Chapter XIV

When the poet, in the pursuit of his fancy, eulogised the stately homes of England, he must have forgotten or totally ignored a class of dwelling dearer to my mind than all the marble halls the taste or vanity of man ever designed. The Duke of Stilton doubtless prefers his ancestral home, with its towers and turrets, its capacious stables—which, by-the-bye, seem the first consideration in the Brobdingnagian erections of the hour; he may wander with an air of pride through the Raphael hall and the Teniers gallery or the Cuyp drawing-room. For me, he can have his art treasures, his Carrara marbles, his priceless Wedgwood, his Dresden. He may enjoy his drawing-rooms—blue, red, and every colour in the universe. He may dine in the bosom of his family on every delicacy a _cordon bleu_ can devise to tickle the palate and stimulate the appetite, with its accompaniment of rose-patterned silver and dainty china. Let him luxuriate in it all, if he will.

I have in my mind’s eye a house far different from His Grace’s, but which, nevertheless, if not rich in costly bric-à-brac, has an appearance of harmony and refinement refreshing beyond belief. It is the house, or, if you will, the villa of Eastwood. Against the main road is a rugged stone wall, moss-incrusted and lichen-strewn, and surmounted by dense laurel. Opening the old-fashioned wooden gate, a broad path leads to the door, which is some forty yards away, at the side of the house. It is a low, gray stone house, clustered with ivy and clematis, and climbing roses twisting round the long double row of windows. In front is the lawn, quite half an acre in extent, and shut off from a garden by a brick wall, covered with apricot and nectarine. On the right, leading towards the house, is a sloping bank, all white and fragrant in spring with violets; and above this bank, approached by an ancient horse-block, is the old-world garden. It is a large garden, with broad green paths, sheltered by bowers of apple-trees, and the borders gay with wall-flowers, mignonette, stocks, pansies, London-pride, Tom-Thumb, and here and there great bushes of lavender and old-man. Far down is a walk of filbert trees, where the wily squirrel makes merry in the harvest-time, and the cherry-trees all melodious with the song of the blackbird. There is a balmy smell here of thyme and sage and endive, and the variety of sweet herbs which our grandmothers were wont to cull in autumn, and suspend in muslin bags from the kitchen rafters.

Opening the heavy hall door with the licensed freedom of the novelist, we find ourselves in the hall, whence we reach the drawing-room. Here we find our friends, awaiting the arrival of Miss Wakefield. They have been talking and chatting gaily; but as the time for that lady’s arrival draws near, conversation becomes flat, and there is an air of expectation and suppressed excitement about them, which would at once convince the observer that something important was on hand.

Mr Carver rose from his seat, and, for about the fiftieth time, walked to the window and looked out. It was amusing to note his easy air and debonair appearance, which was palpably assumed to impress the spectators with the idea that he was by no means anxious. The only member of the party who really could be said to be at ease was Mr Bates. He wore his best clothes, and had an air of resigned settled melancholy, evidently expecting the worst, and prepared to have his cup of joy—representing in his case his partnership—dashed from his lips at the last moment.

Felix was discussing the affair with Edgar in a low voice, and Eleanor sat white and still, only showing her impatience ever and anon by a gentle tap upon the floor with her heel. Mr Slimm was whistling softly in a low key, and industriously engaged in whittling a stick in his hand. Mr Carver returned from his post of observation and threw himself back in his chair with an involuntary sigh. Slimm put up his knife.

‘I vote we begin,’ said Edgar at length.

‘No, no; it would not do—it really would not do,’ interposed Mr Carver, seeing the company generally inclined to this view. ‘The lady whom we await is capable of anything. If we found a will in her absence, she would not be above saying we put it there.’

‘Judging from my limited experience of the lady, I calculate you are about right, sir,’ said Mr Slimm. ‘No; after so many years’ patience, it would certainly be unwise to do anything rash now.’

‘It is the last few moments which seem so hard,’ Eleanor said. ‘Suppose, after all, we should find nothing!’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t think of such a thing!’ Edgar exclaimed. ‘Fancy, after all this bother and anxiety!’

The party lapsed into silence again, and once more Mr Carver strolled towards the window. It is strange, when one is anxiously waiting for anything, how slowly time goes. Edgar took his watch out of his pocket every other minute, like a schoolboy who wears one for the first time.

‘I think I will walk down the road and see if she is coming,’ Slimm observed. ‘It would look a little polite, I think.’

Edgar murmured something touching love’s young dream, and asked the American if the fascination was so strong.

‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘I don’t deny she is fascinating; but it is not the sort of glamour that generally thrills the young bosom. One thing we all agree upon, I think, and that is, that we shall be all extremely pleased to see the lady.’

‘That is a strange thing in itself,’ Edgar replied drily. ‘The damsel is evidently coy. She is at present, doubtless, struggling with her emotion. I fancy she does not intend to come.’

