. ages seemed to pass, and mallory had not even a suggestion. by this time marjorie's temper had evaporated, and when he said: "if we could only stop at some town for half an hour," she said: "maybe the conductor would hold the train for us." "i hardly think he would." "he looks like an awfully nice man. you ask him." "oh, what's the use?" marjorie was getting tired of depending on this charming young man with the very bad luck. she decided to assume command herself. she took recourse naturally to the original feminine methods: "i'll take care of him," she said, with resolution. "a woman can get a man to do almost anything if she flirts a little with him." "marjorie!" "now, don't you mind anything i do. remember, it's all for love of you--even if i have to kiss him." "marjorie, i won't permit----" "you have no right to boss me--yet. you subside." she gave him the merest touch, but he fell backward into a chair, utterly aghast at the shameless siren into which desperation had altered the timid little thing he thought he had chosen to love. he was being rapidly initiated into the complex and versatile and fearfully wonderful thing a woman really is, and he was saying to himself, "what have i married?" forgetting, for the moment, that he had not married her yet, and that therein lay the whole trouble. chapter xxvi delilah and the conductor like the best of women and the worst of men, marjorie was perfectly willing to do evil, that good might come of it. she advanced on the innocent conductor, as the lady from sorek must have sidled up to samson, coquetting with one arch hand and snipping the shears with the other. the stupefied mallory saw marjorie in a startling imitation of herself at her sweetest; only now it was brazen mimicry, yet how like! she went forward as the shyest young thing in the world, pursed her lips into an ecstatic simper, and began on the unsuspecting official: "isn't the country perfectly----" "yes, but i'm getting used to it," the conductor growled, without looking up. his curt indifference jolted marjorie a trifle, but she rallied her forces, and came back with: "how long do we stop at ogden?" "five minutes," very bluntly. marjorie poured maple syrup on her tone, as she purred: "this train of yours is an awfully fast train, isn't it?" "sort of," said the conductor, with just a trace of thaw. what followed made him hold his breath, for the outrageous little hussy was actually saying: "the company must have a great deal of confidence in you to entrust the lives and welfare of so many people to your presence of mind and courage." "well, of course, i can't say as to that----" even mallory could see that the man's reserve was melting fast as marjorie went on with relentless treacle: "talk about soldiers and firemen and life-savers! i think it takes a braver man than any of those to be a conductor--really." "well, it is a kind of a responsible job." the conductor swelled his chest a little at that, and marjorie felt that he was already hers. she hammered the weak spot in his armor: "responsible! i should say it is. mr. mallory is a soldier, but soldiers are such ferocious, destructive people, while conductors save lives, and--if i were only a man i think it would be my greatest ambition to be a conductor--especially on an overland express." the conductor told the truth, when he confessed: "well, i never heard it put just that way." then he spoke with a little more pride, hoping to increase the impression he felt he was making: "the main thing, of course, is to get my train through on time!" this was a facer. he was going to get his train through on time just to oblige marjorie. she stammered: "i don't suppose the train, by any accident, would be delayed in leaving ogden?" "not if i can help it," the hero averred, to reassure her. "i wish it would," marjorie murmured. the conductor looked at her in surprise: "why, what's it to you?" she turned her eyes on him at full candle power, and smiled: "oh, i just wanted to do a little shopping there." "shopping! while the train waits! excuse me!" "you see," marjorie fluttered, "by a sad mistake, my baggage isn't on the train. and i haven't any--any--i really need to buy some--some things very badly. it's awfully embarrassing to be without them." "i can imagine," the conductor mumbled. "why don't you and your husband drop off and take the next train?" "my husb--mr. mallory has to be in san francisco by to-morrow night. he just has to!" "so have i." "but to oblige me? to save me from distress--don't you think you could?" like a sweet little child she twisted one of the brass buttons on his coat sleeve, and wheedled: "don't you think you might hold the train just a little tiny half hour?" he was sorry, but he didn't see how he could. then she took his breath away again by asking, out of a clear sky: "are you married?" he was as awkward as if she had proposed to him, she answered for him: "oh, but of course you are. the women wouldn't let a big, handsome, noble brave giant like you escape long." he mopped his brow in agony as she went on: "i'm sure you're a very chivalrous man. i'm sure you would give your life to rescue a maiden in distress. well, here's your chance. won't you please hold the train?" she actually had her cheek almost against his shoulder, though she had to poise atiptoe to reach him. mallory's dismay was changing to a boiling rage, and the conductor was a pitiable combination of saint anthony and tantalus. "i--i'd love to oblige you," he mumbled, "but it would be as much as my job's worth." "how much is that?" marjorie asked, and added reassuringly, "if you lost your job i'm sure my father would get you a better one." "maybe," said the conductor, "but--i got this one." then his rolling eyes caught sight of the supposed husband gesticulating wildly and evidently clearing for action. he warned marjorie: "say, your husband is motioning at you." "don't mind him," marjorie urged, "just listen to me. i implore you. i----" seeing that he was still resisting, she played her last card, and, crying, "oh, you can't resist my prayers so cruelly," she threw her arms around his neck, sobbing, "do you want to break my heart?" mallory rushed into the scene and the conductor, tearing marjorie's arms loose, retreated, gasping, "no! and i don't want your husband to break my head." mallory dragged marjorie away, but she shook her little fist at the conductor, crying: "do you refuse? do you dare refuse?" "i've got to," the conductor abjectly insisted. marjorie blazed with fury and the siren became a scylla. "then i'll see that my father gets you discharged. if you dare to speak to me again, i'll order my husband to throw you off this train. to think of being refused a simple little favor by a mere conductor! of a stupid old emigrant train!! of all things!!!" then she hurled herself into a chair and pounded her heels on the floor in a tantrum that paralyzed mallory. even the conductor tapped him on the shoulder and said: "you have my sympathy." chapter xxvii the dog-on dog again as the conductor left the mallorys to their own devices, it rushed over him anew what sacrilege had been attempted--a fool bride had asked him to stop the trans-american of all trains!--to go shopping of all things! he stormed into the smoking room to open the safety valve of his wrath, and found the porter just coming out of the buffet cell with a tray, two hollow-stemmed glasses and a bottle swaddled in a napkin. "say, ellsworth, what in ---- do you suppose that female back there wants?--wants me to hold the trans-american while----" but the porter was in a flurry himself. he was about to serve champagne, and he cut the conductor short: "'scuse me, boss, but they's a lovin' couple in the stateroom forward that is in a powerful hurry for this. i can't talk to you now. i'll see you later." and he swaggered off, leaving the door of the buffet open. the conductor paused to close it, glanced in, started, stared, glared, roared: "what's this! well, i'll be--a dog smuggled in here! i'll break that coon's head. come out of there, you miserable or'nary hound." he seized the incredulous snoozleums by the scruff of his neck, growling, "it's you for the baggage car ahead," and dashed out with his prey, just as mallory, now getting new bearings on marjorie's character, spoke across the rampart of his napoleonically folded arms: "well, you're a nice one!--making violent love to a conductor before my very eyes. a minute more and i would have----" she silenced him with a snap: "don't you speak to me! i hate you! i hate all men. the more i know men the more i like----" this reminded her, and she asked anxiously: "where is snoozleums?" mallory, impatient at the shift of subject, snapped back: "oh, i left him in the buffet with the waiter. what i want to know is how you dare to----" "was it a colored waiter?" "of course. but i'm not speaking of----" "but suppose he should bite him?" "oh, you can't hurt those nigger waiters. i started to say----" "but i can't have snoozleums biting colored people. it might not agree with him. get him at once." mallory trembled with suppressed rage like an overloaded boiler, but he gave up and growled: "oh, lord, all right. i'll get him when i've finished----" "go get him this minute. and bring the poor darling back to his mother." "his mother! ye gods!" cried mallory, wildly. he turned away and dashed into the men's room with a furious: "where's that damned dog?" he met the porter just returning. the porter smiled: "he's right in heah, sir," and opened the buffet door. his eyes popped and his jaw sagged: "why, i lef' him here just a minute ago." "you left the window open, too," mallory observed. "well, i guess he's gone." the porter was panic stricken: "oh, i'm turrible sorry, boss, i wouldn't have lost dat dog for a fortune. if you was to hit me with a axe i wouldn't mind." to his utter befuddlement, mallory grinned and winked at him, and murmured: "oh, that's all right. don't worry." and actually laid half a dollar in his palm. leaving the black lids batting over the starting eyes, mallory pulled his smile into a long face and went back to marjorie like an undertaker: "my love, prepare yourself for bad news." marjorie looked up, startled and apprehensive: "snoozleums is ill. he did bite the darkey." "worse than that--he--he--fell out of the window." "when!" she shrieked, "in heaven's name--when?" "he was there just a minute ago, the waiter says." marjorie went into instant hysterics, wringing her hands and sobbing: "oh, my darling, my poor child--stop the train at once!" she began to pound mallory's shoulders and shake him frantically. he had never seen her this way either. he was getting his education in advance. he tried to calm her with inexpert words: "how can i stop the train? now, dearie, he was a nice dog, but after all, he was only a dog." she rounded on him like a panther: "only a dog! he was worth a dozen men like you. you find the conductor at once, command him to stop this train--and back up! i don't care if he has to go back ten miles. run, tell him at once. now, you run!" mallory stared at her as if she had gone mad, but he set out to run somewhere, anywhere. marjorie paced up and down distractedly, tearing her hair and moaning, "snoozleums, snoozleums! my child. my poor child!" at length her wildly roving eyes noted the bell rope. she stared, pondered, nodded her head, clutched at it, could not reach it, jumped for it several times in vain, then seized a chair, swung it into place, stood up in it, gripped the rope, and came down on it with all her weight, dropping to the floor and jumping up and down in a frenzied dance. in the distance the engine could be heard faintly whistling, whistling for every pull. the engineer, far ahead, could not imagine what unheard-of crisis could bring about such mad signals. the fireman yelled: "i bet that crazy conductor is attacked with an epilettic fit." but there was no disputing the command. the engine was reversed, the air brakes set, the sand run out and every effort made to pull the iron horse, as it were, back on its haunches. the grinding, squealing, jolting, shook the train like an earthquake. the shrieking of the whistle froze the blood like a woman's cry of "murder!" in the night. the women among the passengers echoed the screams. the men turned pale and braced themselves for the shock of collision. some of them were mumbling prayers. dr. temple and jimmie wellington, with one idea in their dissimilar souls, dashed from the smoking room to go to their wives. ashton and wedgewood, with no one to care for but themselves, seized windows and tried to fight them open. at last they budged a sash and knelt down to thrust their heads out. "i don't see a beastly thing ahead," said wedgewood, "except the heads of other fools." "we're slowing down though," said ashton, "she stops! we're safe. thank god!" and he collapsed into a chair. wedgewood collapsed into another, gasping: "whatevah are we safe from, i wondah?" the train-crew and various passengers descended and ran alongside the train asking questions. panic gave way to mystery. even dr. temple came back into the smoking room to finish a precious cigar he had been at work on. he was followed by little jimmie, who had not quite reached his wife when the stopping of the train put an end to his excuse for chivalry. he was regretfully mumbling: "it would have been such a good shansh to shave my life's wife--i mean my--i don't know what i mean." he sank into a chair and ordered a drink; then suddenly remembered his vow, and with great heroism, rescinded the order. mallory, finding that the train was checked just before he reached the conductor, saw that official's bewildered wrath at the stoppage and had a fearsome intuition that marjorie had somehow done the deed. he hurried back to the observation room, where he found her charging up and down, still distraught. he paused at a safe distance and said: "the train has stopped, my dear. somebody rang the bell." "i guess somebody did!" marjorie answered, with a proud toss of the head. "where's the conductor?" "he's looking for the fellow that pulled the rope." "you go tell him to back up--and slowly, too." "no, thank you!" said mallory. he was a brave young man, but he was not bearding the conductors of stopped expresses. already the conductor's voice was heard in the smoking room, where he appeared with the rush and roar of a bashan bull. "well!" he bellowed, "which one of you guys pulled that rope?" "it was nobody here, sir," dr. temple meekly explained. the conductor transfixed him with a baleful glare: "i wouldn't believe a gambler on oath. i bet you did it." "i assure you, sir," wedgewood interposed, "he didn't touch it. i was heah." the conductor waved him aside and charged into the observation room, followed by all the passengers in an awe struck rabble. here, too, the conductor thundered: "who pulled that rope? speak up somebody." mallory was about to sacrifice himself to save marjorie, but she met the conductor's black rage with the withering contempt of a young queen: "i pulled the old rope. whom did you suppose?" the conductor almost dropped with apoplexy at finding himself with nobody to vent his immense rage on, but this pink and white slip. "you!" he gulped, "well, what in----say, in the name of--why, don't you know it's a penitentiary offense to stop a train this way?" marjorie tossed her head a little higher, grew a little calmer: "what do i care? i want you to back up." the conductor was reduced to a wet rag, a feeble echo: "back up--the train up?" "yes, back the train up," marjorie answered, resolutely, "and go slowly till i tell you to stop." the conductor stared at her a moment, then whirled on mallory: "say, what in hell's the matter with your wife?" mallory was saved from the problem of answering by marjorie's abrupt change from a young tsarina rebuking a serf, to a terrified mother. she flung out imploring palms and with a gush of tears pleaded: "won't you please back up? my darling child fell off the train." the conductor's rage fell away in an instant. "your child fell off the train!" he gasped. "good lord! how old was he?" with one hand he was groping for the bell cord to give the signal, with the other he opened the door to look back along the track. "he was two years old," marjorie sobbed. "oh, that's too bad!" the conductor groaned. "what did he look like?" "he had a pink ribbon round his neck." "a pink ribbon--oh, the poor little fellow! the poor little fellow!" "and a long curly tail." the conductor swung round with a yell: "a curly tail!--your son?" "my dog!" marjorie roared back at him. the conductor's voice cracked weakly as he shrieked: "your dog! you stopped this train for a fool dog?" "he wasn't a fool dog," marjorie retorted, facing him down, "he knows more than you do." the conductor threw up his hands: "well, don't you women beat----" he studied marjorie as if she were some curious freak of nature. suddenly an idea struck into his daze: "say, what kind of a dog was it?--a measly little cheese-hound?" "he was a noble, beautiful soul with wonderful eyes and adorable ears." the conductor was growing weaker and weaker: "well, don't worry. i got him. he's in the baggage car." marjorie stared at him unbelievingly. the news seemed too gloriously beautiful to be true. "he isn't dead--snoozleums is not dead!" she cried, "he lives! he lives! you have saved him." and once more she flung herself upon the conductor. he tried to bat her off like a gnat, and mallory came to his rescue by dragging her away and shoving her into a chair. but she saw only the noble conductor: "oh, you dear, good, kind angel. get him at once." "he stays in the baggage car," the conductor answered, firmly and as he supposed, finally. "but snoozleums doesn't like baggage cars," marjorie smiled. "he won't ride in one." "he'll ride in this one or i'll wring his neck." "you fiend in human flesh!" marjorie shrank away from him in horror, and he found courage to seize the bell rope and yank it viciously with a sardonic: "please, may i start this train?" the whistle tooted faintly. the bell began to hammer, the train to creak and writhe and click. the conductor pulled his cap down hard and started forward. marjorie seized his sleeve: "oh, i implore you, don't consign that poor sweet child to the horrid baggage car. if you have a human heart in your breast, hear my prayer." the conductor surrendered unconditionally: "oh, lord, all right, all right. i'll lose my job, but if you'll keep quiet, i'll bring him to you." and he slunk out meekly, followed by the passengers, who were shaking their heads in wonderment at this most amazing feat of this most amazing bride. when they were alone once more, marjorie as radiant as april after a storm, turned her sunshiny smile on mallory: "isn't it glorious to have our little snoozleums alive and well?" but mallory was feeling like a march day. he answered with a sleety chill: "you care more for the dog than you do for me." "why shouldn't i?" marjorie answered with wide eyes, "snoozleums never would have brought me on a wild goose elopement like this. heaven knows he didn't want to come." mallory repeated the indictment: "you love a dog better than you love your husband." "my what?" marjorie laughed, then she spoke with lofty condescension: "harry mallory, if you're going to be jealous of that dog, i'll never marry you the longest day i live." "so you'll let a dog come between us?" he demanded. "i wouldn't give up snoozleums for a hundred husbands," she retorted. "i'm glad to know it in time," mallory said. "you'd better give me back that wedding ring." marjorie's heart stopped at this, but her pride was in arms. she drew herself up, slid the ring from her finger, and held it out as if she scorned it: "with pleasure. good afternoon, mr. mallory." mallory took it as if it were the merest trifle, bowed and murmured: "good afternoon, miss newton." he stalked out and she turned her back on him. a casual witness would have said that they were too indifferent to each other even to feel anger. as a matter of romantic fact, each was on fire with love, and aching madly with regret. each longed for strength to whirl round with outflung arms of reconciliation, and neither could be so brave. and so they parted, each harking back fiercely for one word of recall from the other. but neither spoke, and marjorie sat staring at nothing through raining eyes, while mallory strode into the men's room as melancholy as hamlet with yorick's skull in his hands. it was their first great quarrel, and they were convinced that the world might as well come to an end. chapter xxviii the woman-hater's relapse the observation room was as lonely as a deserted battle-field and marjorie as doleful as a wounded soldier left behind, and perishing of thirst, when the conductor came back with snoozleums in his arms. he regarded with contemptuous awe the petty cause of so great an event as the stopping of the trans-american. he expected to see marjorie receive the returned prodigal with wild rapture, but she didn't even smile when he said: "here's your powder-puff." she just took snoozleums on her lap, and, looking up with wet eyes and a sad smile, murmured: "thank you very much. you're the nicest conductor i ever met. if you ever want another position, i'll see that my father gets you one." it was like offering the kaiser a new job, but the conductor swallowed the insult and sought to repay it with irony. "thanks. and if you ever want to run this road for a couple of weeks, just let me know." marjorie nodded appreciatively and said: "i will. you're very kind." and that completed the rout of that conductor. he retired in disorder, leaving marjorie to fondle snoozleums with a neglectful indifference that would have greatly flattered mallory, if he could have seen through the partition that divided them. but he was witnessing with the cynical superiority of an aged and disillusioned man the, to him, childish behavior of ira lathrop, an eleventh-hour orlando. for just as mallory moped into the smoking-room at one door, ira lathrop swept in at the other, his face rubicund with embarrassment and ecstasy. he had donned an old frock coat with creases like ruts from long exile in his trunk. but he was feeling like an heir apparent; and he startled everybody by his jovial hail: "well, boys--er--gentlemen--the drinks are on me. waiter, take the orders." little jimmie woke with a start, rose hastily to his feet and saluted, saying: "present! who said take the orders?" "i did," said lathrop, "i'm giving a party. waiter, take the orders." "sarsaparilla," said dr. temple, but they howled him down and ordered other things. the porter shook his head sadly: "nothin' but sof' drinks in utah, gemmen." a groan went up from the club-members, and lathrop groaned loudest of all: "well, we've got to drink something. take the orders. we'll all have sarsaparilla." little jimmie wellington came to the rescue. "don't do anything desperate, gentlemen," he said, with a look of divine philanthropy. "the bar's closed, but little jimmie wellington is here with the life preserver." from his hip-pocket he produced a silver flask that looked to be big enough to carry a regiment through the alps. it was greeted with a salvo, and lathrop said to jimmie: "i apologize for everything i have said--and thought--about you." he turned to the porter: "there ain't any law against giving this away, is there?" the porter grinned: "not if you-all bribe the exercise-inspector." and he held out a glass for the bribe, murmuring, "don't git tired," as it was poured. he set it inside his sanctum and then bustled round with ice-filled glasses and a siphon. when little jimmie offered of the flask to dr. temple, the clergyman put out his hand with a politely horrified: "no, thank you." lathrop frightened him with a sudden comment: "look at that gesture! doc, i'd almost swear you were a parson." mallory whirled on him with the eyes of a hawk about to pounce, and "the very idea!" was the best disclaimer dr. temple could manage, suddenly finding himself suspected. ashton put in with, "the only way to disprove it, doc, is to join us." the poor old clergyman, too deeply involved in his deception to brave confession now, decided to do and dare all. he stammered, "er--ah--certainly," and held out his hand for his share of the poison. little jimmie winked at the others and almost filled the glass. the innocent doctor bowed his thanks. when the porter reached him and prepared to fill the remainder of the glass from the siphon, the parson waved him aside with a misguided caution: "no, thanks. i'll not mix them." mallory turned away with a sigh: "he takes his straight. he's no parson." then they forgot the doctor in curiosity as to lathrop's sudden spasm of generosity--with wellington's liquor. wedgewood voiced the general curiosity when he said: "what's the old woman-hater up to now?" "woman-hater?" laughed ira. "it's the old story. i'm going to follow mallory's example--marriage." "i hope you succeed," said mallory. "wherever did you pick up the bride?" said wedgewood, mellowing with the long glass in his hand. "brides are easy," said mallory, with surprising cynicism. "where do you get the parson?" "hang the parson," wedgewood repeated, "who's the gel?" "i'll bet i know who she is," ashton interposed; "it's that nectarine of a damsel who got on at green river." "not the same!" lathrop roared. "i found my bride blooming here all the while. girl i used to spark back in brattleboro, vermont. i've been vowing for years that i'd live and die an old maid. i've kept my head out of the noose all this time--till i struck this train and met up with anne. we got to talking over old times--waking up old sentiments. she got on my nerves. i got on hers. finally i said, 'aw, hell, let's get married. save price of one stateroom to china anyway.' she says, 'damned if i don't!'--or words to that effect." mallory broke in with feverish interest: "but you said you were going to get married on this train." "nothing easier. here's how!" and he raised his glass, but mallory hauled it down to demand: "how? that's what i want to know. how are you going to get married on this parsonless express. have you got a little minister in your suitcase?" ira beamed with added pride as he explained: "well, you see, when i used to court anne i had a rival--charlie selby his name was. i thought he cut me out, but he became a clergyman in utah--oh, charlie! i telegraphed him that i was passing through ogden, and would he come down to the train and marry me to a charming lady. he always wanted to marry anne. i thought it would be a durned good joke to let him marry her--to me." "d-did he accept?" mallory asked, excitedly, "is he coming?" "he is--he did--here's his telegram," said ira. "he brings the license and the ring." he passed it over, and as mallory read it a look of hope spread across his face. but ira was saying: "we're going to have the wedding obsequies right here in this car. you're all invited. will you come?" there was a general yell of acceptance and ashton began to sing, "there was i waiting at the church." then he led a sort of indian war-dance round the next victim of the matrimonial stake. at the end of the hullaballoo all the men charged their glasses, and drained them with an uproarious "how!" poor doctor temple had taken luxurious delight in the success of his disguise and in the prospect of watching some other clergyman working while he rested. he joined the dance as gaily, if not as gracefully, as any of the rest, and in a final triumph of recklessness, he tossed off a bumper of straight whisky. instantly his "how!" changed to "wow!" and then his throat clamped fast with a terrific spasm that flung the tears from his eyes. he bent and writhed in a silent paroxysm till he was pounded and shaken back to life and water poured down his throat to reopen a passage. the others thought he had merely choked and made no comment other than sympathy. they could not have dreamed that the old "physician" was as ignorant of the taste as of the vigor of pure spirits. after a riot of handshaking and good wishes, ira was permitted to escape with his life. mallory followed him to the vestibule, where he caught him by the sleeve with an anxious: "excuse me." "well, my boy----" "your minister--after you get through with him--may i use him?" "may you--what? why do you want a minister?" "to get married." "again? good lord, are you a mormon?" "me a mormon!" "then what do you want with an extra wife? it's against the law--even in utah." "you don't understand." "my boy, one of us is disgracefully drunk." "well, i'm not," said mallory, and then after a fierce inner debate, he decided to take lathrop into his confidence. the words came hard after so long a duplicity, but at last they were out: "mr. lathrop, i'm not really married to my wife." "you young scoundrel!" but his fury changed to pity when he heard the history of mallory's ill-fated efforts, and he promised not only to lend mallory his minister at secondhand, but also to keep the whole affair a secret, for mallory explained his intention of having his own ceremony in the baggage-car, or somewhere out of sight of the other passengers. mallory's face was now aglow as the cold embers of hope leaped into sudden blaze. he wrung lathrop's hand, saying: "lord love you, you've saved my life--wife--both." then he turned and ran to marjorie with the good news. he had quite forgotten their epoch-making separation. and she was so glad to see him smiling at her again that she forgot it, too. he came tearing into the observation room and took her by the shoulders, whispering: "oh, marjorie, marjorie, i've got him! i've got him!" "no, i've got him," she said, swinging snoozleums into view. mallory swung him back out of the way: "i don't mean a poodle, i mean a parson. i've got a parson." "no! i can't believe it! where is he?" she began to dance with delight, but she stopped when he explained: "well, i haven't got him yet, but i'm going to get one." "what--again?" she groaned, weary of this old bunco game of hope. "it's a real live one this time," mallory insisted. "mr. lathrop has ordered a minister and he's going to lend him to me as soon as he's through with him, and we'll be married on this train." marjorie was overwhelmed, but she felt it becoming in her to be a trifle coy. so she pouted: "but you won't want me for a bride now. i'm such a fright." he took the bait, hook and all: "i never saw you looking so adorable." "honestly? oh, but it will be glorious to be mrs. first lieutenant mallory." "glorious!" "i must telegraph home--and sign my new name. won't mamma be pleased?" "won't she?" said mallory, with just a trace of dubiety. then marjorie grew serious with a new idea: "i wonder if mamma and papa have missed me yet?" mallory laughed: "after three days' disappearance, i shouldn't be surprised." "perhaps they are worrying about me." "i shouldn't be surprised." "the poor dears! i'd better write them a telegram at once." "an excellent idea." she ran to the desk, found blank forms and then paused with knitted brow: "it will be very hard to say all i've got to say in ten words." "hang the expense," mallory sniffed magnificently, "i'm paying your bills now." but marjorie tried to look very matronly: "send a night letter in the day time! no, indeed, we must begin to economize." mallory was touched by this new revelation of her future housewifely thrift. he hugged her hard and reminded her that she could send a day-letter by wire. "an excellent idea," she said. "now, don't bother me. you go on and read your paper, read about mattie. i'll never be jealous of her--him--of anybody--again." "you shall never have cause for jealousy, my own." but fate was not finished with the initiation of the unfortunate pair, and already new trouble was strolling in their direction. chapter xxix jealousy comes aboard there was an air of domestic peace in the observation room, where mallory and marjorie had been left to themselves for some time. but the peace was like the ominous hush that precedes a tempest. mallory was so happy with everything coming his way, that he was even making up with snoozleums, stroking the tatted coat with one hand and holding up his newspaper with the other. he did not know all that was coming his way. the blissful silence was broken first by marjorie: "how do you spell utah?--with a y?" "utah begins with you," he said--and rather liked his wit, listened for some recognition, and rose to get it, but she waved him away. "don't bother me, honey. can't you see i'm busy?" he kissed her hair and sauntered back, dividing his attention between snoozleums and the ten-inning game. and now there was a small commotion in the smoking room. through the glass along the corridor the men caught sight of the girl who had got on at green river. ashton saw her first and she saw him. "there she goes," ashton hissed to the others, "look quick! there's the nectarine." "my word! she's a little bit of all right, isn't she?" even dr. temple stared at her with approval: "dear little thing, isn't she?" the girl, very consciously unconscious of the admiration, moved demurely along, with eyes downcast, but at such an angle that she could take in the sensation she was creating; she went along picking up stares as if they were bouquets. her demeanor was a remarkable compromise between outrageous flirtation and perfect respectability. but she was looking back so intently that when she moved into the observation room she walked right into the newspaper mallory was holding out before him. both said: "i beg your pardon." when mallory lowered the paper, both stared till their eyes almost popped. her amazement was one of immediate rapture. he looked as if he would have been much obliged for a volcanic crater to sink into. "harry!" she gasped, and let fall her handbag. "kitty!" he gasped, and let fall his newspaper. both bent, he handed her the newspaper and tossed the handbag into a chair; saw his mistake, withdrew the newspaper and proffered her snoozleums. marjorie stopped writing, pen poised in air, as if she had suddenly been petrified. the newcomer was the first to speak. she fairly gushed: "harry mallory--of all people." "kitty! kathleen! miss llewellyn!" "just to think of meeting you again." "just to think of it." "and on this train of all places." "on this train of all places!" "oh, harry, harry!" "oh, kitty, kitty, kitty!" "you dear fellow, it's so long since i saw you last." "so long." "it was at that last hop at west point, remember?--why, it seems only yesterday, and how well you are looking. you are well, aren't you?" "not very." he was mopping his brow in anguish, and yet the room seemed strangely cold. "of course you look much better in your uniform. you aren't wearing your uniform, are you?" "no, this is not my uniform." "you haven't left the army, have you?" "i don't know yet." "don't ever do that. you are just beautiful in brass buttons." "thanks." "harry!" "what's the matter now?" "this tie, this green tie, isn't this the one i knitted you?" "i am sure i don't know, i borrowed it from the conductor." "don't you remember? i did knit you one." "did you? i believe you did! i think i wore it out." "oh, you fickle boy. but see what i have. what's this?" he stared through the glassy eyes of complete helplessness. "it looks like a bracelet." "don't tell me you don't remember this!--the little bangle bracelet you gave me." "d-did i give you a baygled branglet?" "of course you did. and the inscription. don't you remember it?" she held her wrist in front of his aching eyes and he perused as if it were his own epitaph, what she read aloud for him. "_from harry to kitty, the only girl i ever loved._" "good night!" he sighed to himself, and began to mop his brow with snoozleums. "you put it on my arm," said kathleen, with a moonlight sigh, "and i've always worn it." "always?" "always! no matter whom i was engaged to." the desperate wretch, who had not dared even to glance in marjorie's direction, somehow thought he saw a straw of self-defense. "you were engaged to three or four others when i was at west point." "i may have been engaged to the others," said kathleen, moon-eyeing him, "but i always liked you best, clifford--er, tommy--i mean harry." "you got me at last." kathleen fenced back at this: "well, i've no doubt you have had a dozen affairs since." "oh, no! my heart has only known one real love." he threw this over her head at marjorie, but kathleen seized it, to his greater confusion: "oh, harry, how sweet of you to say it. it makes me feel positively faint," and she swooned his way, but he shoved a chair forward and let her collapse into that. thinking and hoping that she was unconscious, he made ready to escape, but she caught him by the coat, and moaned: "where am i?" and he growled back: "in the observation car!" kathleen's life and enthusiasm returned without delay: "fancy meeting you again! i could just scream." "so could i." "you must come up in our car and see mamma." "is ma-mamma with you?" mallory stammered, on the verge of imbecility. "oh, yes, indeed, we're going around the world." "don't let me detain you." "papa is going round the world also." "is papa on this train, too?" at last something seemed to embarrass her a trifle: "no, papa went on ahead. mamma hopes to overtake him. but papa is a very good traveler." then she changed the subject. "do come and meet mamma. it would cheer her up so. she is so fond of you. only this morning she was saying, 'of all the boys you were ever engaged to, kathleen, the one i like most of all was edgar--i mean clarence--er--harry mallory." "awfully kind of her." "you must come and see her--she's some stouter now!" "oh, is she? well, that's good." mallory was too angry to be sane, and too helpless to take advantage of his anger. he wondered how he could ever have cared for this molasses and mucilage girl. he remembered now that she had always had these same cloying ways. she had always pawed him and, like everybody but the pawers, he hated pawing. it would have been bad enough at any time to have kathleen hanging on his coat, straightening his tie, leaning close, smiling up in his eyes, losing him his balance, recapturing him every time he edged away. but with marjorie as the grim witness it was maddening. he loathed and abominated kathleen llewellyn, and if she had only been a man, he could cheerfully have beaten her to a pulp and chucked her out of the window. but because she was a helpless little baggage, he had to be as polite as he could while she sat and tore his plans to pieces, embittered marjorie's heart against him, and either ended all hopes of their marriage, or furnished an everlasting rancor to be recalled in every quarrel to their dying day. oh, etiquette, what injustices are endured in thy name! so there he sat, sweating his soul's blood, and able only to spar for time and wonder when the gong would ring. and now she was off on a new tack: "and where are you bound for, harry, dear?" "the philippines," he said, and for the first time there was something beautiful in their remoteness. "perhaps we shall cross the pacific on the same boat." the first sincere smile he had experienced came to him: "i go on an army transport, fortu--unfortunately." "oh, i just love soldiers. couldn't mamma and i go on the transport? mamma is very fond of soldiers, too." "i'm afraid it couldn't be arranged." "too bad, but perhaps we can stop off and pay you a visit. i just love army posts. so does mamma." "oh, do!" "what will be your address?" "just the philippines--just the philippines." "but aren't there quite a few of them?" "only about two thousand." "which one will you be on?" "i'll be on the third from the left," said mallory, who neither knew nor cared what he was saying. marjorie had endured all that she could stand. she rose in a tightly leashed fury. "i'm afraid i'm in the way." kathleen turned in surprise. she had not noticed that anyone was near. mallory went out of his head completely. "oh, don't go--for heaven's sake don't go," he appealed to marjorie. "a friend of yours?" said kathleen, bristling. "no, not a friend," in a chaotic tangle, "mrs.--miss--miss--er--er--er----" kathleen smiled: "delighted to meet you, miss ererer." "the pleasure is all mine," marjorie said, with an acid smile. "have you known harry long?" said kathleen, jealously, "or are you just acquaintances on the train?" "we're just acquaintances on the train!" "i used to know harry very well--very well indeed." "so i should judge. you won't mind if i leave you to talk over old times together?" "how very sweet of you." "oh, don't mention it." "but, marjorie," mallory cried, as she turned away. kathleen started at the ardor of his tone, and gasped: "marjorie! then he--you----" "not at all--not in the least," said marjorie. at this crisis the room was suddenly inundated with people. mrs. whitcomb, mrs. wellington, mrs. temple and mrs. fosdick, all trying to look like bridesmaids, danced in, shouting: "here they come! make way for the bride and groom!" chapter xxx a wedding on wheels the commotion of the matrimony-mad women brought the men trooping in from the smoking room and there was much circumstance of decorating the scene with white satin ribbons, a trifle crumpled and dim of luster. mrs. whitcomb waved them at mallory with a laugh: "recognize these?" he nodded dismally. his own funeral baked meats were coldly furnishing forth a wedding breakfast for ira lathrop. mrs. wellington was moving about distributing kazoos and mrs. temple had an armload of old shoes, some of which had thumped mallory on an occasion which seemed so ancient as to be almost prehistoric. fosdick was howling to the porter to get some rice, quick! "how many portions does you approximate?" "all you've got." "boiled or fried?" "any old way." the porter ran forward to the dining-car for the ammunition. mrs. temple whispered to her husband: "too bad you're not officiating, walter." but he cautioned silence: "hush! i'm on my vacation." the train was already coming into ogden. noises were multiplying and from the increase of passing objects, the speed seemed to be taking on a spurt. the bell was clamoring like a wedding chime in a steeple. mrs. wellington was on a chair fastening a ribbon round one of the lamps, and mrs. whitcomb was on another chair braiding the bell rope with withered orange branches, when ashton, with kazoo all ready, called out: "what tune shall we play?" "i prefer the mendelssohn wedding march," said mrs. whitcomb, but mrs. wellington glared across at her. "i've always used the lohengrin." "we'll play 'em both," said dr. temple, to make peace. mrs. fosdick murmured to her spouse: "the old justice of the peace didn't give us any music at all," and received in reward one of his most luscious-eyed looks, and a whisper: "but he gave us each other." "now and then," she pouted. "but where are the bride and groom?" "here they come--all ready," cried ashton, and he beat time while some of the guests kazooed at mendelssohn's and some wagner's bridal melodies, and others just made a noise. ira lathrop and anne gattle, looking very sheepish, crowded through the narrow corridor and stood shamefacedly blushing like two school children about to sing a duet. the train jolted to a dead stop. the conductor called into the car: "ogden! all out for ogden!" and everybody stood watching and waiting. ira, seeing mallory, edged close and whispered: "stand by to catch the minister on the rebound." but mallory turned away. what use had he now for ministers? his plans were shattered ruins. the porter came flying in with two large bowls of rice, and shouting, "here comes the 'possum--er posson." seeing marjorie, he said: "shall i perambulate mista snoozleums?" she handed the porter her only friend and he hurried out, as a lean and professionally sad ascetic hurried in. he did not recognize his boyish enemy in the gray-haired, red-faced giant that greeted him, but he knew that voice and its gloating irony: "hello, charlie." he had always found that when ira grinned and was cordial, some trouble was in store for him. he wondered what rock ira held behind his back now, but he forced an uneasy cordiality: "and is this you, ira? well, well! it is yeahs since last we met. and you're just getting married. is this the first time, ira?" "first offense, charlie." the levity shocked selby, but a greater shock was in store, for when he inquired: "and who is the--er--happy--bride?" the triumphant lathrop snickered: "i believe you used to know her. anne gattle." this was the rock behind ira's back, and selby took it with a wince: "not--my old----" "the same. anne, you remember, charlie." "oh, yes," said anne, "how do you do, charlie?" and she put out a shy hand, which he took with one still shyer. he was so unsettled that he stammered: "well, well, i had always hoped to marry you, anne, but not just this way." lathrop cut him short with a sharp: "better get busy--before the train starts. and i'll pay you in advance before you set off the fireworks." the flippancy pained the rev. charles, but he was resuscitated by one glance at the bill that ira thrust into his palm. if a man's gratitude for his wife is measured by the size of the fee he hands the enabling parson, ira was madly in love with anne. the rev. charles had a reminiscent suspicion that it was probably a counterfeit, but for once he did ira an injustice. the minister was in such a flutter from losing his boyhood love, and gaining so much money all at once and from performing the marriage on a train, that he made numerous errors in the ceremony, but nobody noticed them, and the spirit, if not the letter of the occasion, was there and the contract was doubtless legal enough. the ritual began with the pleasant murmur of the preacher's voice, and the passengers crowded round in a solemn calm, which was suddenly violated by a loud yelp of laughter from wedgewood, who emitted guffaw after guffaw and bent double and opened out again, like an agitated umbrella. the wedding-guests turned on him visages of horror, and hissed silence at him. ashton seized him, shook him, and muttered: "what the--what's the matter with you?" the englishman shook like a boy having a spasm of giggles at a funeral, and blurted out the explanation: "that story about the bridegroom--i just saw the point!" ashton closed his jaw by brute force and watched over him through the rest of the festivity. chapter xxxi foiled yet again mallory had fled from the scene at the first hum of the minister's words. his fate was like alkali on his palate. for twelve hundred miles he had ransacked the world for a minister. when one dropped on the train like manna through the roof, even this miracle had to be checkmated by a perverse miracle that sent to the train an early infatuation, a silly affair that he himself called puppy-love. and now marjorie would never marry him. he did not blame her. he blamed fate. he was in solitude in the smoking room. the place reeked with drifting tobacco smoke and the malodor of cigar stubs and cigarette ends. his plans were as useless and odious as cigarette ends. he dropped into a chair his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands--napoleon on st. helena. and then, suddenly he heard marjorie's voice. he turned and saw her hesitating in the doorway. he rose to welcome her, but the smile died on his lips at her chilly speech: "may i have a word with you, sir?" "of course. the air's rather thick in here," he apologized. "just wait!" she said, ominously, and stalked in like a young zenobia. he put out an appealing hand: "now, marjorie, listen to reason. of course i know you won't marry me now." "oh, you know that, do you?" she said, with a squared jaw. "but, really, you ought to marry me--not merely because i love you--and you're the only girl i ever----" he stopped short and she almost smiled as she taunted him: "go on--i dare you to say it." he swallowed hard and waived the point: "well, anyway, you ought to marry me--for your own sake." then she took his breath away by answering: "oh, i'm going to marry you, never fear." "you are," he cried, with a rush of returning hope. "oh, i knew you loved me." she pushed his encircling arms aside: "i don't love you, and that's why i'm going to marry you." "but i don't understand." "of course not," she sneered, as if she were a thousand years old, "you're only a man--and a very young man." "you've ceased to love me," he protested, "just because of a little affair i had before i met you?" marjorie answered with world-old wisdom: "a woman can forgive a man anything except what he did before he met her." he stared at her with masculine dismay at feminine logic: "if you can't forgive me, then why do you marry me?" "for revenge!" she cried. "you brought me on this train all this distance to introduce me to a girl you used to spoon with. and i don't like her. she's awful!" "yes, she is awful," mallory assented. "i don't know how i ever----" "oh, you admit it!" "no." "well, i'm going to marry you--now--this minute--with that preacher, then i'm going to get off at reno and divorce you." "divorce me! good lord! on what grounds?" "on the grounds of miss kitty--katty--llewellington--or whatever her name is." mallory was groggy with punishment, and the vain effort to foresee her next blow. "but you can't name a woman that way," he pleaded, "for just being nice to me before i ever met you." "that's the worst kind of unfaithfulness," she reiterated. "you should have known that some day you would meet me. you should have saved your first love for me." "but last love is best," mallory interposed, weakly. "oh, no, it isn't, and if it is, how do i know i'm to be your last love? no, sir, when i've divorced you, you can go back to your first love and go round the world with her till you get dizzy." "but i don't want her for a wife," mallory urged, "i want you." "you'll get me--but not for long. and one other thing, i want you to get that bracelet away from that creature. do you promise?" "how can i get it away?" "take it away! do you promise?" mallory surrendered completely. anything to get marjorie safely into his arms: "i promise anything, if you'll really marry me." "oh, i'll marry you, sir, but not really." and while he stared in helpless awe at the cynic and termagant that jealousy had metamorphosed this timid, clinging creature into, they heard the conductor's voice at the rear door of the car: "hurry up--we've got to start." they heard lathrop's protest: "hold on there, conductor," and selby's plea: "oh, i say, my good man, wait a moment, can't you?" the conductor answered with the gruffness of a despot: "not a minute. i've my orders to make up lost time. all aboard!" while the minister was tying the last loose ends of the matrimonial knot, mallory and marjorie were struggling through the crowd to get at him. just as they were near, they were swept aside by the rush of the bride and groom, for the parson's "i pronounce you man and wife," pronounced as he backed toward the door, was the signal for another wedding riot. once more ira and anne were showered with rice. this time it was their own. ira darted out into the corridor, haling his brand-new wife by the wrist, and the wedding guests pursued them across the vestibule, through the next car, and on, and on. nobody remained to notice what happened to the parson. having performed his function, he was without further interest or use. but to mallory and marjorie he was vitally necessary. mallory caught his hand as it turned the knob of the door and drew him back. marjorie, equally determined, caught his other elbow: "please don't go," mallory urged, "until you've married us." the reverend charles stared at his captors in amazement: "but my dear man, the train's moving." marjorie clung all the tighter and invited him to "come on to the next stop." "but my dear lady," selby gasped, "it's impossible." "you've just got to," mallory insisted. "release me, please." "never!" "how dare you!" the parson shrieked, and with a sudden wriggle writhed out of his coat, leaving it in marjorie's hands. he darted to the door and flung it open, with mallory hot after him. the train was kicking up a cloud of dust and getting its stride. the kidnapped clergyman paused a moment, aghast at the speed with which the ground was being paid out. then he climbed the brass rail and, with a hasty prayer, dropped overboard. mallory lunged at him, and seized him by his reversed collar. but the collar alone remained in his clutch. the parson was almost lost in the dust he created as he struck, bounded and rolled till he came to a stop, with his stars and his prayers to thank for injuries to nothing worse than his dignity and other small clothes. mallory returned to the observation room and flung the collar and bib to the floor in a fury of despair, howling: "he got away! he got away!" chapter xxxii the empty berth the one thing mallory was beginning to learn about marjorie was that she would never take the point of view he expected, and never proceed along the lines of his logic. she had grown furious at him for what he could not help. she had told him that she would marry him out of spite. she had commanded him to pursue and apprehend the flying parson. he failed and returned crestfallen and wondering what new form her rage would take. and, lo and behold, when she saw him so downcast and helpless, she rushed to him with caresses, cuddled his broad shoulders against her breast, and smothered him. it was the sincerity of his dejection and the complete helplessness he displayed that won her woman's heart. mallory gazed at her with almost more wonderment than delight. this was another flashlight on her character. most courtships are conducted under a rose-light in which wooer and wooed wear their best clothes or their best behavior; or in a starlit, moonlit, or gaslit twilight where romance softens angles and wraps everything in velvet shadow. then the two get married and begin to live together in the cold, gray daylight of realism, with undignified necessities and harrowing situations at every step, and disillusion begins its deadly work. this young couple was undergoing all the inconveniences and temper-exposures of marriage without its blessed compensations. they promised to be well acquainted before they were wed. if they still wanted each other after this ordeal, they were pretty well assured that their marriage would not be a failure. mallory rejoiced to see that the hurricane of marjorie's jealousy had only whipped up the surface of her soul. the great depths were still calm and unmoved, and her love for him was in and of the depths. soon after leaving ogden, the train entered upon the great bridge across the great salt lake. the other passengers were staring at the enormous engineering masterpiece and the conductor was pointing out that, in order to save forty miles and the crossing of two mountain chains, the railroad had devoted four years of labor and millions of dollars to stretching a thirty-mile bridge across this inland ocean. but