At this moment there was a sound of wheels, and a coach pulled up at the gate. After a moment, a tall black figure was seen approaching the house. A few seconds later, Miss Wakefield entered the room.

INVESTORS AND THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

SECOND ARTICLE.

In a former article we endeavoured to explain the _modus operandi_ of Stock Exchange transactions; and our object now is to make a few remarks upon the rights and duties of investors and members of the Stock Exchange respectively. As formerly explained, when any business is transacted on the Stock Exchange, the broker always renders to his client a contract containing the particulars of the transaction, which is understood to be carried through in accordance with the rules and regulations of the Stock Exchange. These rules have been compiled with the strictest regard to the rights and duties of both parties, and are altered from time to time as circumstances may require. They are in complete accordance with the law of the land; and when any question has arisen in regard to Stock Exchange affairs, the courts of law have invariably allowed that those rules have been framed on the most equitable principles.

When a contract has been rendered, broker and client are equally bound to fulfil their part of it: the broker, in the case of a purchase, to deliver to, his client an authentic certificate of the stock, and in the case of a sale, to pay for the stock on delivery of a properly executed transfer; the client to pay the consideration-money, &c., when the stock is purchased for him, and to deliver the transfer duly executed, with the certificate, when the stock is sold. Many investors, while looking very sharply after their rights, entirely lose sight of their duties, and altogether forget that there must be two parties to every contract. When a man sells stock, he is entitled to a cheque for the proceeds the moment he hands the executed transfer to his broker, and no sooner; and when stock is purchased, the broker is entitled to receive the purchase-money when he delivers the transfer to his client for signature, and no sooner. Many persons, however, imagine that if they send their broker a cheque for stock bought a day or two after the account-day, it will be time enough, being ignorant of the fact that the latter is obliged by the rules to pay for the stock when it is delivered to him, either on the account-day or any subsequent day. Those living at a distance from London should therefore be careful to let the money be in the hands of their broker on the morning of the account-day at the very latest; or if they object to pay for stock before receiving it, should instruct a banker in the City to pay for the stock, or proportionately for any part, on delivery, so that the broker may not be out of the money. Of course, brokers are not supposed to have unlimited balances at their bankers, and it is frequently a real hardship for them to be obliged to find the money as best they can. The Stock Exchange rules admit of no delay whatever, and must be acted up to by the members, without any regard to the negligence or inattention of the investor.

When stock payable to bearer is not delivered to the buying-broker on the account-day, he has the power, on the following day, of ordering it to be purchased, or ‘bought in’ as it is called, in the market for immediate delivery, and any loss consequent upon the buying-in must be paid by the seller. In the case of registered stocks, however, ten days after the account-day are allowed for delivery. This is only reasonable, as a deed of transfer frequently requires the signature of several sellers, or the seller may reside at a distance, and thus delay cannot be avoided. On the expiry of the time named, the broker can ‘buy in,’ as in the case of stock to bearer. If the buyer of stock to bearer does not receive the stock from his broker within a day or two after the account-day, or registered stock within about ten days after the account-day, he has a perfect right to know the reason of the delay, and failing any proper excuse, should give instructions to ‘buy in,’ as explained above.

The Committee of the Stock Exchange have always done everything in their power to insure the strict fulfilment of all bargains entered into by the members; and if any investor feels aggrieved or thinks he has been unfairly dealt with, a letter addressed to the Committee will at once bring the culprit to book. Accounts are settled fortnightly, about the middle and end of each month; and every member of the House prepares, or ought to prepare, a balance-sheet, showing exactly how he stands on these occasions. If a member finds that he is unable to meet his engagements, he should at once notify the fact to the Committee, when he will instantly be declared a defaulter. This disagreeable duty is performed by an official of the Stock Exchange, who, after three knocks with a hammer, which resound through the House, intimates that ‘Mr —— begs to inform the House that he is unable to comply with his bargains.’ If, as frequently happens, the defaulter has issued cheques on the account-day which have been returned by his banker, the formula is: ‘Mr —— has not complied with his bargains.’ After such declaration, the defaulting member is precluded from any further dealings with his fellow-members, and his affairs are placed in the hands of the official assignee, who proceeds to wind up the estate and distribute whatever dividend it will realise. The sound of the dreaded ‘hammer’ produces universal stillness and apprehension, and where a few seconds before was heard the hum of many voices and the sound of hurrying feet, now every ear is on the alert to hear the name of the proscribed member. As soon as the name is announced, it is posted up in a conspicuous part of the House, exposed to the gaze and subject to the derogatory remarks of the members for the rest of the day. As may well be imagined, the fact of having been ‘hammered,’ whatever a man’s future life may be, casts a dark shadow which cannot be got rid of; and investors may be quite certain that the members of the Stock Exchange will strain every nerve to avoid the disgrace. The rules of the House are, however, inexorable, and the fatal hammer must sound if engagements are not strictly and promptly met. In no trade, business, or profession does the punishment follow so quickly upon the offence, and it would be well if all commercial and financial default were as promptly declared to the world.