marjorie and mallory never noticed it. they were absorbed in exploring each other's souls, and they had safely bridged the great salt lake which the first big bitter jealousy spreads across every matrimonial route. they were undisturbed in their voyage, for all the other passengers had their noses flattened against the window panes of the other cars--all except one couple, gazing each at each through time-wrinkled eyelids touched with the magic of a tardy honeymoon. for all that anne and ira knew, the great salt lake was a moon-swept lagoon, and the arid mountains of nevada which the train went scaling, were the very hillsides of arcadia. but the other passengers soon came trooping back into the observation room. ira had told them nothing of mallory's confession. in the first place, he was a man who had learned to keep a secret, and in the second place, he had forgotten that such persons as mallory or his marjorie existed. all the world was summed up in the fearsomely happy little spinster who had moved up into his section--the section which had begun its career draped in satin ribbons unwittingly prophetic. the communion of mallory and marjorie under the benison of reconciliation was invaded by the jokes of the other passengers, unconsciously ironic. dr. temple chaffed them amiably: "you two will have to take a back seat now. we've got a new bridal couple to amuse us." and mrs. temple welcomed them with: "you're only old married folks, like us." the mallorys were used to the misunderstanding. but the misplaced witticisms gave them reassurance that their secret was safe yet a little while. at their dinner-table, however, and in the long evening that followed they were haunted by the fact that this was their last night on the train, and no minister to be expected. and now once more the mallorys regained the star rôles in the esteem of the audience, for once more they quarreled at good-night-kissing time. once more they required two sections, while anne gattle's berth was not even made up. it remained empty, like a deserted nest, for its occupant had flown south. chapter xxxiii fresh trouble daily the following morning the daylight creeping into section number one found ira and anne staring at each other. ira was tousled and anne was unkempt, but her blush still gave her cheek at least an indian summer glow. after a violent effort to reach the space between her shoulder blades, she was compelled to appeal to her new master to act as her new maid. "oh, mr. lathrop," she stammered--"ira," she corrected, "won't you please hook me up?" she pleaded. ira beamed with a second childhood boyishness: "i'll do my best, my little ootsum-tootsums, it's the first time i ever tried it." "oh, i'm so glad," anne sighed, "it's the first time i ever was hooked up by a gentleman." he gurgled with joy and, forgetting the poverty of space, tried to reach her lips to kiss her. he almost broke her neck and bumped his head so hard that instead of saying, as he intended, "my darling," he said, "oh, hell!" "ira!" she gasped. but he, with all the proprietorship he had assumed, answered cheerily: "you'll have to get used to it, ducky darling. i could never learn not to swear." he proved the fact again and again by the remarks he addressed to certain refractory hooks. he apologized, but she felt more like apologizing for herself. "oh, ira," she said, "i'm so ashamed to have you see me like this--the first morning." "well, you haven't got anything on me--i'm not shaved." "you don't have to tell me that," she said, rubbing her smarting cheek. then she bumped her head and gasped: "oh--what you said." this made them feel so much at home that she attained the heights of frankness and honesty by reaching in her handbag for a knob of supplementary hair, which she affixed dextrously to what was homegrown. ira, instead of looking shocked, loved her for her honesty, and grinned: "now, that's where you have got something on me. say, we're like a couple of sardines trying to make love in a tin can." "it's cosy though," she said, and then vanished through the curtains and shyly ran the gauntlet of amused glances and over-cordial "good mornings" till she hid her blushes behind the door of the women's room and turned the key. if she had thought of it she would have said, "god bless the man that invented doors--and the other angel that invented locks." the passengers this morning were all a little brisker than usual. it was the last day aboard for everybody and they showed a certain extra animation, like the inmates of an ocean liner when land has been sighted. ashton was shaving when ira swaggered into the men's room. without pausing to note whom he was addressing, ashton sang out: "good morning. did you rest well?" "what!" ira roared. "oh, excuse me!" said ashton, hastily, devoting himself to a gash his safety razor had made in his cheek--even in that cheek of his. ira scrubbed out the basin, filled it and tried to dive into it, slapping the cold water in double handfuls over his glowing face and puffing through it like a porpoise. meanwhile the heavy-eyed fosdick was slinking through the dining-car, regarded with amazement by dr. temple and his wife, who were already up and breakfasting. "what's the matter with the bridal couples on this train, anyway?" said dr. temple. "i can't imagine," said his wife, "we old couples are the only normal ones." "some more coffee, please, mother," he said. "but your nerves," she protested. "it's my vacation," he insisted. mrs. temple stared at him and shook her head: "i wonder what mischief you'll be up to to-day? you've already been smoking, gambling, drinking--have you been swearing, yet?" "not yet," the old clergyman smiled, "i've been saving that up for a good occasion. perhaps it will rise before the day's over." and his wife choked on her tea at the wonderful train-change that had come over the best man in ypsilanti. by this time fosdick had reached the stateroom from which he had been banished again at the nevada state-line. he knocked cautiously. from within came an anxious voice: "who's there?" "whom did you expect?" mrs. fosdick popped her head out like a jill in the box. "oh, it's you, arthur. kiss me good morning." he glanced round stealthily and obeyed instructions: "i guess its safe--my darling." "did you sleep, dovie?" she yawned. "not a wink. they took off the portland car at granger and i had to sleep in one of the chairs in the observation room." mrs. fosdick shook her head at him in mournful sympathy, and asked: "what state are we in now?" "a dreadful state--nevada." "just what are we in nevada?" "i'm a bigamist, and you've never been married at all." "oh, these awful divorce laws!" she moaned, then left the general for the particular: "won't you come in and hook me up?" fosdick looked shocked: "i don't dare compromise you." "will you take breakfast with me--in the dining-car?" she pleaded. "do we dare?" "we might call it luncheon," she suggested. he seized the chance: "all right, i'll go ahead and order, and you stroll in and i'll offer you the seat opposite me." "but can't you hook me up?" he was adamant: "not till we get to california. do you think i want to compromise my own wife? shh! somebody's coming!" and he darted off to the vestibule just as mrs. jimmie wellington issued from number ten with hair askew, eyes only half open, and waist only half shut at the back. she made a quick spurt to the women's room, found it locked, stamped her foot, swore under her breath, and leaned against the wall of the car to wait. about the same time, the man who was still her husband according to the law, rolled out of berth number two. there was an amazing clarity to his vision. he lurched as he made his way to the men's room, but it was plainly the train's swerve and not an inner lurch that twisted the forthright of his progress. he squeezed into the men's room like a whole crowd at once, and sang out, "good morning, all!" with a wonderful heartiness. then he paused over a wash basin, rubbed his hands gleefully and proclaimed, like another chantecler advertising a new day: "well--i'm sober again!" "three cheers for you," said his rival in radiance, bridegroom lathrop. "how does it feel?" demanded ashton, smiling so broadly that he encountered the lather on his brush. while he sputtered wellington was flipping water over his hot head and incidentally over ashton. "i feel," he chortled, "i feel like the first little robin redbreast of the merry springtime. tweet! tweet!" when the excitement over his redemption had somewhat calmed, ashton reopened the old topic of conversation: "well, i see they had another scrap last night." "they--who?" said ira, through his flying toothbrush. "the mallorys. once more he occupied number three and she number seven." "well, well, i can't understand these modern marriages," said little jimmie, with a side glance at ira. ira suddenly remembered the plight of the mallorys and was tempted to defend them, but he saw the young lieutenant himself just entering the washroom. this was more than wellington saw, for he went on talking from behind a towel: "well, if i were a bridegroom and had a bride like that, it would take more than a quarrel to send me to another berth." the others made gestures which he could not see. his enlightenment came when mallory snapped the towel from his hands and glared into his face with all the righteous wrath of a man hearing his domestic affairs publicly discussed. "were you alluding to me, mr. wellington?" he demanded, hotly. little jimmie almost perished with apoplexy: "you, you?" he mumbled. "why, of course not. you're not the only bridegroom on the train." mallory tossed him the towel again: "you meant mr. lathrop then?" "me! not much!" roared the indignant lathrop. mallory returned to wellington with a fiercer: "whom, then?" he was in a dangerous mood, and ashton came to the rescue: "oh, don't mind wellington. he's not sober yet." this inspired suggestion came like a life-buoy to the hard-pressed wellington. he seized it and spoke thickly: "don't mind me--i'm not shober yet." "well, it's a good thing you're not," was mallory's final growl as he began his own toilet. the porter's bell began to ring furiously, with a touch they had already come to recognize as the englishman's. the porter had learned to recognize it, too, and he always took double the necessary time to answer it. he was sauntering down the aisle at his most leisurely gait when wedgewood's rumpled mane shot out from the curtains like a lion's from a jungle, and he bellowed: "pawtah! pawtah!" "still on the train," said the porter. "you may give me my portmanteau." "yassah." he dragged it from the upper berth, and set it inside wedgewood's berth without special care as to its destination. "does you desire anything else, sir?" "yes, your absence," said wedgewood. "the same to you and many of them," the porter muttered to himself, and added to marjorie, who was just starting down the aisle: "i'll suttainly be interested in that man gittin' where he's goin' to git to." noting that she carried snoozleums, he said: "we're comin' into a station right soon." without further discussion she handed him the dog, and he hobbled away. when she reached the women's door, she found mrs. wellington waiting with increasing exasperation: "come, join the line at the box office," she said. "good morning. who's in there?" said marjorie, and mrs. wellington, not noting that mrs. whitcomb had come out of her berth and fallen into line, answered sharply: "i don't know. she's been there forever. i'm sure it's that cat of a mrs. whitcomb." "good morning, mrs. mallory," snapped mrs. whitcomb. mrs. wellington was rather proud that the random shot landed, but marjorie felt most uneasy between the two tigresses: "good morning, mrs. whitcomb," she said. there was a disagreeable silence, broken finally by mrs. wellington's: "oh, mrs. mallory, would you be angelic enough to hook my gown?" "of course i will," said marjorie. "may i hook you?" said mrs. whitcomb. "you're awfully kind," said marjorie, presenting her shoulders to mrs. whitcomb, who asked with malicious sweetness: "why didn't your husband do this for you this morning?" "i--i don't remember," marjorie stammered, and mrs. wellington tossed over-shoulder an apothegm: "he's no husband till he's hook-broken." just then mrs. fosdick came out of her stateroom. seeing mrs. whitcomb's waist agape, she went at it with a brief, "good morning, everybody. permit me." mrs. wellington twisted her head to say "good morning," and to ask, "are you hooked, mrs. fosdick?" "not yet," pouted mrs. fosdick. "turn round and back up," said mrs. wellington. after some maneuvering, the women formed a complete circle, and fingers plied hooks and eyes in a veritable ladies' mutual aid society. by now, wedgewood was ready to appear in a bathrobe about as gaudy as the royal standard of great britain. he stalked down the aisle, and answered the male chorus's cheery "good morning" with a ramlike "baw." ira lathrop felt amiable even toward the foreigner, and he observed: "glorious morning this morning." "i dare say," growled wedgewood. "i don't go in much for mawnings--especially when i have no tub." wellington felt called upon to squelch him: "you englishmen never had a real tub till we americans sold 'em to you." "i dare say," said wedgewood indifferently. "you sell 'em. we use 'em. but, do you know, i've just thought out a ripping idea. i shall have my cold bath this mawning after all." "what are you going to do?" growled lathrop. "crawl in the icewater tank?" "oh, dear, no. i shouldn't be let," and he produced from his pocket a rubber hose. "i simply affix this little tube to one end of the spigot and wave the sprinklah hyah over my--er--my person." lathrop stared at him pityingly, and demanded: "what happens to the water, then?" "what do i care?" said wedgewood. "you durned fool, you'd flood the car." wedgewood's high hopes withered. "i hadn't thought of that," he sighed. "i suppose i must continue just as i am till i reach san francisco. the first thing i shall order to-night will be four cold tubs and a lemon squash." while the men continued to make themselves presentable in a huddle, the hook-and-eye society at the other end of the car finished with the four waists and mrs. fosdick hurried away to keep her tryst in the dining-car. the three remaining relapsed into dreary attitudes. mrs. wellington shook the knob of the forbidding door, and turned to complain: "what in heaven's name ails the creature in there. she must have fallen out of the window." "it's outrageous," said marjorie, "the way women violate women's rights." mrs. whitcomb saw an opportunity to insert a stiletto. she observed to marjorie, with an innocent air: "why, mrs. mallory, i've even known women to lock themselves in there and smoke!" while mrs. wellington was rummaging her brain for a fitting retort, the door opened, and out stepped miss gattle, as was. she blushed furiously at sight of the committee waiting to greet her, but they repented their criticisms and tried to make up for them by the excessive warmth with which they all exclaimed at once: "good morning, mrs. lathrop!" "good morning, who?" said anne, then blushed yet redder: "oh, i can't seem to get used to that name! i hope i haven't kept you waiting?" "oh, not at all!" the women insisted, and anne fled to number six, remembered that this was no longer her home, and moved on to number one. here the porter was just finishing his restoring tasks, and laying aside with some diffidence two garments which anne hastily stuffed into her own valise. meanwhile marjorie was pushing mrs. wellington ahead: "you go in first, mrs. wellington." "you go first. i have no husband waiting for me," said mrs. wellington. "oh, i insist," said marjorie. "i couldn't think of it," persisted mrs. wellington. "i won't allow you." and then mrs. whitcomb pushed them both aside: "pardon me, won't you? i'm getting off at reno." "so am i," gasped mrs. wellington, rushing forward, only to be faced by the slam of the door and the click of the key. she whirled back to demand of marjorie: "did you ever hear of such impudence?" "i never did." "i'll never be ready for reno," mrs. wellington wailed, "and i haven't had my breakfast." "you'd better order it in advance," said marjorie. "it takes that chef an hour to boil an egg three minutes." "i will, if i can ever get my face washed," sighed mrs. wellington. and now mrs. anne lathrop, after much hesitation, called timidly: "porter--porter--please!" "yes--miss--missus!" he amended. "will you call my--" she gulped--"my husband?" "yes, ma'am," the porter chuckled, and putting his grinning head in at the men's door, he bowed to ira and said: "excuse me, but you are sent for by the lady in number one." ashton slapped him on the back and roared: "oh, you married man!" "well," said ira, in self-defence, "i don't hear anybody sending for you." wedgewood grinned at ashton. "i rather fancy he had you theah, old top, eh, what?" ira appeared at number one, and bending over his treasure-trove, spoke in a voice that was pure saccharine: "are you ready for breakfast, dear?" "yes, ira." "come along to the dining-car." "it's cosier here," she said. "couldn't we have it served here?" "but it'll get all cold, and i'm hungry," pouted the old bachelor, to whom breakfast was a sacred institution. "all right, ira," said anne, glad to be meek; "come along," and she rose. ira hesitated. "still, if you'd rather, we'll eat here." he sat down. "oh, not at all," said anne; "we'll go where you want to go." "but i want to do what you want to do." "so do i--we'll go," said anne. "we'll stay." "no, i insist on the dining-car." "oh, all right, have your own way," said ira, as if he were being bullied, and liked it. anne smiled at the contrariness of men, and ira smiled at the contrariness of women, and when they reached the vestibule they kissed each other in mutual forgiveness. as wedgewood stropped an old-fashioned razor, he said to ashton, who was putting up his safety equipment: "i say, old party, are those safety razors safe? can't you really cut yourself?" "cut everything but hair," said ashton, pointing to his wounded chin. mallory put out his hand: "would you be kind enough to lend me your razor again this morning?" "sure thing," said ashton. "you'll find your blade in the box there." mallory then negotiated the loan of one more fresh shirt from the englishman, and a clean collar from ashton. he rejoiced that the end of the day would bring him in touch with his own baggage. four days of foraging on the country was enough for this soldier. also he felt, now that he and marjorie had lived thus long, they could survive somehow till evening brought them to san francisco, where there were hundreds of ministers. and then the conductor must ruin his early morning optimism, though he made his appearance in the washroom with genial good mornings for all. mallory acknowledged the greeting, and asked offhandedly: "by the way, how's she running?" the conductor answered even more offhandedly: "about two hours late--and losin'." mallory was transfixed with a new fear: "good lord, my transport sails at sunrise." "oh, we ought to make 'frisco by midnight, anyway." "midnight, and sail at daylight!" "unless we lose a little more time." mallory realized that every new day managed to create its own anxieties. with the regularity of a milkman, each morning left a fresh crisis on his doorstep. chapter xxxiv the complete divorcer the other passengers were growing nervous with their own troubles. the next stop was reno, and in spite of all the wit that is heaped upon the town, it is a solemn place to those who must go there in purgatorial penance for matrimonial error. some honest souls regard such divorce-emporiums as dens of evil, where the wicked make a mockery of the sacrament and assail the foundations of society, by undermining the home. other equally honest souls, believing that marriage is a human institution whose mishaps and mistakes should be rectified as far as possible, regard the divorce courts as cities of refuge for ill-treated or ill-mated women and men whose lives may be saved from utter ruination by the intervention of high-minded judges. but, whichever view is right, the ordeal by divorce is terrifying enough to the poor sinners or martyrs who must undergo it. little jimmie wellington turned pale, and stammered, as he tried to ask the conductor casually: "what kind of a place is that reno?" the conductor, somewhat cynical from close association with the divorce-mill and its grist, grinned: "that depends on what you're leaving behind. most folks seem to get enough of it in about six months." then he went his way, leaving wellington red, agape and perplexed. the trouble with wellington was that he had brought along what he was leaving behind. or, as ashton impudently observed: "you ought to enjoy your residence there, wellington, with your wife on hand." the only repartee that wellington could think of was a rather uninspired: "you go to ----." "so long as it isn't reno," ashton laughed, and walked away. wedgewood laid a sympathetic hand on little jimmie's shoulder, and said: "that ashton is no end of a bounder, what?" wellington wrote his epitaph in these words: "well, the worst i can say of him is, he's the kind of man that doesn't lift the plug out when he's through with the basin." he liked this so well that he wished he had thought of it in time to crack it over ashton's head. he decided to hand it to him anyway. he forgot that the cardinal rule for repartee, is "better never than late." as he swung out of the men's room he was buttonholed by an individual new to the little trans-american colony. one of the camp-followers and sutlers who prosper round the edges of all great enterprises had waylaid him on the way to the battleground of marital freedom. the stranger had got on at an earlier stop and worked his way through the train to the car named "snowdrop." wellington was his first victim here. his pushing manner, the almost vulture-like rapacity of his gleaming eyes, and the very vulturine contour of his profile, his palmy gestures, his thick lisp, and everything about him gave wellington his immediate pedigree. it ill behooves christendom to need reminding that the jewish race has adorned and still adorns humanity with some of its noblest specimens; but this interloper was of the type that must have irritated voltaire into answering the platitude that the jews are god's chosen people with that other platitude, "tastes differ." little jimmie wellington, hot in pursuit of ashton, found himself checked in spite of himself; in spite of himself deposited somehow into a seat, and in spite of himself confronted with a curvilinear person, who said: "excoose, pleass! but are you gettink off at r-r-reno?" "i am," wellington answered, curtly, essaying to rise, only to be delicately restored to his place with a gesture and a phrase: "then you neet me." "oh, i need you, do i? and who are you?" "who ain't i? i am baumann and blumen. our cart, pleass." wellington found a pasteboard in his hand and read the legend: real estate agents. baggage transfer. baumann & blumen divorce outfitters, alimony avenue, reno, nev. notary public. divorces secured. justice of the peace. satisfaction guaranteed. wellington looked from the crowded card to the zealous face. "divorce outfitters, eh? i don't quite get you." "vell, in the foist place----" "'the foist place,' eh? you're from new york." "yes, oritchinally. how did you know it? by my feshionable clothink?" "yes," laughed wellington. "but you say i need you. how?" "vell, you've got maybe some beggetch, some trunks--yes?" "yes." "vell, in the foist place, i am an expressman. i deliver 'em to your address--yes? vere iss it?" "i haven't got any yet." "also i am addressman. do you vant it a nice hotel?--or a fine house?--or an apartment?--or maybe a boarding-house?--yes? how long do you make a residence?" "six months." "no longer?" "not a minute." "take a fine house, den. i got some beauties just wacated." "for a year?--no thanks." "all the leases in reno run for six months only." "well, i'd like to look around a little first." "good. don't forget us. you come out here for six months. you vant maybe a good quick divorce--yes?" "the quickest i can get." "do you vant it confidential? or very nice and noisy?" "what's that?" "ve are press agents and also suppress agents. some likes 'em one way, some likes 'em anudder. vich do you vant it?" "quick and quiet." "painless divorce is our specialty. if you pay me an advence deposit now, i file your claim de minute de train stops and your own vife don't know you're divorced." "i'll think it over," said wellington, rising with resolution. "don't forget us. baumann and blumen. satisfaction guaranteed or your wife refunded. avoid substitoots." and then, seeing that he could not extract any cash from little jimmie, mr. baumann descended upon mallory, who was just finishing his shave. laying his hand on mallory's arm, he began: "excoose, pleass. can i fit you out vit a nice divorce?" "divorce?--me!--that's good," laughed mallory at the vision of it. then a sudden idea struck him. it took no great genius to see that mr. baumann was not a clergyman, but there were other marriers to be had. "you don't perform marriages, do you?" he asked. mr. baumann drew himself up: "who says i don't? ain't i a justice of the peaces?" mallory put out his hand in welcome: then a new anxiety chilled him. he had a license for chicago, but chicago was far away: "do i need a license in nevada?" "why shouldn't you?" said mr. baumann. "don't all sorts of things got to have a license in nevada, saloons, husbands, dogs----" "how could i get one?" mallory asked as he went on dressing. "ain't i got a few vit me? do you vant to get a nice re-marriage license?" "re-marriage?--huh!" he looked round and, seeing that no one else was near: "i haven't taken the first step yet." mr. baumann layed his hands in one another: "a betchelor? ah, i see you vant to marry a nice divorcee lady in r-r-reno?" "she isn't in reno and she has never been married, either." this simple statement seemed to astound mr. baumann: "a betcheller marry a maiden!--in reno!--oi, oi, oi! it hasn't been done yet, but it might be." mallory looked him over and a twinge of distaste disturbed him: "you furnish the license, but--er--ah--is there any chance of a clergyman--a christian clergyman--being at the station?" "vy do you vant it a cloigyman? can't i do it just as good? or a nice fat alderman i can get you?" mallory pondered: "i don't think she'd like anything but a clergyman." "vell," baumann confessed, "a lady is liable to be particular about her foist marriage. anyvay i sell you de license." "all right." mr. baumann whipped out a portfolio full of documents, and as he searched them, philosophized: "a man ought alvays to carry a good marriage license. it might be he should need it in a hurry." he took a large iron seal from his side-pocket and stamped the paper and then, with fountain pen poised, pleaded: "vat is the names, pleass?" "not so loud!" mallory whispered. baumann put his finger to his nose, wisely: "i see, it is a confidential marriage. sit down once." when he had asked mallory the necessary questions and taken his fee, he passed over the document by which the sovereign state of nevada graciously permitted two souls to be made more or less one in the eyes of the law. "here you are," said mr. baumann. "vit dat you can get married anyvere in nevada." mallory realized that nevada would be a thing of the past in a few hours more and he asked: "it's no good in california?" "himmel, no. in california you bot' gotta go and be examined." "examined!" mallory gasped, in dire alarm. "vit questions, poissonally," mr. baumann hastened to explain. "oh!" "in nevada," baumann insinuated, still hopeful, "i could marry you myself--now, right here." "could you marry us in this smoking room?" "in a cattle car, if you vant it." "it's not a bad idea," said mallory. "i'll let you know." seeing marjorie coming down the aisle, he hastened to her, and hugged her good-morning with a new confidence. dr. and mrs. temple, who had returned to their berth, witnessed this greeting with amazement. after the quarrel of the night before surely some explanation should have been overheard, but the puzzling mallorys flew to each other's arms without a moment's delay. the mystery was exciting the passengers to such a point that they were vowing to ask a few questions point blank. nobody had quite dared to approach either of them, but frank curiosity was preferable to nervous prostration, and the secret could not be kept much longer. fellow-passengers have some rights. not even a stranger can be permitted to outrage their curiosity with impunity forever. seeing them together, mrs. temple watched the embrace with her daily renewal of joy that the last night's quarrel had not proved fatal. she nudged her husband: "see, they're making up again." dr. temple was moved to a violent outburst for him: "well, that's the darnedest bridal couple--i only said darn, my dear." he was still more startled when mr. baumann, cruising along the aisle, bent over to murmur: "can i fix you a nice divorce?" dr. temple rose in such an attitude of horror as he assumed in the pulpit when denouncing the greatest curse of society, and mr. baumann retired. as he passed mallory he cast an appreciative glance at marjorie and, tapping mallory's shoulder, whispered: "no vonder you want a marriage license. i'll be in the next car, should you neet me." then he went on his route. marjorie stared after him in wonder and asked: "what did that person mean by what he said?" "it's all right, marjorie," mallory explained, in the highest cheer: "we can get married right away." marjorie declined to get her hopes up again: "you're always saying that." "but here's the license--see?" "what good is that?" she said, "there's no preacher on board." "but that man is a justice of the peace and he'll marry us." marjorie stared at him incredulously: "that creature!--before all these passengers?" "not at all," mallory explained. "we'll go into the smoking room." marjorie leaped to her feet, aghast: "elope two thousand miles to be married in a smoking room by a yiddish drummer! harry mallory, you're crazy." put just that way, the proposition did not look so alluring as at first. he sank back with a sigh: "i guess i am. i resign." he was as weary of being "foiled again" as the villain of a cheap melodrama. the two lovers sat in a twilight of deep melancholy, till marjorie's mind dug up a new source of alarm: "harry, i've just thought of something terrible." "let's have it," he sighed, drearily. "we reach san francisco at midnight and you sail at daybreak. what becomes of me?" mallory had no answer to this problem, except a grim: "i'll not desert you." "but we'll have no time to get married." "then," he declared with iron resolve, "then i'll resign from the army." marjorie stared at him with awe. he was so wonderful, so heroic. "but what will the country do without you?" "it will have to get along the best it can," he answered with finality. "do you think i'd give you up?" but this was too much to ask. in the presence of a ruined career and a hero-less army, marjorie felt that her own scruples were too petty to count. she could be heroic, too. "no!" she said, in a deep, low tone, "no, we'll get married in the smoking room. go call your drummer!" this opened the clouds and let in the sun again with such a radiant blaze that mallory hesitated no longer. "fine!" he cried, and leaped to his feet, only to be detained again by marjorie's clutch: "but first, what about that bracelet?" "she's got it," mallory groaned, slumping from the heights again. "do you mean to say she's still wearing it?" "how was i to get it?" "couldn't you have slipped into her car last night and stolen it?" "good lord, i shouldn't think you'd want me to go--why, marjorie--i'd be arrested!" but marjorie set her jaw hard: "well, you get that bracelet, or you don't get me." and then her smouldering jealousy and grief took a less hateful tone: "oh, harry!" she wailed, "i'm so lonely and so helpless and so far from home." "but i'm here," he urged. "you're farther away than anybody," she whimpered, huddling close to him. "poor little thing," he murmured, soothing her with voice and kiss and caress. "put your arm round me," she cooed, like a mourning dove, "i don't care if everybody is looking. oh, i'm so lonely." "i'm just as lonely as you are," he pleaded, trying to creep into the company of her misery. "please marry me soon," she implored, "won't you, please?" "i'd marry you this minute if you'd say the word," he whispered. "i'd say it if you only had that bracelet," she sobbed, like a tired child. "i should think you would understand my feelings. that awful person is wearing your bracelet and i have only your ring, and her bracelet is ten times as big as my r-i-ing, boo-hoo-hoo-oo!" "i'll get that bracelet if i have to chop her arm off," mallory vowed. the sobs stopped short, as marjorie looked up to ask: "have you got your sword with you?" "it's in my trunk," he said, "but i'll manage." "now you're speaking like a soldier," marjorie exclaimed, "my brave, noble, beautiful, fearless husband. i'll tell you! that creature will pass through this car on her way to breakfast. you grab her and take the bracelet away from her." "i grab her, eh?" he stammered, his heroism wavering a trifle. "yes, just grab her." "suppose she hasn't the bracelet on?" he mused. "grab her anyway," marjorie answered, fiercely. "besides, i've no doubt it's wished on." he said nothing. "you did wish it on, didn't you?" "no, no--never--of course not--" he protested "if you'll only be calm. i'll get it if i have to throttle her." like a young lady macbeth, marjorie gave him her utter approval in any atrocity, and they sat in ambush for their victim to pass into view. they had not had their breakfast, but they forgot it. a dusky waiter went by chanting his "lass call for breakfuss in rining rar." he chanted it thrice in their ears, but they never heard. marjorie was gloating over the discomfiture of the odious creature who had dared to precede her in the acquaintance of her husband-to-be. the husband-to-be was miserably wishing that he had to face a tribe of bolo-brandishing moros, instead of this trivial girl whom he had looked upon when her cheeks were red. chapter xxxv mr. and mrs. little jimmie mrs. sammy whitcomb had longed for the sweet privilege of squaring matters with mrs. jimmie wellington. sneers and back-biting, shrugs and shudders of contempt were poor compensation for the ever-vivid fact that mrs. wellington had proved attractive to her sammy while mrs. wellington's jimmie never looked at mrs. whitcomb. or if he did, his eyes had been so blurred that he had seen two of her--and avoided both. yesterday she had overheard jimmie vow sobriety. to-day his shining morning face showed that he had kept his word. she could hardly wait to begin the flirtation which, she trusted, would render mrs. wellington helplessly furious for six long reno months. the divorce drummer interposed and held jimmie prisoner for a time, but as soon as mr. baumann released him, mrs. whitcomb apprehended him. with a smile that beckoned and with eyes that went out like far-cast fishhooks, she drew leviathan into her net. she reeled him in and he plounced in the seat opposite. what she took for bashfulness was reluctance. to add the last charm to her success, mrs. wellington arrived to see it. mrs. whitcomb saw the lonely ashton rise and offer her the seat facing him. mrs. wellington took it and sat down with the back of her head so close to the back of mr. wellington's head that the feather in her hat tickled his neck. jimmie wellington had seen his wife pass by. to his sober eyes she was a fine sight as she moved up the aisle. in his alcohol-emancipated mind the keen sense of wrong endured that had driven him forth to reno began to lose its edge. his own soul appealed from jimmie drunk to jimmie sober. the appellate judge began to reverse the lower court's decision, point by point. he felt a sudden recrudescence of jealousy as he heard ashton's voice unctuously, flirtatiously offering his wife hospitality. he wanted to trounce ashton. but what right had he to defend from gallantry the woman he was about to forswear before the world? jimmie's soul was in turmoil, and mrs. whitcomb's pretty face and alluring smile only annoyed him. she had made several gracious speeches before he quite comprehended any of them. then he realized that she was saying: "i'm so glad you're going to stop at reno, mr. wellington." "thank you. so am i," he mumbled, trying to look interested and wishing that his wife's plume would not tickle his neck. mrs. whitcomb went on, leaning closer: "we two poor mistreated wretches must try to console one another, musn't we?" "yes,--yes,--we must," wellington nodded, with a sickly cheer. mrs. whitcomb leaned a little closer. "do you know that i feel almost related to you, mr. wellington?" "related?" he echoed, "you?--to me? how?" "my husband knew your wife so well." somehow a wave of jealous rage surged over him, and he growled: "your husband is a scoundrel." mrs. whitcomb's smile turned to vinegar: "oh, i can't permit you to slander the poor boy behind his back. it was all your wife's fault." wellington amazed himself by his own bravery when he heard himself volleying back: "and i can't permit you to slander my wife behind her back. it was all your husband's fault." mrs. jimmie overheard this behind her back, and it strangely thrilled her. she ignored ashton's existence and listened for mrs. whitcomb's next retort. it consisted of a simple, icy drawl: "i think i'll go to breakfast." she seemed to pick up ashton with her eyes as she glided by, for, finding himself unnoticed, he rose with a careless: "i think i'll go to breakfast," and followed mrs. whitcomb. the wellingtons sat _dos-à-dos_ for some exciting seconds, and then on a sudden impulse, mrs. jimmie rose, knelt in the seat and spoke across the back of it: "it was very nice of you to defend me, jimmie--er--james." wellington almost dislocated several joints in rising quickly and whirling round at the cordiality of her tone. but his smile vanished at her last word. he protested, feebly: "james sounds so like a--a butler. can't you call me little jimmie again?" mrs. wellington smiled indulgently: "well, since it's the last time. good-bye, little jimmie." and she put out her hand. he seized it hungrily and clung to it: "good-bye?--aren't you getting off at reno?" "yes, but----" "so am i--lucretia." "but we can't afford to be seen together." still holding her hand, he temporized: "we've got to stay married for six months at least--while we establish a residence. couldn't we--er--couldn't we establish a residence--er--together?" mrs. wellington's eyes grew a little sad, as she answered: "it would be too lonesome waiting for you to roll home." jimmie stared at her. he felt the regret in her voice and took strange courage from it. he hauled from his pocket his huge flask, and said quickly: "well, if you're jealous of this, i'll promise to cork it up forever." she shook her head skeptically: "you couldn't." "just to prove it," he said, "i'll chuck it out of the window." he flung up the sash and made ready to hurl his enemy into the flying landscape. "bravo!" cried mrs. wellington. but even as his hand was about to let go, he tightened his clutch again, and pondered: "it seems a shame to waste it." "i thought so," said mrs. jimmie, drooping perceptibly. her husband began to feel that, after all, she cared what became of him. "i'll tell you," he said, "i'll give it to old doc temple. he takes his straight." "fine!" he turned towards the seat where the clergyman and his wife were sitting, oblivious of the drama of reconciliation playing so close at hand. little jimmie paused, caressed the flask, and kissed it. "good-bye, old playmate!" then, tossing his head with bravado, he reached out and touched the clergyman's shoulder. dr. temple turned and rose with a questioning look. wellington put the flask in his hand and chuckled: "merry christmas!" "but, my good man----" the preacher objected, finding in his hand a donation about as welcome and as wieldy as a strange baby. wellington winked: "it may come in handy for--your patients." and now, struck with a sudden idea, mrs. wellington spoke: "oh, mrs. temple." "yes, my dear," said the little old lady, rising. mrs. wellington placed in her hand a small portfolio and laughed: "happy new year!" mrs. temple stared at her gift and gasped: "great heavens! your cigars!" "they'll be such a consolation," mrs. wellington explained, "while the doctor is out with his patients." dr. temple and mrs. temple looked at each other in dismay, then at the flask and the cigars, then at the wellingtons, then they stammered: "thank you so much," and sank back, stupefied. wellington stared at his wife: "lucretia, are you sincere?" "jimmie, i promise you i'll never smoke another cigar." "my love!" he cried, and seized her hand. "you know i always said you were a queen among women, lucretia." she beamed back at him: "and you always were the prince of good fellows, jimmie." then she almost blushed as she murmured, almost shyly: "may i pour your coffee for you again this morning?" "for life," he whispered, and they moved up the aisle, arm in arm, bumping from seat to seat and not knowing it. when mrs. whitcomb, seated in the dining-car, saw mrs. little jimmie pour mr. little jimmie's coffee, she choked on hers. she vowed that she would not permit those odious wellingtons to make fools of her and her sammy. she resolved to telegraph sammy that she had changed her mind about divorcing him, and order him to take the first train west and meet her half-way on her journey home. chapter xxxvi a duel for a bracelet all this while marjorie and mallory had sat watching, as kingfishers shadow a pool, the door wherethrough the girl with the bracelet must pass on her way to breakfast. "she's taking forever with her toilet," sniffed marjorie. "probably trying to make a special impression on you." "she's wasting her time," said mallory. "but what if she brings her mother along? no, i guess her mother is too fat to get there and back." "if her mother comes," marjorie decided, "i'll hold her while you take the bracelet away from the--the--from that creature. quick, here she comes now! be brave!" mallory wore an aspect of arrant cowardice: "er--ah--i--i----" "you just grab her!" marjorie explained. then they relapsed into attitudes of impatient attention. kathleen floated in and, seeing mallory, she greeted him with radiant warmth: "good morning!" and then, catching sight of marjorie, gave her a "good morning!" coated with ice. she flounced past and mallory sat inert, till marjorie gave him a ferocious pinch, whereupon he leaped to his feet: "oh, miss--er--miss kathleen." kathleen whirled round with a most hospitable smile. "may i have a word with you?" "of course you can, you dear boy." marjorie winced at this and writhed at what followed: "shan't we take breakfast together?" mallory stuttered: "i--i--no, thank you--i've had breakfast." kathleen froze up again as she snapped: "with that--train-acquaintance, i suppose." "oh, no," mallory amended, "i mean i haven't had breakfast." but kathleen scowled with a jealousy of her own: "you seem to be getting along famously for mere train-acquaintances." "oh, that's all we are, and hardly that," mallory hastened to say with too much truth. "sit down here a moment, won't you?" "no, no, i haven't time," she said, and sat down. "mamma will be waiting for me. you haven't been in to see her yet?" "no. you see----" "she cried all night." "for me?" "no, for papa. he's such a good traveler--and he had such a good start. she really kept the whole car awake." "too bad," mallory condoled, perfunctorily, then with sudden eagerness, and a trial at indifference: "i see you have that bracelet still." "of course, you dear fellow. i wouldn't be parted from it for worlds." marjorie gnashed her teeth, but kathleen could not hear that. she gushed on: "and now we have met again! it looks like fate, doesn't it?" "it certainly does," mallory assented, bitterly; then again, with zest: "let me see that old bracelet, will you?" he tried to lay hold of it, but kathleen giggled coyly: "it's just an excuse to hold my hand." she swung her arm over the back of the seat coquettishly, and marjorie made a desperate lunge at it, but missed, since kathleen, finding that mallory did not pursue the fugitive hand, brought it back at once and yielded it up: "there--be careful, someone might look." mallory took her by the wrist in a gingerly manner, and said, "so that's the bracelet? take it off, won't you?" "never!--it's wished on," kathleen protested, sentimentally. "don't you remember that evening in the moonlight?" mallory caught marjorie's accusing eye and lost his head. he made a ferocious effort to snatch the bracelet off. when this onset failed, he had recourse to entreaty: "just slip it off." kathleen shook her head tantalizingly. mallory urged more strenuously: "please let me see it." kathleen shook her head with sophistication: "you'd never give it back. you'd pass it along to that--train-acquaintance." "how can you think such a thing?" mallory demurred, and once more made his appeal: "please please, slip it off." "what on earth makes you so anxious?" kathleen demanded, with sudden suspicion. mallory was stumped, till an inspiration came to him: "i'd like to--to get you a nicer one. that one isn't good enough for you." here was an argument that kathleen could appreciate. "oh, how sweet of you, harry," she gurgled, and had the bracelet down to her knuckles, when a sudden instinct checked her: "when you bring the other, you can have this." she pushed the circlet back, and mallory's hopes sank at the gesture. he grew frantic at being eternally frustrated in his plans. he caught kathleen's arm and, while his words pleaded, his hands tugged: "please--please let me take it--for the measure--you know!" kathleen read the determination in his fierce eyes, and she struggled furiously: "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go or i'll scream!" [illustration: "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go, or i'll scream!"] she rose and, twisting her arm from his grasp, confronted him with bewildered anger. mallory cast toward marjorie a look of surrender and despair. marjorie laid her hand on her throat and in pantomime suggested that mallory should throttle kathleen, as he had promised. but mallory was incapable of further violence; and when kathleen, with all her coquetry, bent down and murmured: "you are a very naughty boy, but come to breakfast and we'll talk it over," he was so addled that he answered: "thanks, but i never eat breakfast." chapter xxxvii down brakes! just as kathleen flung her head in baffled vexation, and mallory started to slink back to marjorie, with another defeat, there came an abrupt shock as if that gigantic child to whom our railroad trains are toys, had reached down and laid violent hold on the trans-american in full career. its smooth, swift flight became suddenly such a spasm of jars, shivers and thuds that mallory cried: "we're off the track." he was sent flopping down the aisle like a bolster hurled through the car. he brought up with a sickening slam across the seat into which marjorie had been jounced back with a breath-taking slam. and then kathleen came flying backwards and landed in a heap on both of them. several of the other passengers were just returning from breakfast and they were shot and scattered all over the car as if a great chain of human beads had burst. women screamed, men yelled, and then while they were still struggling against the seats and one another, the train came to a halt. "thank god, we stopped in time!" mallory gasped, as he tried to disengage himself and marjorie from kathleen. the passengers began to regain their courage with their equilibrium. little jimmie wellington had flown the whole length of the car, clinging to his wife as if she were francesca da rimini, and he paolo, flitting through inferno. the flight ended at the stateroom door with such a thump that mrs. fosdick was sure a detective had come for her at last, and with a battering ram. but when jimmie got back breath enough to talk, he remembered the train-stopping excitement of the day before and called out: "has mrs. mallory lost that pup again?" everybody laughed uproariously at this. people will laugh at anything or nothing when they have been frightened almost to death and suddenly relieved of anxiety. everybody was cracking a joke at marjorie's expense. everybody felt a good-natured grudge against her for being such a mystery. the car was ringing with hilarity, when the porter came stumbling in and paused at the door, with eyes all white, hands waving frantically, and lips flapping like flannel, in a vain effort to speak. the passengers stopped laughing at marjorie, to laugh at the porter. ashton sang out: "what's the matter with you, porter? are you trying to crow?" everybody roared at this, till the porter finally managed to articulate: "t-t-t-train rob-rob-robbers!" silence shut down as if the whole crowd had been smitten with paralysis. from somewhere outside and ahead came a pop-popping as of firecrackers. everybody thought, "revolvers!" the reports were mingled with barbaric yells that turned the marrow in every bone to snow. these regions are full of historic terror. all along the nevada route the conductor, the brakemen and old travelers had pointed out scene after scene where the indians had slaked the thirst of the arid land with white man's blood. ashton, who had traveled this way many times, had made himself fascinatingly horrifying the evening before and ruined several breakfasts that morning in the dining-car, by regaling the passengers with stories of pioneer ordeals, men and women massacred in burning wagons, or dragged away to fiendish cruelty and obscene torture, staked out supine on burning wastes with eyelids cut off, bound down within reach of rattlesnakes, subjected to every misery that human deviltry could devise. ashton had brought his fellow passengers to a state of ecstatic excitability, and, like many a recounter of burglar stories at night, had tuned his own nerves to high tension. the violent stopping of the train, the heart-shaking yells and shots outside, found the passengers already apt to respond without delay to the appeals of fright. after the first hush of dread, came the reaction to panic. each passenger showed his own panic in his own way. ashton whirled round and round, like a horse with the blind staggers, then bolted down the aisle, knocking aside men and women. he climbed on a seat, pulled down an upper berth, and, scrambling into it, tried to shut it on himself. mrs. whitcomb was so frightened that she assailed ashton with fury and seizing his feet, dragged him back into the aisle, and beat him with her fists, demanding that he protect her and save her for sammy's sake. mrs. fosdick, rushing out of her stateroom and not finding her luscious-eyed husband, laid hold of jimmie wellington and ordered him to go to the rescue of her spouse. mrs. wellington tore her hands loose, crying: "let him go, madam. he has a wife of his own to defend." jimmie was trying to pour out dying messages, and only sputtering, forgetting that he had put his watch in his mouth to hide it, though its chain was still attached to his waistcoat. anne gattle, who had read much about chinese atrocities to missionaries, gave herself up to death, yet rejoiced greatly that she had provided a timely man to lean on and should not have to enter paradise a spinster, providing she could manage to convert ira in the next few seconds, before it was everlastingly too late. she was begging her first heathen to join her in a gospel hymn. but ira was roaring curses like a pirate captain in a hurricane, and swearing that the villains should not rob him of his bride. mrs. temple wrung her twitching hands and tried to drag her husband to his knees, crying: "oh, walter, walter, won't you please say a prayer?--a good strong prayer?" but the preacher was so confused that he answered: "what's the use of prayer in an emergency like this?" "walter!" she shrieked. "i'm on my va-vacation, you know," he stammered. marjorie was trying at the same time to compel mallory to crawl under a seat and to find a place to hide snoozleums, whom she was warning not to say a word. snoozleums, understanding only that his mistress was in some distress, refused to stay in his basket and kept offering his services and his attentions. suddenly marjorie realized that kathleen was trying to faint in mallory's arms, and forgot everything else in a determined effort to prevent her. after the first blood-sweat of abject fright had begun to cool, the passengers came to realize that the invaders were not after lives, but loot. then came a panic of miserly effort to conceal treasure. kathleen, finding herself banished from mallory's protection, ran to mrs. whitcomb, who had given ashton up as a hopeless task. "what shall we do, oh, what, oh what shall we do, dear mrs. wellington?" she cried. "don't you dare call me mrs. wellington!" mrs. whitcomb screamed; then she began to flutter. "but we'd better hide what we can. i hope the rah-rah-robbers are ge-gentlemen-men." she pushed a diamond locket containing a small portrait of sammy into her back hair, leaving part of the chain dangling. then she tried to stuff a large handbag into her stocking. mrs. fosdick found her husband at last, for he made a wild dash to her side, embraced her, called her his wife and defied all the powers of nevada to tear them apart. he had a brilliant idea. in order to save his fat wallet from capture, he tossed it through an open window. it fell at the feet of one of the robbers as he ran along the side of the car, shooting at such heads as were put out of windows. he picked it up and dropped it into the feed-bag he had swung at his side. then running on, he clambered over the brass rail of the observation platform and entered the rear of the train, as his confederate, driving the conductor ahead of him, forged his way aft from the front, while a third masquerader aligned the engineer, the fireman, the brakeman and the baggagemen. chapter xxxviii hands up! all this time lieutenant mallory had been thinking as hard as an officer in an ambuscade. his harrowing experiences and incessant defeats of the past days had unnerved him and shattered his self-confidence. he was not afraid, but intensely disgusted. he sat absent-mindedly patting marjorie on the back and repeating: "don't worry, honey, they're not going to hurt anybody. they don't want anything but our money. don't worry, i won't let 'em hurt you." but he could not shake off a sense of nausea. he felt himself a representative of the military prowess of the country, and here he was as helpless as a man on parole. the fact that mallory was a soldier occurred to a number of the passengers simultaneously. they had been trained by early studies in those beautiful works of fiction, the school histories of the united states, and by many fourths of july, to believe that the american soldier is an invincible being, who has never been defeated and never known fear. they surged up to mallory in a wave of hope. dr. temple, being nearest, spoke first. having learned by experience that his own prayers were not always answered as he wished, had an impulse to try some weapon he had never used. "young man," he pleaded across the back of a seat, "will you kindly lend me a gun?" mallory answered sullenly: "mine is in my trunk on the train ahead, damn it. if i had it i'd have a lot of fun." mrs. whitcomb had an inspiration. she ran to her berth, and came back with a tiny silver-plated revolver. "i'll lend you this. sammy gave it to me to protect myself in nevada!" mallory smiled at the . -calibre toy, broke it open, and displayed an empty cylinder. "where are the pills that go with it?" he said. "oh, sammy wouldn't let me have any bullets. he was afraid i'd hurt myself." mallory returned it, with a bow. "it would make an excellent nut-cracker." "aren't you going to use it?" mrs. whitcomb gasped. "it's empty," mallory explained. "but the robbers don't know that! couldn't you just overawe them with it?" "not with that," said mallory, "unless they died laughing." mrs. wellington pushed forward: "then what the devil are you going to do when they come?" mallory answered meekly: "if they request it, i shall hold up my hands." "and you won't resist?" kathleen gasped. "not a resist." "and he calls himself a soldier!" she sneered. mallory writhed, but all he said was: "a soldier doesn't have to be a jackass. i know just enough about guns not to monkey with the wrong end of 'em." "coward!" she flung at him. he turned white, but marjorie red, and made a leap at her, crying: "he's the bravest man in the world. you say a word, and i'll scratch your eyes out." this reheartened mallory a little, and he laughed nervously, as he restrained her. kathleen retreated out of danger, with a parting shot: "our engagement is off." "thanks," mallory said, and put out his hand: "will you return the bracelet?" "i never return such things," said kathleen. the scene was so painful and such an anachronism that dr. temple tried to renew a more pressing subject: "it's your opinion then that we'd best surrender?" "of course--since we can't run." wedgewood broke in impatiently: "well, i consider it a dastardly outrage. i'll not submit to it. i'm a subject of his majesty the----" "you're a subject of his majesty the man behind the gun," said mallory. "i shall protest, none the less," wedgewood insisted. mallory grinned a little. "have you any last message to send home to your mother?" wedgewood was a trifle chilled at this. "d-don't talk of such things," he said. and by this time the train-robbers had hastily worked their way through the other passengers, and reached the frantic inhabitants of the sleeper, "snowdrop." "hands up! higher!! hands up!" with a true sense of the dramatic, the robbers sent ahead of them the most hair-raising yells. they arrived simultaneously at each end of the aisle, and with a few short sharp commands, straightened the disorderly rabble into a beautiful line, with all palms aloft and all eyes wide and wild. one robber drove ahead of him the conductor and the other drove in mr. manning, whom he had found trying to crawl between the shelves of the linen-closet. the marauders were apparently cattlemen, from their general get-up. their hats were pulled low, and just beneath their eyes they had drawn big black silk handkerchiefs, tied behind the ears and hanging to the breast. over their shoulders they had slung the feed-bags of their horses, to serve as receptacles for their swag. their shirts were chalky with alkali dust. their legs were encased in heavy chaparejos, and they carried each a pair of well-used colt's revolvers that looked as big as artillery. when the passengers had shoved and jostled into line, one of the men jabbed the conductor in the back with the muzzle of his gun, and snarled: "now speak your little piece, like i learned it to you." the conductor, like an awkward schoolboy, grinned sheepishly, and spoke, his hands in the air the while: "ladies and gents, these here parties in the black tidies says they want everybody to hold his or her hands as high as possible till you git permission to lower 'em; they advise you not to resist, because they hate the sight of blood, but prefer it to argument." the impatient robbers, themselves the prey of fearful anxieties, broke in, barking like a pair of coyotes in a jumble of commands: "now, line up with your backs that way, and no back talk. these guns shoot awful easy. and remember, as each party is finished with, they are to turn round and keep their hands up, on penalty of gittin' 'em shot off. line up! hands up! give over there!" mrs. jimmie wellington took her time about moving into position, and her deliberation brought a howl of wrath from the robber: "get into that line, you!" mrs. wellington whirled on him: "how dare you, you brute?" and she turned up her nose at the gun. the anxious conductor intervened: "better obey, madame; he's an ugly lad." "i don't mind being robbed," said mrs. jimmie, "but i won't endure rudeness." the robber shook his head in despair, and he tried to wither her with sarcasm: "pardong, mamselly, would you be so kind and condescendin' as to step into that there car before i blow your husband's gol-blame head off." this brought her to terms. she hastened to her place, but put out a restraining hand on jimmie, who needed no restraint. "certainly, to save my dear husband. don't strike him, jimmie!" then each man stuck one revolver into its convenient holster, and, covering the passengers with the other, proceeded to frisk away valuables with a speed and agility that would have looked prettier if those impatient-looking muzzles had not pointed here, there and everywhere with such venomous threats. and so they worked from each end of the car toward the middle. their hands ran swiftly over bodies with a loathsome familiarity that could only be resented, not revenged. their hands dived into pockets, and up sleeves, and into women's hair, everywhere that a jewel or a bill might be secreted. and always a rough growl or a swing of the revolver silenced any protest. their heinous fingers had hardly begun to ply, when the solemn stillness was broken by a chuckle and low hoot of laughter, a darkey's unctuous laughter. at such a place it was more shocking than at a funeral. "what ails you?" was the nearest robber's demand. the porter tried to wipe his streaming eyes without lowering his hands, as he chuckled on: "i--i--just thought of sumpum funny." "funny!" was the universal groan. "i was just thinking," the porter snickered, "what mighty poor pickings you-all are goin' to git out of me. whilst if you had 'a' waited till i got to 'frisco, i'd jest nachelly been oozin' money." the robber relieved him of a few dimes and quarters and ordered him to turn round, but the black face whirled back as he heard from the other end of the car wedgewood's indignant complaint: "i say, this is an outrage!" "ah, close your trap and turn round, or i'll----" the porter's smile died away. "good lawd," he sighed, "they're goin' to skin that british lion! and i just wore myself out on him." the far-reaching effect of the whole procedure was just beginning to dawn on the porter. this little run on the bank meant a period of financial stringency for him. he watched the hurrying hands a moment or two, then his wrath rose to terrible proportions: "look here, man," he shouted at the robber, "ain't you-all goin' to leave these here passengers nothin' a tall?" "not on purpose, nigger." "no small change, or nothin'?" "nary a red." "then, passengers," the porter proclaimed, while the robber watched him in amazement; "then, passengers, i want to give you-all fair warnin' heah and now: no tips, no whisk-broom!" perhaps because their hearts were already overflowing with distress, the passengers endured this appalling threat without comment, and when there was a commotion at the other end of the line, all eyes rolled that way. mr. baumann was making an effort to take his leave, with great politeness. "excoose, pleass. i vant to get by, pleass!" "get by!" the other robber gasped. "why, you----" "but i'm not a passenger," mr. baumann urged, with a confidential smile, "i've been going through the train myself." "much obliged! hand over!" and a rude hand rummaged his pockets. it was a heart-rending sight. "oi oi!" he wailed, "don't you allow no courtesies to the profession?" and when the inexorable thief continued to pluck his money, his watch, his scarf-pin, he grew wroth indeed. "stop, stop, i refuse to pay. i'll go into benkruptcy foist." but still the larceny continued; fingers even lifted three cigars from his pockets, two for himself and a good one for a customer. this loss was grievous, but his wildest protest was: "oh, here, my frient, you don't vant my business carts." "keep 'em!" growled the thief, and then, glancing up, he saw on the tender inwards of mr. baumann's upheld palms two huge glisteners, which their owner had turned that way in a misguided effort to conceal the stones. the robber reached up for them. "take 'em. you're velcome!" said mr. baumann, with rare presence of mind. "those nevada nearlies looks almost like real." "keep 'em," said the robber, as he passed on, and mr. baumann almost swooned with joy, for, as he whispered to wedgewood a moment later: "they're really real!" now the eye-chain rolled the other way, for little jimmie wellington was puffing with rage. the other robber, having massaged him thoroughly, but without success, for his pocketbook, noticed that jimmie's left heel was protruding from his left shoe, and made jimmie perform the almost incredible feat of standing on one foot, while he unshod him and took out the hidden wealth. "there goes our honeymoon, lucretia," he moaned. but she whispered proudly: "never mind, i have my rings to pawn." "oh, you have, have you? well, i'll be your little uncle," the kneeling robber laughed, as he overheard, and he continued his outrageous search till he found them, knotted in a handkerchief, under her hat. she protested: "you wouldn't leave me in reno without a diamond, would you?" "i wouldn't, eh?" he grunted. "do you think i'm in this business for my health?" and he snatched off two earrings she had forgotten to remove. fortunately, they were affixed to her lobes with fasteners. mrs. jimmie was thoroughbred enough not to wince. she simply commented: "you brutes are almost as bad as the customs officers at new york." and now another touch of light relieved the gloom. kathleen was next in line, and she had been forcing her lips into their most attractive smile, and keeping her eyes winsomely mellow, for the robber's benefit. marjorie could not see the smile; she could only see that kathleen was next. she whispered to mallory: "they'll get the bracelet! they'll get the bracelet!" and mallory could have danced with glee. but kathleen leaned coquettishly toward the masked stranger, and threw all her art into her tone as she murmured: "i'm sure you're too brave to take my things. i've always admired men with the courage of claude duval." the robber was taken a trifle aback, but he growled: "i don't know the party you speak of--but cough up!" "listen to her," marjorie whispered in horror; "she's flirting with the train-robber." "what won't some women flirt with!" mallory exclaimed. the robber studied kathleen a little more attentively, as he whipped off her necklace and her rings. she looked good to him, and so willing, that he muttered: "say, lady, if you'll give me a kiss, i'll give you that diamond ring you got on." "all right!" laughed kathleen, with triumphant compliance. "my god!" mallory groaned, "what won't some women do for a diamond!" the robber bent close, and was just raising his mask to collect his ransom, when his confederate glanced his way, and knowing his susceptible nature, foresaw his intention, and shouted: "stop it, jake. you 'tend strictly to business, or i'll blow your nose off." "oh, all right," grumbled the reluctant gallant, as he drew the ring from her finger. "sorry, miss, but i can't make the trade," and he added with an unwonted gentleness: "you can turn round now." kathleen was glad to hide the blushes of defeat, but marjorie was still more bitterly disappointed. she whispered to mallory: "he didn't get the bracelet, after all." chapter xxxix wolves in the fold mallory's heart sank to its usual depth, but marjorie had another of her inspirations. she startled everybody by suddenly beckoning and calling: "excuse me, mr. robber. come here, please." the curious gallant edged her way, keeping a sharp watch along the line: "what d'you want?" marjorie leaned nearer, and spoke in a low tone with an amiable smile: "that lady who wanted to kiss you has a bracelet up her sleeve." the robber stared across his mask, and wondered, but laughed, and grunted: "much obliged." then he went back, and tapped kathleen on the shoulder. when she turned round, in the hope that he had reconsidered his refusal to make the trade, he infuriated her by growling: "excuse, me, miss, i overlooked a bet." he ran his hand along her arm, and found her bracelet, and accomplished what mallory had failed in, its removal. "don't, don't," cried kathleen, "it's wished on." "i wish it off," the villain laughed, and it joined the growing heap in the feed-bag. kathleen, doubly enraged, broke out viciously: "you're a common, sneaking----" "ah, turn round!" the man roared, and she obeyed in silence. then he explored mrs. whitcomb, but with such small reward that he said: "say, you'd oughter have a pocketbook somewheres. where's it at?" mrs. whitcomb brushed furiously: "none of your business, you low brute." "perdooce, madame," the scoundrel snorted, "perdooce the purse, or i'll hunt for it myself." mrs. whitcomb turned away, and after some management of her skirts, slapped her handbag into the eager palm with a wrathful: "you're no gentleman, sir!" "if i was, i'd be in wall street," he laughed. "now you can turn round." and when she turned, he saw a bit of chain depending from her back hair. he tugged, and brought away the locket, and with laying the tress on her shoulder, and proceeded to sound ashton for hidden wealth. and now mrs. temple began to sob, as she parted with an old-fashioned brooch and two old-fashioned rings that had been her little vanities for the quarter of a century and more. the old clergyman could have wept with her at the vandalism. he turned on the wretch with a heartsick appeal: "can't you spare those? didn't you ever have a mother?" the robber started, his fierce eyes softened, his voice choked, and he gulped hard as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "aw, hell," he whimpered, "that ain't fair. if you're goin' to remind me of me poor old mo-mo-mother----" but the one called jake--the claude duval who had been prevented from a display of human sentiment, did not intend to be cheated. he thundered: "stop it, bill. you 'tend strictly to business, or i'll blow your mush-bowl off. you know your maw died before you was born." this reminder sobered the weeping thief at once, and he went back to work ruthlessly. "oh, all right, jake. sorry, ma'am, but business is business." and he dumped mrs. temple's trinkets into the satchel. it was too much for the little old lady's little old husband. he fairly shrieked: "young man, you're a damned scoundrel, and the best argument i ever saw for hell-fire!" mrs. temple's grief changed to horror at such a bolt from the blue: "walter!" she gasped, "such language!" but her husband answered in self-defence: "even a minister has a right to swear once in his lifetime." mallory almost dropped in his tracks, and marjorie keeled over on him, as he gasped: "good lord, doctor temple, you are a--a minister?" "yes, my boy," the old man confessed, glad that the robbers had relieved him of his guilty secret along with the rest of his private properties. mallory looked at the collapsing marjorie, and groaned: "and he was in the next berth all this time!" the unmasking of the old fraud made a second sensation. mrs. fosdick called from far down the aisle: "dr. temple, you're not a detective?" mrs. temple shouted back furiously: "how dare you?" but mrs. fosdick was crying to her luscious-eyed mate: "oh, arthur, he's not a detective. embrace me!" and they embraced, while the robbers looked on aghast at the sudden oblivion they had fallen into. they focussed the attention on themselves again, however, with a ferocious: "here, hands up!" but they did not see mr. and mrs. fosdick steal a kiss behind their upraised arms, for the robber to whose lot mallory fell was gloating over his well-filled wallet. mallory saw it go with fortitude, but noting a piece of legal paper, he said: "say, old man, you don't want that marriage license, do you?" the robber handled it as if it were hot--as if he had burned his fingers on some such document once before, and he stuffed it back in mallory's pocket. "i should say not. keep it. turn round." meanwhile the other felon turned up another beautiful pile of bills in dr. temple's pocket. "not so worse for a parson," he grinned. "you must be one of them fifth avenue sky-shaffures." and now mrs. temple's gentle eyes and voice filled with tears again: "oh, don't take that. that's the money for his vacation--after thirty long years. please don't take that." her appeals seemed always to find the tender spot of this robber's heart, for he hesitated, and called out: "shall we overlook the parson's wad, podner?" "take it, and shut up, you mollycoddle!" was the answer he got, and the vacation funds joined the old gewgaws. and now everybody had been robbed but marjorie. she happened to be at the center of the line, and both men reached her at the same time: "i seen her first," the first one shouted. "you did not," the other roared. "i tell you i did." "i tell you i did." they glared threateningly at each other, and their revolvers seemed to meet, like two game cocks, beak to beak. the porter voiced the general hope, when he sighed: "oh, lawd, if they'd only shoot each other." this brought the rivals to their evil senses, and they swept the line with those terrifying muzzles and that heart-stopping yelp: "hands up!" bill said: "you take the east side of her, and i'll take the west." "all right." and they began to snatch away her side-combs, the little gold chain at her throat, the jewelled pin that mallory had given her as the first token of his love. the young soldier had foreseen this. he had foreseen the wild rage that would unseat his reason when he saw the dirty hands of thieves laid rudely on the sacred body of his beloved. but his soldier-schooling had drilled him to govern his impulses, to play the coward when there was no hope of successful battle, and to strike only when the moment was ripe with perfect opportunity. he had kept telling himself that when the finger of one of these men touched so much as marjorie's hem, he would be forced to fling himself on the profane miscreant. and he kept telling himself that the moment he did this, the other man would calmly blow a hole through him, and drop him at marjorie's feet, while the other passengers shrank away in terror. he told himself that, while it might be a fine impulse to leap to her defence, it was a fool impulse to leap off a precipice and leave marjorie alone among strangers, with a dead man and a scandal, as the only rewards for his impulse. he vowed that he would hold himself in check, and let the robbers take everything, leaving him only the name of coward, provided they left him also the power to defend marjorie better at another time. and now that he saw the clumsy-handed thugs rifling his sweetheart's jewelry, he felt all that he had foreseen, and his head fought almost in vain against the white fire of his heart. between them he trembled like a leaf, and the sweat globed on his forehead. the worst of it was the shivering terror of marjorie, and the pitiful eyes she turned on him. but he clenched his teeth and waited, thinking fiercely, watching, like a hovering eagle, a chance to swoop. but the robbers kept glancing this way and that, and one motion would mean death. they themselves were so overwrought with their own ordeal and its immediate conclusion, that they would have killed anybody. mallory shifted his foot cautiously, and instantly a gun was jabbed into his stomach, with a snarl: "don't you move!" "who's moving?" mallory answered, with a poor imitation of a careless laugh. and now the man called bill had reached marjorie's right hand. he chortled: "golly, look at the shiners." but jake, who had chosen marjorie's left hand, roared: "say, you cheated. all i get is this measly plain gold band." "oh, don't take that!" marjorie gasped, clenching her hand. mallory's heart ached at the thought of this final sacrilege. he had the license, and the minister at last--and now the fiends were going to carry off the wedding ring. he controlled himself with a desperate effort, and stooped to plead: "say, old man, don't take that. that's not fair." "shut up, both of you," jake growled, and jabbed him again with the gun. he gave the ring a jerk, but marjorie, in the very face of the weapon, would not let go. she struggled and tugged, weeping and imploring: "oh, don't, don't take that! it's my wedding ring." "agh, what do i care!" the ruffian snarled, and wrenched her finger so viciously that she gave a little cry of pain. that broke mallory's heart. with a wild, bellowing, "damn you!" he hurled himself at the man, with only his bare hands for weapons. chapter xl a hero in spite of himself passion sent mallory into the unequal fight with two armed and desperate outlaws. but reason had planned the way. he had been studying the robber all the time, as if the villain were a war-map, studying his gestures, his way of turning, and how he held the revolver. he had noted that the man, as he frisked the passengers, did not keep his finger on the trigger, but on the guard. marjorie's little battle threw the desperado off his balance a trifle; as he recovered, mallory struck him, and swept him on over against the back of a seat. at the same instant, mallory's right hand went like lightning to the trigger guard, and gripped the fingers in a vise of steel, while he drove the man's elbow back against his side. mallory's left hand meanwhile flung around his enemy's neck, and gave him a spinning fall that sent his left hand out for balance. it fell across the back of the seat, and mallory pinioned it with elbow and knee before it could escape. all in the same crowded moment, his left knuckles jolted the man's chin in air, and so bewildered him that his muscles relaxed enough for mallory's right fingers to squirm their way to the trigger, and aim the gun at the other robber, and finally to get entire control of it. the thing had happened in such a flash that the second outlaw could hardly believe his eyes. the shriek of the astounded passengers, and the grunt of mallory's prisoner, as he crashed backward, woke him to the need for action. he caught his other gun from its holster, and made ready for a double volley, but there was nothing to aim at. mallory was crouched in the seat, and almost perfectly covered by a human shield. still, from force of habit and foolhardy pluck, bill aimed at mallory's right eyebrow, just abaft jake's right ear, and shouted his old motto: "hands up! you!" "hands up yourself!" answered mallory, and his victim, shuddering at the fierce look in his comrade's eyes, gasped: "for god's sake, don't shoot, bill!" even then the fellow stood his ground, and debated the issue, till mallory threw such ringing determination into one last: "hands up, or by god, i'll fire!" that he caved in, lifted his fingers from the triggers, turned the guns up, and slowly raised both hands above his head. a profound "ah!" of relief soughed through the car, and mallory, still keeping his eye on bill, got down cautiously from the seat. the moment he released jake's left hand, it darted to the holster where his second gun was waiting. but before he could clutch the butt of it, mallory jabbed the muzzle of his own revolver in the man's back, and growled: "put 'em up!" and the robber's left hand joined the right in air, while mallory's left hand lifted the revolver, and took possession of it. mallory stood for a moment, breathing hard and a little incredulous at his own swift, sweet triumph. then he made an effort to speak as if this sort of thing were quite common with him, as if he overpowered a pair of outlaws every morning before breakfast, but his voice cracked as he said, in a drawing-room tone: "dr. temple, would you mind relieving that man of those guns?" dr. temple was so set up by this distinction that he answered: "not by a----" "walter!" mrs. temple checked him, before he could utter the beautiful word, and dr. temple looked at her almost reproachfully, as he sighed: "golly, i should like to swear just once more." then he reached up and disarmed the man who had taken his wallet and his wife's keepsakes. but the doctor was not half so happy over the recovery of his property as over the unbelievable luxury of finding himself taking two revolvers away from a masked train-robber. american children breathe in this desperado romance with their earliest traditions, and dr. temple felt all his boyhood zest surge back with a boy's tremendous rapture in a deed of derring-do. and now nothing could check his swagger, as he said to mallory: "what shall we do with these dam-ned sinners?" he felt like apologizing for the clerical relapse into a pulpitism, but mallory answered briskly: "we'd better take them into the smoking room. they scare the ladies. but first, will the conductor take those bags and distribute the contents to their rightful owners?" the conductor was proud to act as lieutenant to this lieutenant, and he quickly relieved the robbers of their loot-kits. mallory smiled. "don't give anybody my things," and then he jabbed his robber with one of the revolvers, and commanded: "forward, march!" the little triumphal procession moved off, with bill in the lead, followed by dr. temple, looking like a whole field battery, followed by jake, followed by mallory, followed by the porter and as many of the other passengers as could crowd into the smoking room. the rest went after those opulent feed-bags. chapter xli clickety-clickety-clickety marjorie, as the supposed wife of the rescuing angel, was permitted first search, and the first thing she hunted for was a certain gold bracelet that was none of hers. she found it and seized it with a prayer of thanks, and concealed it among her own things. mrs. temple gave her a guilty start, by speaking across a barrier: "mrs. mallory, your husband is the bravest man on earth." "oh, i know he is," marjorie beamed, and added with a spasm of conscience: "but he isn't my husband!" mrs. temple gasped in horror, but marjorie dragged her close, and poured out the whole story, while the other passengers recovered their properties with as much joy as if they were all new gifts found on a bush. meanwhile, under mallory's guidance, the porter fastened the outlaws together back to back with the straps of their own feed-bags. the porter was rejoicing that his harvest of tips was not blighted after all. mallory completed his bliss, by giving him dr. temple's brace of guns, and establishing him as jailer, with a warning: "now, porter, don't take your eye off 'em." "lordy, i won't bat an eyelid." "if either of these lads coughs, put a hole through both of 'em." the porter chuckled: "my fingers is just a-itchin' fer them lovin' triggers." and now mr. baumann, having scrambled back his possessions, hastened into the smoking room, and regarded the two hangdog culprits with magnificent generosity; he forgave them their treatment. in fact, he went so far as to say: "you gents vill be gettin' off at reno, yes? you'll be needing a good firm of lawyers. don't forget us. baumann" (he put a card in bill's hat) "and blumen" (he put a card in jake's hat). "avoid substitoots." mallory pocketed two of the captured revolvers, lest a need might arise suddenly again. as he hurried down the aisle, he was received with cheers. the passengers gave him an ovation, but he only smiled timidly, and made haste to marjorie's side. she regarded him with such idolatry that he almost regretted his deed. but this mood soon passed in her excitement, and in a moment she was surreptitiously showing him the bracelet. he became an accessory after the fact, and shared her guilt, for when she groaned with a sudden droop: "she'll get it back!" he grimly answered, "oh, no she won't!" hoisted the window, and flung the bracelet into a little pool by the side of the track, with a farewell: "good-bye, trouble!" as he drew his head in, a side glance showed him that up near the engine a third train-robber held the miserably weary train crew in line. he found the conductor just about to pull the bell-rope, to proceed. the conductor had forgotten all about the rest of the staff. mallory took him aside, and told him the situation, then turned to marjorie, said: "excuse me a minute," and hurried forward. the conductor followed mallory through the train into the baggage coach. the first news the third outlaw had of the counter-revolution occurring in the sleeping car was a mysterious bullet that flicked the dust near his heel, and a sonorous shout of "hands up!" as he whirled in amaze, he saw two revolvers aimed point blank at him from behind a trunk. he hoisted his guns without parley, and the train crew trussed him up in short order. mallory ran back to marjorie, and the conductor followed more slowly, reassuring the passengers in the other cars, and making certain that the train was ready to move on its way. mallory went straight to dr. temple, with a burning demand: "you dear old fraud, will you marry me?" dr. temple laughed and nodded. marjorie and mrs. temple had been telling him the story of the prolonged elopement, and he was eager to atone for his own deception, by putting an end to their misery. "just wait one moment," he said, and as a final proof of affection, he unbuttoned his collar and put it on backwards. mrs. temple brought out the discarded bib, and he donned it meekly. the transformation explained many a mystery the old man had enmeshed himself in. even as he made ready for the ceremony, the conductor appeared, looked him over, grinned, and reached for the bell-cord, with a cheerful: "all aboard!" mallory had a sort of superstitious dread, not entirely unfounded on experience, that if the train got under way again, it would run into some new obstacle to his marriage. he turned to the conductor: "say, old man, just hold the train till after my wedding, won't you?" it was not much to ask in return for his services, but the conductor was tired of being second in command. he growled: "not a minute. we're 'way behind time." "you might wait till i'm married," mallory pleaded. "not on your life!" the conductor answered, and he pulled the bell-rope twice; in the distance, the whistle answered twice. mallory's temper flared again. he cried: "this train doesn't go another step till i'm married!" he reached up and pulled the bell-rope once; in the distance the whistle sounded once. this was high treason, and the conductor advanced on him threateningly, as he seized the cord once more. "you touch that rope again, and i'll----" "oh, no, you won't," said mallory, as he whisked a revolver from his right pocket and jammed it into the conductor's watch-pocket. the conductor came to attention. then mallory, standing with his right hand on military duty, put out his left hand, and gave the word: "now, parson." he smiled still more as he heard kathleen's voice wailing: "but i can't find my bracelet. where's my bracelet?" "silence! silence!" dr. temple commanded, and then: "join hands, my children." marjorie shifted snoozleums to her left arm, put her right hand into mallory's, and dr. temple, standing between them, began to drone the ritual. everybody said they made a right pretty picture. when the old clergyman had done his work, the young husband-at-last graciously rescinded military law, recalled the artillery from the conductor's very midst, and remembering manila, smiled: "you may fire when ready, conductor." the conductor's rage had cooled, and he slapped the bridegroom on the back with one hand, as he pulled the cord with the other. the train began to creak and tug and shift. the ding-dong of the bell floated murmurously back as from a lofty steeple, and the clickety-click, click-clickety-click quickened and softened into a pleasant gossip, as the speed grew, and the way was so smooth for the wheels that they seemed to be spinning on rails of velvet. the end a railway romance. my adventure in the flying scotsman. my adventure in the flying scotsman: _a romance of_ london and north-western railway shares. by eden phillpotts. london: james hogg and sons, lovell's court, paternoster row. . _all rights reserved._ richard clay & sons, bread street hill, london; _bungay, suffolk_. introduction. the following story was told me by that meek but estimable little man who forms the central figure in it. i have made him relate the strange vicissitudes of his life in the first person, and, by doing so, preserve, i venture to believe, some quaintness of thought and expression that is characteristic of him. my adventure in the flying scotsman. chapter i. a dangerous legacy. the rain gave over about five o'clock, and the sun, having struggled unavailingly all day with a leaden november sky, burst forth in fiery rage, when but a few short minutes separated him from the horizon. his tawny splendour surrounded me as i trudged from richmond, in surrey, to the neighbouring hamlet of petersham. above me the wet, naked branches of the trees shone red, and seemed to drip with blood; the hedgerows sparkled their flaming gems; in the meadows, which i struck across to save time, parallel streaks of crimson lay along the cart-ruts. all nature glowed in the lurid light, and, to a mind fraught with much trouble and anxiety, there was something sinister in the slowly dying illumination, in the lowering, savage sky, in the bars of blood that sank hurtling together into the west, and in the vast cloudlands of gloom that were now fast bringing back the rain and the night. should you ask what reason i, john lott, a small, middle-aged, banking clerk, who lived in north london, might have for thus rushing away from the warm fire, good wife, pretty daughter, and comforting tea-cake, that were all at this moment awaiting me somewhere in kilburn, i would reply, that death, sudden and startling, had brought about this earthquake in my orderly existence. should you again naturally suggest that a four-wheeled cab might have effected with greater cleanliness and dispatch, than my short legs, the country journey between richmond and petersham, i would admit the fact, but, at the same time, advance sufficiently sound reasons why that muddy walk was best undertaken on foot. for, touching this death, but one other living man could have equal interest in it with myself; and for me, especially, were entwined round about it issues of very grave and stupendous moment. honour, rectitude, my duty to myself and to my neighbour, together with other no less important questions, were all at stake; and upon my individual judgment, blinded by no thoughts of personal danger or self-interest, must the case be decided. i had foreseen this for some years, had given much consideration to the matter; but no satisfactory solution of the difficulties at any time presented itself, and now the long anticipated circumstance arrived, as it always does with men of my calibre, to find him most involved and concerned in the conduct of affairs, least qualified to cope with them. why i walked to oak lodge, petersham, then, was to gain a few minutes, to collect my wandering wits and acquire a mental balance capable of meeting the troubles that awaited me. what i had been unable to accomplish in two years, however, did not seem likely to be effected in twenty minutes; and, indeed, the angry sunset, together with an element of grave personal danger already mentioned, combined to drive all reasonable trains of thought from my head. ultimately i arrived at my destination, with a mind about as concentrated and purposes about as strong as those of a drowned worm. and wherefore all this misery, do you suppose? simply because an estimable lady had just been pleased to leave me a comfortable matter of ten thousand pounds. so far good; but when i say that i am not related to the deceased, that her next of kin has for the past fifteen years been seeking an opportunity to take my life, and that a meeting between us is now imminent, it will be noticed the case presents certain unusual difficulties. this assertion--that a man has sought to rob me of my insignificant existence for fifteen years--doubtless appears so preposterous, that it is best i should clearly explain the matter at once. a scrap of the past must here, then, be intercalated between my arrival at oak lodge and the events which followed it. upon my father's death, my mother, who was at that time not much over twenty years of age, married again with one george beakbane, a wealthy farmer and owner of a comfortable freehold estate in norfolk. this property had for its title the family name of beakbane. my step-father, after one son was born to him, lost his young wife, and was left with two infants upon his hands. right well he treated both, making no sort of distinction, but sharing his love between us, and, after we were of an age to benefit from a man's training, bringing us up under his own eye and in his own school. it was a spartan entry upon life for young joshua beakbane and myself; but whereas i thrived under the puritanic and colourless regime, mr. beakbane's own son, a youth by nature prone to vicious habits and evil communications, chafed beneath the iron rule, which only became more unbending in consequence. there was much to be said on either side, no doubt; though none could have foreseen, as a result of those trifling restraints and paternal rebukes, the great and terrible punishment that would fall both upon father and son. when he was twenty-one years of age, joshua beakbane, in a fit of mad folly, that to me is scarcely conceivable, ran away from the farm, taking with him about five hundred pounds of his father's money. he was pursued, arrested, and committed for trial at the next assizes. old george beakbane, a just, proud man, sprung from a race that had ever been just and proud, would listen to no plea of mercy. there was none to speak for the culprit but me--his half-brother; and my prayers were useless. the father sent his son to gaol, blotted his name from the family tree, and, after that day, regarded me as his heir. that i should change my name to beakbane was a stipulation of my step-father, and this i had no objection to doing. my inclinations and ambitions were towards art, but such prospects as a painter's life could promise were distasteful to george beakbane, and i relinquished them. joshua's sentence amounted to ten years of penal servitude, and it was the wish of my life at that time to some day bring about a reconciliation between father and son. any of the great advantages accruing to myself through the present arrangements i would have gladly foregone to see the old man happy; for him i loved sincerely, and clearly saw, as the time went by, that all joy had faded out of his life after his son went to prison. long before the ten years were fulfilled, however, george beakbane died and i succeeded to the estate. and here i solemnly declare and avow, before heaven and men, that my intention from the first moment of accepting the mastership of beakbane, was, by doing so, to benefit him whom i still considered the rightful owner thereof. upon joshua's release i fully purposed an act of abdication in his favour. i should, had all gone well, have taken such legal measures as might be convenient to the case, and reinstated my relative in that situation which, but for his own reckless folly, had all along been proper to him. now the ability to do so much for joshua beakbane would not have been mine, unless i had consented to become the heir; because, failing me, old george beakbane might have sought and found another inheritor for his property; and one, likely enough, without my moral principles or ultimate intentions. all was ordered very differently to what i hoped and desired, however. one short year before my half-brother would have relieved me of my responsibilities, a concatenation of dire events brought ruin and destruction upon me. i have never attempted to deny my own miserable weakness in this matter. i had married during my stewardship, and for my wife's brother, a man as i believed of sterling honesty and considerable wealth, i consented to 'back' certain bills, as a matter of convenience for some two or three months. again i admit my criminal frailty; but with the fact and its consequences we have now to deal. my brother-in-law's entanglements increased, and he cut the knot by blowing his brains out, leaving me with a stupendous mountain of debt staring me in the face. the beakbane property went to meet it. every acre was mortgaged, every mortgage foreclosed upon, the estate ceased to exist as a whole. the debt was ultimately discharged, and i, with my wife and child, came to london. these things reaching joshua beakbane's ears about a month before his sentence expired, shattered his hopes and ambitions for the future, left him absolutely a pauper, and terribly excited his rage and indignation against me. i had not trusted myself to tell him the fatal news; but in the ear of my messenger, a lawyer, he hissed an awful oath that, did we ever meet, my life would pay the debt i owed him. knowing the man to have some of his father's iron fixity of purpose, together with much varied wickedness peculiar to himself, and for which our mutual mother was in no way responsible, i took him at his word, changed my name yet again, and buried myself in the metropolis. here i very quickly found that my art was not of a sort to keep my wife and child, when the question of painting to sell came to be considered. i therefore sought more solid employment, and was fortunate to obtain a position in messrs. macdonald's bank. years rolled by to the number of fifteen. joshua beakbane sought me high and low; indeed, i am fully persuaded that his desire to take my life became a monomania with him, for he left no stone unturned to come at me. but i wore spectacles of dark blue glass when about in the streets, and always shaved clean from the time of my entry on life in london. several times i met my half-brother, till becoming gradually assured of my safety, i grew bold and employed a private detective to discover his home and occupation. thus i learned that most of his time was spent in attending race meetings, and that he enjoyed some notoriety amongst the smaller fry of bookmakers. let the reader possess his soul in patience a short half page longer and these tedious but necessary preliminaries will be ended. miss sarah beakbane-minifie, the lady whose death has just been recorded, was a near relation of my half-brother, but, of course, no connection of mine. me, however, she esteemed very highly, and always had done so, from the time that my mother married into her family. having watched my career narrowly, being convinced of my integrity, misfortunes, and honourable motives in the past, she had seen fit to regard me as a martyr and a notable person; though her own kinsman received but scant acknowledgment at her hands. and now her entire fortune, specie, bonds and shares, was mine, and joshua beakbane found himself once more in the cold. what were his feelings and intentions? i asked myself. was he still disposed as of old towards me, and would he prefer my life to any earthly advancement i might now be in a position to extend to him? would he accept a compromise? should i meet him at petersham, and if so, should i ever leave oak lodge excepting feet foremost? what was my clear duty in the case, and would the doing of it be likely to facilitate matters? such were some of the questions to which i could find no replies as i walked slowly through the mud, and then, feeling that suspense only made the future look more terrific, struck across the fields, as aforesaid, and became eager to reach my destination as quickly as possible. come what might, if alive, i was bound to start for scotland on the following day to be witness in a legal case pending against my firm; and the recollection of this duty was uppermost in my thoughts when i finally reached oak lodge. martha prescott and her husband, the deceased lady's sole retainers, greeted me, and their grief appeared sufficiently genuine as i was ushered by them to the drawing-room. this apartment--charming enough in the summer when the french windows were always open, and the garden without, a mass of red and white roses, syringa, and other homely flowers--was now dark and cheerless. the blinds were not drawn, the last dim gleams of daylight appeared more dreary than total gloom. a decanter of port wine with some dried fruits stood upon the table, and i am disposed to think that one, at least, of the two men sitting by the fire had been smoking. for a moment i believed the taller and younger of these to be my enemy, but a flicker of fire-light showed the mistake as both rose to meet me. mr. plenderleath, my dead friend's solicitor, a flabby, pompous gentleman, with a scent of eau-de-cologne about him and a nice choice of language, shook my hand and his head in the most perfect unison. joshua beakbane, he informed me, had been communicated with, but as yet no answer to the telegram was received. "for yourself, i beg you will accept my condolence and congratulations in one breath, dear sir. when such a woman as miss beakbane-minifie must die, it is well to feel that such a man as mr. lott shall have the administration of that which the blessed deceased cannot take with her. my lamented client and your aunt has left you, dear sir, the considerable fortune of one hundred thousand pounds." "she is not any relation; but, my good sir, the deceased lady always led me to understand that ten thousand pounds or so was the sum-total of her wealth." "the admirable woman intentionally deceived you, dear sir, in order that your surprise and joy might be the greater. and by a curious circumstance, which your aunt's eccentricities have effected, i can this very evening show you most of your property, or what stands for it." "miss beakbane-minifie was not my aunt," i repeated; but mr. plenderleath paid no heed to me and wandered on. "god forbid," he said, "that i should say any word which might reflect in your mind, no matter how remotely, on the blessed defunct. still the truth remains--that your aunt, during the latter days of her life, developed instincts only too common in age, though none the less painful for that. a certain distrust, almost bordering upon suspicion, prompted her to withdraw from my keeping the divers documents, certificates, and so forth that represented the bulk of her property, and which, i need hardly observe, were as safe in my fire-proof iron strong-room as in the bank of england. have them she would, however, and i confess to you, dear sir, that the knowledge of so much wealth hidden in this comparatively lonely and ill-guarded old house has caused me no slight uneasiness. but all is well that ends well, we may now say, and the danger being past, need not revert to it. true, this mass of money must stay here for the present, but, i assume, you will not leave this establishment again until the last rites have been performed. one more word and i have done. i find upon looking into the estate that your aunt has been realizing considerable quantities of stock quite recently upon her own judgment without any reference to me. the wisdom of such negotiations we need not now discuss. nothing but good of the blessed dead. however, the money is here; indeed, no less a sum than thirteen thousand pounds, in fifty-pound notes, lies upon yonder table. now your aunt--" "please understand, sir," i explained testily, "that, once and for all, the deceased lady was no relation to me whatever." i felt in one of those highly-strung, sensitive moods which men occasionally chance upon, and in which the reiteration of some trivial error or expression blinds them to proper reflection on the business in hand, no matter how momentous. moreover, the suggestion that i should stop in the lonely house of death to guard my wealth that night, was abominable. without my wife or some equally capable person i would not have undertaken such a vigil for the universe. "i apologize," said mr. plenderleath, in answer to my rebuke. "i was about to remark when you interrupted me, that miss beakbane-minifie's principal source of increment was a very considerable number of shares in the london and north-western railway. the certificates for these are also here. now, to conclude, dear sir. upon mr. joshua beakbane's arrival, which should not be long delayed, you and he can appoint a day for the funeral, after which event i will, of course, read the will in the presence of yourself and such few others as may be interested therein. your aunt passed calmly away, i understand, about four o'clock this morning. her end was peace. for myself, i need only say that i should not be here to-night in the usual order of events. but the good prescotts, ignorant of your address, telegraphed to me in their sad desolation, and, as a christian man, i deemed it my duty to respond to their call without loss of time." mr. plenderleath sighed, bowed, and resumed his seat after drinking a glass of wine. candles were brought in, and i then explained to the solicitor something of my relations with joshua beakbane, also the danger that a possible meeting between us might mean for me. the legal brain was deeply interested by those many questions this statement of mine gave rise to. he saw the trial that any sojourn in oak lodge must be to me, and was, moreover, made fully alive to the fact that i had not the slightest intention of stopping there beyond another hour or so. i own i was in a terribly nervous condition; and a man can no more help the weakness of his nerves than the colour of his hair. it then transpired that the third person of our party was mr. plenderleath's junior clerk, a taciturn, powerful young fellow, with a face i liked the honest look of. he offered, if we approved the suggestion, to keep watch and ward at petersham during the coming night. mr. plenderleath pooh-poohed the idea as being ridiculous beyond the power of words to express; but finding i was not of his opinion, declared that, for his part, if i really desired such an arrangement he would allow the young man to remain in the house until after the will was read and the property legally my own. "personally i would trust mr. sorrell with anything," declared the solicitor; "but whether you, a stranger to him, are right in doing the same, i will not presume to say." the plan struck me as being excellent, however, and was accordingly determined upon. and now there lay before me a duty which, in my present frame of mind, i confess i had no stomach for. propriety demanded that i should look my last on the good friend who was gone, and i prepared to do so. slowly i ascended the stairs and hesitated at the bed-chamber door before going into the presence of death. at this moment i felt no sorrow at hearing a soft foot-fall in the apartment. martha prescott was evidently within, and i entered, somewhat relieved at not having to undergo the ordeal alone. my horror, as may be supposed, was very great then to find the room empty. all i saw of life set my heart thumping at my ribs, and fastened me to the spot upon which i stood. there was another door at the further end of this room, and through it i just caught one glimpse of joshua beakbane's broad back as he vanished, closing the door after him. there could be no mistake. two shallow steps led up to the said door, and it only gave access to a narrow apartment scarce bigger than a cupboard. the dead lady, with two wax candles burning at her feet, lay an insignificant atom in the great canopied bed. the room was tidy, and everything decent and well ordered, save that the white cerement which was wrapped about the corpse had been moved from off her face. but death so calm and peaceful as this paled before the terror of what i had witnessed. i dare not convince myself by rushing to the door through which my enemy had disappeared. my hair stood upon end. a vile sensation, as of ants creeping on my flesh, came over me. i turned, shuddering, and somehow found myself once more with the men i had left. i told my adventure, only to be politely laughed at by both. the young clerk, whose name was sorrell, offered to make careful search of the premises, and calling the prescotts, we went up with haste to seek the cause of my alarm. the door through which, as i believed, joshua beakbane had made his exit from the death-chamber yielded to us without resistance, and the small receptacle into which it opened was empty. some of the dead lady's dresses were hung upon the walls, and these, with an old oaken trunk containing linen, which had rosemary and camphor in it to keep out the moths, were all we could find. the window was fastened, and the wooden shutters outside in their place. young sorrell had some ado to keep from laughing at my discomfiture, but we silently returned past where the two candles were burning and rejoined mr. plenderleath. that gentleman at my request consented to stay and dine, after which meal he and i would return to town together. he urged me to drink something more generous than claret, which, being quite unstrung, i did do, and was gradually regaining my mental balance when a circumstance occurred that threw me into a greater fit of prostration than before. a telegram arrived for mr. plenderleath, and was read aloud by him. it ran as follows:-- "_joshua beakbane died third november. caught chill on cambridgeshire day of newmarket houghton meeting. body unclaimed, buried by parish._" "now this communication--" began mr. plenderleath in his pleasing manner, but broke off upon seeing the effect of the telegram on me. "my dear sir, you are ill. what is the matter now? you look as though you had seen a ghost." "man alive, _i have_!" i shrieked out. "what can be clearer? a vision of joshua beakbane has evidently been vouchsafed me, and--and--i wish devoutly that it were not so." the hatefulness of this reflection blinded me for some time to my own good fortune. here, in one moment, was all my anxiety and tribulation swept away. the incubus of fifteen long years had rolled off my life, and the future appeared absolutely unclouded. to this great fact the solicitor now invited my attention, and congratulated me with much warmth upon the happy turn affairs had taken. but it was long before i could remotely realize the situation, long before i could grasp my freedom, very long before i could convince myself that the shadow i had seen but recently, flitting from the side of the dead, had only existed in my own overwrought imagination. after dinner, while half an hour still remained before the fly would call for mr. plenderleath and me, we went together through the papers and memoranda he had collected from his late client's divers desks and boxes. young sorrell was present, and naturally took considerable interest in the proceedings. "of course, mr. lott," he said, laughing, "against ghosts all my care must be useless. and still, as ghosts are impalpable, they could hardly walk off with this big bag here, and its contents." we were now slowly placing the different documents in a leathern receptacle mr. plenderleath had found, well suited to the purpose. i was looking at a share certificate of the london and north-western railway, when mr. sorrell addressed me again. "i am a great materialist myself, sir," he declared, "and no believer in spiritualistic manifestations of any sort; but everybody should be open to conviction. will you kindly give me some description of the late mr. joshua beakbane? then, if anything untoward appears, i shall be better able to understand it." for answer, and not heeding upon what i was working, i made as good a sketch as need be of my half-brother. martha prescott, who now arrived to announce the cab, said as far as she remembered the original of the drawing, it was life-like. it should have been so, for if one set of features more than another were branded on my mind, those lineaments belonged to joshua beakbane. when i had finished my picture, and not before, i discovered that i had been drawing upon the back of a share certificate already mentioned. then mr. plenderleath and i left the gloomy, ill-lighted abode of death, bidding mr. sorrel good-night, and feeling distinct satisfaction at once again being in the open air. i speak for myself, but am tolerably certain that, in spite of his pompous exterior, the solicitor was well-pleased to get back to richmond, and from the quantity of hot brandy and water he consumed while waiting for the london train, i gathered that even his ponderous nerves had been somewhat shaken. there was much for me to tell my wife and daughter on returning to kilburn, and the small hours of morning had already come before we retired to sleep, and thank god for this wonderful change in our fortunes. but the thought of that brave lad guarding my wealth troubled me. i saw the silent house buried in darkness; i saw the great black expanse of garden and meadow, the rain falling heavily down, and the trees tossing their lean arms into the night. i thought of the little form lying even more motionless than those who slept--mayhap with a dim ghostly watcher still beside it. i thought, in fine, of many mysterious horrors, and allowed my mind to move amidst a hundred futile alarms. chapter ii. the "flying scotsman." with daylight, or such drear apology for it as a london november morning allows, i arose, prepared for my journey to the north, and wrote certain letters before starting for the city. the monotonous labours of a clerk's life were nearly ended now; the metropolis--a place both my wife and i detested--would soon see the last of us; already i framed in my mind the letter which should shortly be received by the bank manager announcing my resignation. it may perhaps have been gathered that i am a weak man in some ways, and i confess these little preliminaries to my altered state gave me a sort of pleasure. the ladies argued throughout breakfast as to the locality of our new home, and paid me such increased attentions as befit the head of a house who, from being but an unimportant atom in the machinery of a vast money-making establishment, suddenly himself blossoms into a man of wealth. thus had two successive fortunes accrued to me through my mother's second marriage; and no calls of justice or honour could quarrel with my right to administer this second property as i thought fit. for joshua beakbane had left no family, and, concerning others bearing his name, i did not so much as know if any existed. to town i went, and taking no pains to conceal my prosperity, was besieged with hearty congratulations and desires to drink, at my expense, to continued good fortune. how brief was that half-hour of triumph, and what a number of friends i found among my colleagues in men whom i had always suspected of quite a contrary disposition towards me! i had scarcely settled to a clear mastery of the business that would shortly take me towards scotland, when a messenger reached me from mr. plenderleath. the solicitor desired to see me without delay, and obtaining leave, i drove to his chambers in chancery lane. never shall i forget the sorry sight my smug, sententious friend presented; never before have i seen any fellow-creature so nearly reduced to the level of a jelly-fish. he was sitting in his private room, his letters unopened, his overcoat and scarf still upon him. a telegram lay at his feet, after reading which he had evidently sank into his chair and not moved again. he pointed to the message as i entered, shutting the door behind me. it came from petersham, and ran as follows-- "_window drawing-room open this morning. gentleman gone, bag gone._" a man by nature infirm of purpose, will sometimes show unexpected determination when the reverse might be feared from him; and now, finding mr. plenderleath utterly crushed by intelligence that must be more terrible to me than any other, i rose to the occasion in a manner very surprising and gratifying to myself. "quick! up, man! this is no time for delay," i exclaimed. "for god's sake stir yourself. we should be half way to petersham by now. there has been foul play here. mr. sorrell's life may be in danger, if not already sacrificed. rouse yourself, sir, i beg." he looked at me wonderingly, shook his head, and murmured something about my being upon the wrong tack altogether. he then braced himself to face the situation, and prepared to accompany me to petersham. upon the way to waterloo, we wired for a detective from scotland yard to follow us, and in less than another hour were driving from richmond to oak lodge. then, but not till then, did mr. plenderleath explain to me his views and fears, which came like a thunderclap. "your ardour and generous eagerness, dear sir, to succour those in peril, almost moves me to tears," he began; "but these intentions are futile, or i am no man of law. it is my clerk, walter sorrell, we must seek, truly; but not where you would seek him. _he_ is the thief, mr. lott--i am convinced of that. i saw no reason last night to fear any danger from without, and i hinted as much. my only care at any time was the man of questionable morals, who has recently gone to his rest. no; sorrell has succumbed to the temptation, and it is upon my head that the punishment falls." he was terribly prostrated, talked somewhat wildly of such recompense as lay within his powers, and appeared to have relinquished all hopes of my ever coming by my property again. this plain solution of the theft had honestly never occurred to me, until advanced with such certainty by my companion. the affair, in truth, appeared palpable enough to the meanest comprehension, and i said nothing further about violence or possible loss of life. even more unquestionable seemed the solicitor's explanation when we reached petersham, and heard what the prescotts had to tell us. the local inspector of police and two subordinates were already upon the scene, but had done nothing much beyond walk up and down on a flower-bed outside the drawing-room window, and then re-enter the house. sarah prescott's elaboration of the telegram was briefly this:-- she had lighted a fire in a comfortable bedroom on the upper floor, and, upon asking the young man to come and see it, was surprised to learn he proposed sitting up through the night. "my husband," said mrs. prescott, "did not like the hearing of this, and was for watching the gentleman from the garden just to see that he meant no harm; but i over-persuaded him from such foolishness, as i thought it. the last thing before going to my bed, i brought the gent a scuttle of coals and some spirits and hot water. he was then reading a book he had fetched down from that book-case, and said that he should do well now, what with his pipe and the things i'd got for him. he gave me 'good-night' as nice as ever i heard a gentleman say it; then i heard him lock the door on the inside as i went away. this morning, at seven o'clock, i fetched him a cup of tea and some toast i'd made. the door was wide open, so was the window, and the bag that stood on the table last night had gone. the gent wasn't there either, of course." long we talked after this statement, waiting for the detective from london to come. continually some one or other of the men assembled let his voice rise with the interest of the conversation. then mrs. prescott would murmur 'hush,' and point upwards to where the silent dead was lying. a careful scrutiny of the drawing-room showed that sorrell's vigil had been a short one. the fire had not been made up after mrs. prescott left the watcher; a novel, open at page five, lay face downwards upon the table; a pipe of tobacco, which had only just been lighted and then suffered to go out, was beside it, together with a tumbler of spirit-and-water, quite full, and evidently not so much as sipped from. the defaulter's hat and coat were gone from their place in the hall, as also his stick. mrs. prescott had picked up a silk neckerchief in the passage that led to the drawing-room from the hall. a chair was overturned in the middle of the room; but beyond this no sign of anything untoward could be found. a small seedy-looking man from london soon afterwards arrived, and quickly and quietly made himself master of the situation so far as it was at present developed. the prescotts and their information interested him chiefly. after hearing all they could tell him he examined the room for himself, attaching enormous importance to a trifle that had escaped our attention. this was a candle by the light of which walter sorrell read his book. it had evidently burned for some time after the room was deserted, but not down to the socket. the grease had guttered all upon one side, and a simple experiment showed the cause. lighting another candle and placing it on the same spot, it burned steadily until both window and door were opened. then, however, the flame flickered in the draught thus set up; the grease began to gutter, and the candle threatened to go out at any moment. "what do you gather from that?" i inquired of the detective. "this," he answered; "taking account of the open window and door, the overturned chair and the candle left burning, it's clear enough that when the gent did go out, he went in the devil of a hurry, made a bolt, in fact, as though some one was on his track at the very start. there's no one else in the house, you say?" "only the blessed dead," said mr. plenderleath. but i thought involuntarily of what i had seen the preceding evening. could it be that some horrid vision had appeared in the still hours of night, and that, eager for his employer's welfare, even in such a terrible moment, the young man had seized my wealth and leapt out into the dark night rather than face the dire and monstrous phantom? if so, what had become of him? the detective made no further remarks, and refused to answer any questions, though he asked several. then, after a long and fruitless search in the grounds and meadowland adjacent, he returned to town, his pocket-book well filled with information. a discovery of possible importance was made soon afterwards. the robbery and all its known circumstances had got wind in the neighbourhood, and now a labourer, working by the thames (which is distant from petersham about five hundred yards) appeared, bearing the identical leathern bag which had been stolen. he had found it empty, stranded in some sedges by the river's brim. fired by the astuteness of him who had just returned to town, i inquired which way the tide was running last evening. but, upon learning, no idea of any brilliance presented itself to me. there was nothing to be done at petersham; the scamp and his ill-gotten possessions must be far enough away by this time; at least mr. plenderleath said so, and i now returned to london with him. all for the present then was over. all my suddenly acquired wealth had vanished, and i was a poor clerk again. yet how infinitely happier might i consider myself now than in the past. "it may please god," i said to myself, "of his mercy to yet return perhaps as much as half of this good money; but it will not please him to restore my terrible relation--that i am convinced about." upon first recalling my coming trip to scotland i was minded to get excused of it, but quickly came to the conclusion that nothing better could have happened to me just now than a long journey upon other affairs than my own. it would take me out of myself, and give my wife and child a chance of recovering from the grief they must certainly be in upon hearing the sad news. i wrote therefore to them on returning to my office, dined in the city, and finally repaired to euston. at ten minutes to nine o'clock the "flying scotsman" steamed from the station, bearing with it, among other matters, a first-class carriage of which i was the sole occupant after leaving rugby. i had books and newspapers, bought from force of habit, but was not likely to read them, for my mind contained more than sufficient material to feed upon. very much of a trying character occupied my brains as i sat and listened to my flying vehicle. now it roared like thunder as we rushed over bridges, now screamed triumphantly as we whirled past silent, deserted stations. anon we went with a crash through archways, and once, with gradually slackening speed and groaning breaks, shrieked with impatience at a danger signal that barred the way. i watched the oil in the bottom of the lamp above me dribble from side to side with every oscillation of the train, and the sight depressed me beyond measure. what irony of fate was this! yesterday the london and north-western railway meant more than half my entire fortune; now the stoker who threw coals into the great fiery heart of the engine had more interest in the company than i! overcome with these gloomy thoughts, i drew around the lamp that lighted my carriage a sort of double silken shutter, and endeavoured to forget everything in sleep, if it were possible. sleep is as a rule not only possible but necessary to me after ten o'clock in the evening, and i soon slumbered soundly in spite of my tribulation. upon waking with a start i found i was no longer alone. the train was going at a tremendous pace; one of the circular curtains i had drawn about the lamp had been pulled up, leaving me in the shade, but lighting the other man who looked across from the further corner in which he was sitting, and smiled at my surprise. it was joshua beakbane. i never experienced greater agony than in that waking moment, and until the man spoke, thereby convincing me by the tones of his voice that he was no spirit my mental suffering passes possibility of description in words. "a fellow-traveller need not surprise you, sir," he said. "i got in at crewe, and you were sleeping so soundly that i did not wake you. i took the liberty of reading your evening paper, however, and also gave myself a little light." he was alive, and had quite failed to recognize me. i thanked him in as gruff a voice as i could assume and looked at my watch. we had been gone from crewe above half an hour, and should be due at wigan, our next stopping-place, in about twenty minutes. joshua beakbane was a tall, heavily-built man, with a flat, broad face, and a mouth that hardly suggested his great strength of purpose. his heavy moustache was inclined to reddishness, and his restless eyes had also something of red in them. he was clad in a loud tweed, with ulster and hat of the same material. the man had, moreover, aged much since i last saw him about five years ago. finding me indisposed to talk, he took a portmanteau from the hat-rail above him, unstrapped a railway rug, wound it about his lower limbs, and then fell to arranging such brushes, linen, and garments as the portmanteau contained. my benumbed senses were incapable of advancing any reason for what i saw. why had this man seen fit to declare himself dead? what was his business in the north? was it possible that he could be in league with the runaway clerk? had i in reality seen him lurking in the house at petersham? an explanation to some of these difficulties was almost immediately forthcoming--as villainous and shameful an explanation as ever unfortunate man stumbled upon. my enemy suddenly started violently, and glancing up, i found him staring with amazement and discomfort in his face at a paper that he held. seeing me looking at him, he smothered his expression of astonishment and laughed. "an infernal clerk of mine," he said, "has been using my business documents as he does my blotting-paper. he'll pay for this to-morrow." for a brief moment joshua beakbane held the paper to the light, and what had startled him immediately did no less for me: it was a certain pencil portrait of the man himself on the back of a london and north-western railway share certificate. some there are who would have tackled this situation with ease and perhaps come well out of it; but to me, that am a small and shiftless being at my best, the position i now found myself in was quite intolerable. i would have given half my slender annual salary for a stiff glass of brandy-and-water. the recent discovery paralyzed me. i made no question that joshua beakbane had at least his share of the plunder with him in the portmanteau; but how to take advantage of the fact i could not imagine. silence and pretended sleep were the first moves that suggested themselves. a look or word or hint that could suggest to the robber i remotely fathomed his secret, would doubtless mean for me a cut throat and no further interest in "the flying scotsman." wigan was passed and preston not far distant when i bethought me of a plan that would, like enough, have occurred to any other in my position an hour earlier. i might possibly get a message on to the telegraph wires and have joshua beakbane stopped when he least expected such a thing. i wrote therefore on a leaf of my pocket-book, but did so in trembling, for should the man i was working to overthrow catch sight of the words, even though he might not guess who i really was, he would at least take me for a detective in disguise, and all must then be over. thus i worded my telegram:-- "_prepare to make big arrest at carlisle. small man will wave hand from first-class compartment. flying scotsman._" for me this was not bad. i doubled it up, put a sovereign in it, wrote on the outside--"send this at all hazards," and prepared to dispose of it as best i might at preston. then fresh terrors held me on every side. would the robber by any unlucky chance be getting out at the next station? i made bold to ask him. he answered that carlisle was his destination, and much relieved, i trusted that it might be so for some time. at preston i scarcely waited for the train to stop before leaping to the platform--as luck would have it on the foot of a sleepy porter. he swore in the lancashire dialect, and i pressed my message into his hand. i was already back in the carriage again when the fool--i can call him nothing less strong--came up to the window, held my communication under joshua beakbane's eye, and inquired what he was to do with it. "it is a telegram to glasgow," i told him, with my knees knocking together. "it _must_ go. there's a sovereign inside for the man who sends it." the dunder-headed fellow now grasped my meaning and withdrew, tolerably wide awake. joshua beakbane showed himself deeply interested in this business, and knowing what i did, it was clear to me from the searching questions he put that his suspicions were violently aroused. the lie to the railway-porter was, so far as my memory serves me, the only one i ever told in my life. whether it was justified by circumstances i will not presume to decide. but to joshua beakbane i spoke the unvarnished truth concerning my trip northward. the pending trial at glasgow had some element of interest in it; and my half-brother slowly lost the air of mistrust with which he had regarded me as i laid before him the documents relating to my mission. the journey between preston and carlisle occupied a trifle more than two hours, though to me it appeared unending. a thousand times i wondered if my message had yet flashed past us in the darkness, and reflected how, on reaching carlisle, i might best preserve my own safety and yet advance the ends of justice. as we at last began to near the station joshua beakbane strapped his rug to his portmanteau, unlocked the carriage-door with a private key he now for the first time produced, and made other preparations for a speedy exit. upon my side of the train he would have to alight, and now, on looking eagerly from the carriage-window, though still some distance outside the station, i believed i could see a group of dark-coated men under the gas-lamps we were approaching. leaning out of the train i waved my hand frantically to them. the next moment i was dragged back from inside. "what are you doing?" my companion demanded. "signalling to friends," i answered boldly, and there must have been some chord in my voice that awoke old memories and new suspicions, for beakbane immediately looked out of the window, saw the police, and turned upon me like a tiger. "my god! i know you now," he yelled. "so you venture it at last?--then you shall have it." he hurled himself at me; his big white hands closed like an iron collar round my neck; his thumbs pressed into my throat. a red mist filled my eyes, my brains seemed bursting through my skull; i believed the train must have rushed right through the station, and that he and i were flying into the lonely night once more. then i became dimly conscious of a great wilderness of faces from the past staring at me, and all was blank. what followed i afterwards learned when slowly coming back to life again in the waiting-room at carlisle. upon the police rushing to the carriage, beakbane dashed me violently from him and jumped through that door of the compartment which was furthest from his pursuers. this he had just time to lock after him before he vanished into the darkness. but for the intervention of providence, in the delay he thus caused the man might have escaped, at least, for that night. he successfully threaded his way through a wilderness of motionless trucks and other rolling-stock. he then made for an engine-house, and having once passed it, would have climbed down a bank and so gained temporary safety. but at the moment he ran across the mouth of this shed an engine was moving from it, and before he could alter his course the locomotive knocked him down, pinned him to the rails, and slowly crushed over him. it was done in a moment, and his cry brought the police, who, at the moment of the accident, were wandering through the station in fruitless search. a doctor was now with joshua beakbane, but no human skill could even prolong life for the unfortunate man, and he lay dying as i staggered to my feet and entered the adjacent room where they had arranged a couch for him on the ground. he was unconscious as i took the big white hand that but a few minutes before had been choking the life out of me; and soon afterwards, with an awful expression of pain, he expired. as may be supposed i needed much care myself, after this frightful ordeal, and it was not until the following day at noon that my senses once more began to thoroughly define themselves. then, upon an inquiry into the papers and property of the dead man, i found that all the missing sources of my fortune, with no exception, had been in his possession. sorrell was thus to my mind proved innocent, and i shrewdly suspected that the unhappy young fellow had fallen a victim to this wretched soul, who was now himself dead. i was fortunately able to proceed to glasgow in the nick of time, to attend to my employer's business there. upon returning to london, my arrival in mr. plenderleath's office with the missing fortune, created no less astonishment in his mind than that which filled my own, when i learned how young sorrell had been found alive and was fast recovering from his injuries. let me break off here one moment to say that if i appear to have treated my half-brother's appalling death with cynical brevity, it is through no lack of feeling in the matter, but rather through lack of space. at six o'clock in the morning, and about an hour after the time that joshua beakbane breathed his last, he then having fasted about three-and-thirty hours, walter sorrell was found gagged and tied, hand and foot, to the wall of a mean building, situate in a meadow not far distant from oak lodge. with his most unpleasing experiences i conclude my narrative. after mrs. prescott's departure on the night of the robbery, he had read for about ten minutes, when, suddenly glancing up from his book, he saw, standing staring in at the window, the identical man whose portrait i had drawn for him. starting up, convinced that what he had seen was no spirit, he unfastened the window and leapt into the garden only to find nothing. returning, he had hastily left the drawing-room to get his stick, hat, and coat. he was scarcely a moment gone, and, on coming back, found joshua beakbane already with the bag and its contents in his hands. sorrell rushed across the room to stay the other's escape; but too late--he had already rushed through the window. grasping his heavy stick, the young man followed, succeeded in keeping the robber in sight, and finally closed with him, both falling violently into a bush of rhododendrons. here an accomplice came to beakbane's aid, and between them they soon had sorrell senseless and a prisoner. he remembered nothing further, till coming to himself in the fowl-house, where he was ultimately found. his antagonists evidently carried him between them to this obscure hiding-place; and there he had soon starved but for his fortunate discovery. the said accomplice has never been found; it wants neither him, however, nor yet that other ally who sent the telegram from newmarket, to tell us how joshua beakbane plotted to steal my fortune, three-fourths of which for the asking should have been his. i regained my health more quickly than might be supposed, and young sorrell was even a shorter time recovering from his starvation and bruises. i gave the worthy lad a thousand pounds, and much good may it do him. the portrait of joshua beakbane, on the back of that london and north-western railway share certificate, is still in my possession, and hangs where all may see it in the library of my new habitation. i now live far away on the coast of cornwall where the great waves roll in, straight from the heart of the atlantic, where the common folk of the district make some stir when i pass them by, and where echoes from mighty london reverberate but peacefully in newspapers that are often a week old before i see them. the end. _r. clay and sons, london and bungay._ young man from elsewhen by sylvia jacobs _one thing the old man was sure of--there were far fewer things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy--till today._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, march . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] a redcap was pushing a wheelchair through the station, under a ceiling so lofty that the place seemed empty, though hundreds of people were milling around, preparing to board the early trains. the old man in the wheelchair had a blanket over his knees, in spite of july heat in los angeles. beside him walked a smartly dressed middle-aged woman, slimmed by diet and with her steel-gray hair looking as if she'd just stepped out of a beauty parlor. she kept up a steady stream of admonitions. "now, papa," she was saying, "don't forget to take your medicine at lunchtime. keep your chair out of the aisle--people have to walk there. and whatever you do, don't go to the club car for a drink--you know it's bad for your arthritis. the doctor said not more than three cigars a day. and if edna isn't at the station to meet you, just wait, do you hear? it's a long drive from her house and she may be late." "hell's fire!" the old man protested. "i was taking trains before you were born! how my boy will stands--" he broke off to ogle a mexican girl, a ripe sixteen, who was walking in the same direction, ahead of them. "papa! act your age!" his daughter-in-law said under her breath. "like they say, a woman's as old as she looks, but a man ain't old till he quits looking," he replied absently. the redcap grinned. the little señorita, not knowing who was watching her but quite sure someone was, paused to put a dime in a coke machine. the wheelchair entourage passed her and the old man craned his neck, looking backward, determined not to miss anything. the girl sat down on a bench to drink her coke. if i were only fifty years younger, the old man thought, i'd buy a coke, too, and sit down beside her.... "papa!" his son's wife cried. "you'll fall out of your chair! why do you always have to embarrass me like this?" but the insistent voice could not interrupt the old man's pleasant daydream of conquest. he had turned off his hearing aid. * * * * * the redcap stopped alongside the third car of the san-francisco-bound streamliner and signaled another redcap who was unloading a baggage truck. the other came over to help and two pairs of strong young arms lifted the old man, wheelchair and all, smoothly onto the platform of the car. his daughter-in-law did not board the train. she stood waving, calling after the old man, "so long, papa! have a nice visit with edna and remember what i told you!" he waved back automatically, but he hadn't heard a word she said. he didn't turn his hearing aid back on until he had been wheeled inside the car. most of the reclining seats were already filled. the redcap pushed the wheelchair the full length of the aisle and parked it in a vacant space beyond the last seat, across from the washroom. he turned it crosswise, so it wouldn't roll when the train started moving, and with its occupant facing the window. "turn me around!" the old man commanded. "like to see who i'm ridin' with. if i want to look out, i always got the opposite window." the redcap complied, but the old man still wasn't satisfied. "better wheel me in the club car straight off," he decided. "sorry, mister," the redcap said, "but you gotta ride in your own car till the conductor takes the tickets. then you can have your train porter take you in there." that wasn't quite true. the conductor could have picked up the old man's ticket in the club car, but this way the redcap was not personally violating the orders of the lady who had given him the tip. "take myself in there, long as he opens the doors," the old man grumbled. but for the time being, he stayed put. the train gave just one lurch, then picked up speed as the straggling city, then trees and suburbs and finally fields flowed past the opposite window. now the old man felt free--for a day, at least, until his daughter edna would take over the job supervising his every move--but at first the trip was lonely. nobody talked to him and the only diversion in the car was a baby, which started squalling. the old man found himself thinking how much friendlier the atmosphere was in the pool hall on figueroa, where he rolled himself almost every day when he took his "walk" to watch the boys shoot pool. he could get there alone from his son's house, for there were driveways he could use to cross the streets, avoiding curbs. he was always welcome in the pool hall and he saw to it that he remained welcome. every month, when his social security check came, he would buy a box of cigars and a couple of bottles and take them to the pool room, where he poured drinks for everybody until his money was used up. what else was money good for but to have a good time? * * * * * he felt more at home in that dingy place, with the walls covered with pinups, than he did in his son's modern ranch-style house. for all his daughter-in-law's fussing over him, her efforts to keep him on the diet and the medicines that were supposed to prolong his life, he knew she was glad to get rid of him for the rest of the summer. he knew because he'd heard what jane said to her best friend, sarah tolliver. jane kept track of him by the squeaking of his wheelchair, and once he had bought a can of oil at the drugstore, and oiled the wheels so they didn't make a sound as he rolled up the inclined planks will had laid over the kitchen steps. sarah and jane had been in the dining area, having coffee, and the old man turned up his hearing aid so he could hear what they were talking about from the kitchen. they were talking about him. "you don't know how lucky you are," sarah was saying, "that it was his legs gave out on him--not his head. when i was working at the hospital, i saw so many old folks who were just zombies, not knowing who they were, where they were, or what time it was. i tell you, there's nothing worse than that. but will's dad? why, he's sharp as a tack. nobody puts anything over on him." "he's sharp, all right," jane agreed, "in some ways. but if he had the use of his legs, he'd be chasing after women. and that pool hall he hangs out in! when a man gets to be seventy-eight, you'd think he'd spend his time in church, not in a dive like that." "what do you care where he goes?" sarah asked. "at least it gives you some time to yourself." that was it. the young folks wanted some time to themselves. it was only natural. well, jane would have the house to herself, with no old man underfoot for the next few months, while he was at edna's. edna was his own flesh and blood; she would mix him a cocktail before dinner and serve him steaks, not baby food. she would kid with him about what a casanova he was before her ma domesticated him, and light his cigars instead of hiding the box and doling them out one by one. she would call him george instead of papa, but it would only be an act, just to make her old father feel good because she didn't expect him to live much longer. for all the time it would be understood that he was at john and edna's house for a visit, that the place he lived was with will and jane. the truth was that neither of the girls would miss him if he didn't wind up at either place. but what a way to waste a whole golden day he had to _himself_, with neither daughter nor daughter-in-law to boss or kid him around. he had looked forward to this day as a day of adventure, a day when anything could happen, and now he was starting it off on the wrong foot, wallowing in self-pity. what he needed was a good stiff drink. yes, at ten o'clock in the morning! when the conductor took his ticket, the old man demanded, "where in hell is the porter?" * * * * * it was a long train and she was hitting ninety now, and though you would not realize it in the sound-insulated, air-conditioned coaches, you did when the porter had to use his full weight to push the door open against the wind, when you heard the clackety-clack of the wheels on the rails, a fountain of noise rising up between cars, when the wheelchair swayed precariously as it was pushed across the iron treads over the couplings. the other coaches were filled with bored passengers in various stages of somnolence, people to whom the trip was merely a means of getting somewhere else. the club car was different; this was the gathering-place of those to whom the trip was an end in itself. it was filled with the smell of ginger ale, good whiskey and the perfume emanating from two young women at one of the small tables, periodically inspecting their makeup and hairdos in little mirrors, waiting for some nice young men to arrive. regretfully, the old man realized that he was not a candidate for the honor. but a few drinks would dull the twinges in his crippled legs and make him feel years younger. the white-coated waiter moved a chair, pulled the wheelchair up next to another small table and placed a paper napkin meticulously on it. the old man decided to start with a bottle of beer. plenty of time to work up to the stronger stuff, and this way the minimum of pocket money his daughter-in-law had provided would last longer, perhaps until some free spender started buying drinks. as it turned out, he caught his benefactor before the girls did. it was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, a dead ringer for marshal wyatt earp. he went directly to the old man's table, as if he had picked him out. as a matter of fact, he had. "may i sit here?" he asked. "glad to have you," the old man said, and meant it. he inspected the newcomer carefully. it would be almost too good to be true, to meet one of those actor fellows on the train. no, he decided, the clothes weren't casual enough for hollywood; they didn't look like southern california at all. more the way he imagined an english banker would dress. striped pants, cutaway, and a white silk scarf knotted at the throat. but an englishman, the old man figured, would order ale instead of beer, and this one simply pointed to the old man's beer bottle when the waiter came to take his order. "my name's george murton," the old man said. "you can just call me george." "yes, indeed," the stranger agreed. "i see we shall get on famously. mine is sandane." "anybody ever tell you that you look like wyatt earp, sandy?" the old man asked. "earp? i'm afraid i've never met the gentleman." "should have known. you're the bookish type. prob'ly never watch television. sure don't talk like a westerner, either. you come from california or elsewhere?" "i come from elsewhen." * * * * * old george almost choked on a swallow of beer. of course! that was why sandane dressed funny, talked funny; he'd just stepped out of a time machine, like in the play last night on channel two. it all fitted in with the old man's feeling that this was a day for adventure. but he mustn't act too surprised; if he did, sandane would take him for one of those old codgers who think horse-and-buggy thoughts in the jet age. a lot of younger folks, too, would say time travel was impossible, the same ones who'd called artificial satellites impossible. but george murton had seen so many new developments in his lifetime that it was not difficult for him to accept the idea that this young man came from tomorrow. "how long you plan to be here?" he asked casually. "or maybe i should say--how long you plan to be here--now?" "not long. just until i can get a body." george found that remark a little confusing. it didn't belong in the script about the time machine. he felt as if he'd switched channels in the middle of the first act and tuned in on a murder mystery. he leaned across the table and said in a low tone, "if you're figurin' on gettin' a hired gun to kill somebody, you'd better not talk about it in here. too public." "on the contrary, it would have to be a living body. but perhaps you're right. we could talk more freely in my compartment. would you care to join me there, george? we could have some refreshment sent in." "sure would. got a lot of questions i'd like to ask you. you see, i'm the curious type and i hang around mostly with a bunch of young punks that don't know nothin' except about the fights and the world's series. since my legs give out on me, i don't get around much. to tell you the truth, this is the first time i ever met a fellow from--elsewhen." "is it really?" sandane said politely. "well, then, you should find it quite interesting. what shall we have to drink?" "bourbon always suits me." "bourbon? one of the royal families?" "hell, no. you're in america, sandy, the good old u.s.a. we don't have no royal families. bourbon is a drink. whiskey, _spiritus frumenti_, hard liquor." "fine. we shall order two flagons of it." "comes in fifths and you drink it in shot glasses, unless you want a mix. rather have mine straight, with a water chaser." "my error. i seem to have my periods mixed. suppose you order, since you know so much more than i about the customs of your time?" the old man's happy smile suddenly faded and sandane added hastily, "i shall pay for it, of course. it's only fitting that you should be my guest, because i believe you can be a great help to me." this time he had hit the jackpot, the old man reflected as he was wheeled through the dining car to the first class section of the train, with a porter pushing his chair, sandane opening the doors, and a bottle of good bourbon cradled cozily in his lap. wait till the boys at the pool hall heard about this trip! * * * * * the first shot of bourbon warmed his stomach in the good old familiar way, and somehow that was confirmation that the rest of it was real, too. "how come you talk the language so good?" he asked his host, after the porter left them alone in the compartment. "is that surprising?" sandane asked. "it shouldn't be. i'm a student of history, in your period on a research project. naturally, i would have to prepare myself by studying the language of the country and of the period, in order to pass as one of you." "you do real good, sandy, considering. but why do you want to act like ordinary folks? seems to me you ought to go on tv and tell everybody. bet some big news commentator would be proud to interview you." "most people of your time would consider it a hoax." "maybe. but as long as you told me this much, let's have the rest of it. how does this time machine of yours work?" "not a machine, george. a capacity of the human mind. dormant in your period, except for rare individuals. but in--elsewhen--we have learned how to use it. beyond that i can give you no details. if i gave them, the method of tapping this talent would be discovered before it actually was. that is why i can't really talk with anyone about it. so i can only hint, as i did with you. if i encounter skepticism, i pass it off as a joke. this time i was lucky--i found someone who would accept it on faith. have another?" "don't mind if i do. but it strikes me i'm the lucky one." "perhaps. you could be two thousand dollars richer as a result of having met me." the old man paused with his shot glass halfway to his mouth and set it down again. "well, now! i'd be glad to give you any information that would help you. i seen a lot in my life. but two thousand dollars--ain't that a mite steep?" "two thousand, give or take twenty--whatever i have left when we reach san francisco. money of this period will be of no use to me if we complete the transaction, so i may as well give you all of it. you see, the body i'd like to buy is yours." "hold on, now!" the old man exclaimed, propelling his chair toward the door of the compartment and fumbling for the knob. "what am i supposed to do with the money if you get my body?" "please don't be alarmed! it would be an exchange. you'd get the body i'm using and the money besides." "why in the hell didn't you say so in the first place? for trade, sandy, you wouldn't owe me a dime. but i don't get it. why should you trade a young, healthy body like yours for this old crippled-up one? i'd be getting all the best of it!" "you may not think so when i tell you that this body i'm using is due to disintegrate into its component elements in about two weeks, give or take a day or so." "sandy, you're just going to have to do some explaining. i still might take you up on the deal, but i got to understand what i'm getting into." "you have a right to an explanation. and i can give it to you without revealing the actual process of the time transfer. you see, the mind is capable of an indefinite number of transfers. but a body can be used for only one. before we overcame that obstacle, we made some serious mistakes." "what happened?" * * * * * "it was pretty bad during the experimental trials," said sandane. "the pioneers, who transferred in their own bodies, were stuck irrevocably in the past. to overcome that, some transferred only mentally, which meant they had to enter unbidden into a host body of the target period. the more highly trained mind naturally had more strength--the host lost his identity. what was worse, when the visitor transferred back he sometimes entered an occupied body instead of his own. when two equally strong minds contest for one body the result is insanity. and worst of all, the former host body was left mindless--alive, but how shall i say it--?" "like a zombie?" the old man asked. "somebody who don't know who he is, where he is, or what time it is?" "yea, that's a very good description. of course, this had to be stopped." "you didn't stop it soon enough," the old man said dryly. "must be a lot more of you fellows from elsewhen around than i figured." "i assure you we don't do it any more. we grow bodies for transfer purposes in tanks. like this one, for example." "well, i do declare," the old man said. "now, that's what i call progress. according to that, when your old body wears out, you get a new one." "we haven't achieved immortality yet. the mind has its own natural span. it is true, however, that we have a greater life expectancy, and as long as a person lives he can have a body of his choice. but let's not get off the subject. the point is that i can't transfer back without a body, or i might get into one that's occupied. and i can't take this one with me. so i have to have one that is--well, if you'll forgive me being so blunt, more or less useless to its occupant." "it's the truth, sandy, and nobody knows it better than me. but the part i don't understand is why the body you're using has to fall apart in two weeks, if you leave it here." "it is actually good for several months after the transfer. i've used up most of the time with my researches. but as to your question--surely you see why we can't leave a lot of displaced bodies cluttering up the past. the few pioneers who got stuck in previous periods were bad enough. they lived longer than anyone else of the periods, but they were taken as rare freaks of nature. if this happened on a larger scale, it would excite comment. medical men would examine these people and find certain evolutionary developments--the secret would be out. in order to avoid that, the bodies grown artificially for transfer purposes have a built-in trigger mechanism. this also prevents anyone from over-staying his allotted leave. if i don't find a body to transfer back in within the next two weeks, i'll be dead." "and if you do, i'll be dead," the old man said. "i'm afraid so. meanwhile, though, you'll have a young, healthy body to do with as you please, and some money to spend. it will happen suddenly; there will be no discomfort. i thought you looked like a man who would appreciate that. you would be cheated out of a decent funeral, however--there will be nothing resembling a body left to bury." "funerals!" the old man snorted. "them as got nothing else to look forward to figure on fancy funerals. me, i don't hanker after anything i can't be around to enjoy." "i'm sorry i can't offer you more than two weeks, give or take a day. i was unavoidably detained." "can't be helped. i ain't likely to get a better offer, so i'm taking you up on it. and i admire you for an honest man. you could just as well of told me i'd have two years--or twenty. i'll do the right thing by you, too. i won't let out your secret--long as i'm sober, that is." * * * * * the young man from elsewhen smiled. "i'm not worried about that," he said, "who would believe your unsupported statement?" "you got a point there," the old man admitted. "don't hardly believe it myself, till it happens. when do you do this switch business?" "just before we reach san francisco, if that suits you." "suits me fine. but i got a daughter, name of edna bowers, meeting me at the station there. how you figure on getting away from her?" "it won't be difficult. i will stay with her for a few days; then she simply will not see me rolling that chair down the block. i will get to the transfer point by cab and she will turn a report in to the police that her father is missing. they will, of course, not find the missing person." "you mean you can fix it so she looks right at my body, with you inside it, and don't see anything?" "certainly. i can control the mind of anyone of this period at will. anyone of my time could do so. it's easy." "you can? well, then, why in the hell didn't you? why should you ask me my druthers when you could take over my body whether i liked it or not?" "that would be highly unethical." "sure would. but to save your life, seems to me you wouldn't be so squeamish. people nowadays would think like that, anyway. i can see that they'd have to change a lot before they could be trusted with the kind of powers you got in elsewhen." "they will," the young man from elsewhen assured him. "human nature is not immutable. but i take it we are agreed that we trade bodies just before we reach our destination. shall we have a toast to it?" he filled the old man's shot glass so full it sloshed over in the moving train. "before we drink to it," old george objected, "hadn't you ought to give me the money to bind the bargain?" "why?" his host asked. "it's in my pocket, which will be yours when we trade." "that's right!" the old man said. "i get the clothes, too, don't i? kind of a dignified getup. sure would admire to be seen in that! here's to it!" they clicked glasses and downed the drinks. "now, shall we have some lunch?" sandane asked. "you bet. say, on the train, i'm tempted to order all the things that ain't good for me. if i do, my arthritis will be giving me hell tomorrow. i'm used to that, but as long as you'll be the one to suffer, maybe i should stick to my diet." "order what you like. i can control the pain for you easily enough." "can you teach me to do that?" the old man asked eagerly. "wouldn't want you to be giving out any secrets you ain't supposed to, but surely that couldn't do any harm." "it wouldn't do you any good, either," sandane replied. "this body won't give you a bit of trouble as long as it lasts. i absolutely guarantee that." "not even a headache the morning after?" "not even a headache. not even fatigue." "think of it! no hangovers in elsewhen. must be a wonderful age to live in." "you'd be surprised how many people want to get away from it," sandane remarked. "shall we have something sent in or go to the diner?" "let's go to the diner," old george decided. "i want to look over some of the chicks on this train. could be one of them is a stranger in san francisco, needs somebody to show her the town." "could be," sandane agreed. * * * * * after a hearty lunch, without a look at the right side of the menu, the old man started drinking again. he kept pleasantly tipsy all afternoon, trying to submerge the recurrent thought that this couldn't really be going to happen. sandane continued to act the affable host, but made no move to put his plan into operation. they were in sandane's compartment when the loudspeakers announced that passengers who were leaving the train at oakland should get ready. the waiting was getting on the old man's nerves. "all right," he told sandane, "if this is all a gag, the joke's finished." "it's not a joke," sandane protested. "then put up or shut up." "very well," sandane said. "close your eyes and relax. you will go to sleep for a few moments." the old man was determined to stay awake to see what went on. but in spite of himself, his eyes closed, his head drooped forward. he dreamed a long and involved dream about cities of the future, where all the people had miraculous powers. it seemed to go on for days, yet when he awoke, with a start, the train still had not reached oakland. he stood up abruptly as he realized that he was alone in the compartment. where was sandane? next he realized that he was standing, that he _was_ sandane, or at least in sandane's body. he took two steps to the mirror and stared at it. cutaway, striped pants, face the spitting image of wyatt earp. it was the old man in the wheelchair who had left the compartment. when he disembarked at san francisco, he scanned the crowd for the wheelchair and soon spotted it. edna had spotted it first--she was pushing it herself while a redcap followed, carrying the blanket and the old battered valise that the occupant of the chair had insisted on taking into his own coach. george tipped his derby to edna. "mrs. bowers, i presume? your father was telling me many nice things about you on the train." edna laughed. "so you're the gentleman he was with! i guessed from his breath he'd had company!" "now, edna," a cracked old voice complained, "ain't no harm in buying a few drinks for an old man." * * * * * george looked at the man in the chair in amazement. was that the way he had sounded? somehow, through the hearing aid, his own voice had seemed louder, less faltering. "only too happy to do it, sir," george said. "the pleasure was all mine." he wanted to add that sandane was acting his part superbly, but didn't know just how to say it before edna. "we could give you a lift to your hotel," edna suggested. "thank you, madam, but i don't believe i shall check into a hotel as yet. i shall leave my bags here until later in the evening." george was surprised how quickly he had assumed the manner of speaking that went with his clothes. "well, take a couple of drinks for me," the old voice interjected. "say hello to them pretty girls for me, too. so long, sandy, and good luck." "so long, george," george replied, his voice choking up with pity for an old man who could not do what he wanted to do on this beautiful evening, in this beautiful city. when they had gone, he walked out of the station, enjoying every step of the vigorous young legs, feeling every muscle of the vigorous young body, glowing with life. outside, he paused for a moment on the sidewalk before calling a cab. two weeks, give or take a day or so, would be long enough to do the town. and two thousand dollars, give or take twenty, would be enough to do it on. the young-old man from elsewhen and the present was going to have one hell of a good time.