As will be seen from what we have said, the rights and duties of investors and members are clearly defined, and both parties have a right to expect them to be carried out with punctuality. Promptitude is praiseworthy under all circumstances, but on the Stock Exchange it is essential for the sake both of members and investors. No slovenliness or easy slipshod habits of doing business should be permitted on either side; and investors, while insisting on their rights, should bear in mind that their contracts with their brokers ought to be carried out with exactitude on their part, to enable the latter to fulfil their duties towards their fellow-members.

One other point we would urge investors to bear in mind, and that is, that stockbrokers are not prophets. Many investors, especially ladies, think the reverse. We have frequently heard very hard words indeed used towards brokers who have been unfortunate enough to advise a purchase which has turned out badly; but a moment’s thought must demonstrate the folly of such expressions of feeling. If a broker knows positively what course the market is to take in any particular stock, he has only to buy or sell it to the amount required for producing the profit he desires. Many investors, however, when smarting under losses, are apt to rush to conclusions which reflection proves to be utterly unjust. It is true that stockbrokers ought to be better acquainted with stocks and everything pertaining thereto than the large majority of investors; but it is absurd to suppose that their views should never be wrong. Let investors be satisfied with a reasonable rate of interest, never buy stock without the advice of a stockbroker, never buy what they cannot pay for, or sell what they are not prepared to deliver, and we are certain there would be fewer sleepless pillows and more money in the coffers.

Speculation, we fear, is inherent in the human constitution, and all that we can say on the subject is not likely to put a stop to it. It is natural to the human animal to desire to make money without working for it, and no doubt such a state of affairs will exist to the end. But experience teaches. We once heard an old man, who had been a large speculator in his early days, say that if he had put his money into consols when he first began to save, and continued doing so, instead of running after high rates of interest, he would have been a very much richer man in his old age. In the furious race for riches, we feel certain that the steady investor has the best of it; and the man who is not even able to do more than make both ends meet is infinitely happier than he who spends restless days and sleepless nights in the pursuit of that sudden wealth, which he, in all probability, goes down to his grave without acquiring.

THE ‘LADY GODIVA.’

AN AUSTRALIAN STORY.

It happened that one summer, a few years ago, I found myself travelling up the Barwon River, just where it commences to form the boundary between Queensland and New South Wales. The weather was terribly hot, and feed for horses scarce, so that I was only too glad to accept the invitation of a hospitable settler, an old acquaintance in digging days gone by, to stay and ‘spell’ for a week or two, whilst my horses put on a little condition in his well-grassed paddocks. The country round about at that time, even on the river frontages, was very sparsely settled, and comparatively young people could remember when the blacks were ‘bad.’ Dingoes, kangaroos, wild-cattle, and ‘brombees’ or wild-horses, roamed the great scrubs in thousands; and with respect to broken-in and branded individuals of the two latter species, the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_ seemed to be very lightly regarded amongst the pioneers of the border; and for a settler to put in an appearance at his neighbour’s killing-yard whilst the operation of converting bullock into beef was going on, was deemed the very height of bad manners, inexcusable, indeed, unless perhaps in the newest of new-chums, at least till the hide was off and the brand cut out.

My friend had only recently taken up ground on the river; but his next and nearest neighbour, old Tom Dwyer, who resided about five-and-twenty miles away, was a settler of many years’ standing; and it was from him that, towards the end of my stay with the Brays, came an invitation to the wedding festivities of his only daughter, who was to be married to a young cousin, also a Dwyer, who followed the occupation of a drover.

As Bray and myself rode along in the cool of the early morning—the womenkind and children having set out by moonlight the night before in a spring-cart—he gave me a slight sketch of the people whose hearty invitation we were accepting.

‘A rum lot,’ said my old friend—a fine specimen of the bushman-digger type of Australian-born colonist, hardy, brave, and intelligent, who had, after many years of a roving, eventful life, at last settled down to make himself a home in the wilderness—‘a rum lot, these Dwyers. Not bad neighbours by no means, at least not to me. I speak as I find; but people do say that they come it rather too strong sometimes with the squatters’ stock, and that young Jim—him as is goin’ to get switched—and old Tom his uncle do work the oracle atween ’em. I mind, not so long ago, young Jim he starts up north somewhere with about a score head o’ milkers and their calves; and when he comes back again in about six months, he fetched along with him over three hundred head o’ cattle! “Increase,” he called ’em—ha, ha! A very smart lad is Jim Dwyer; but the squatters are getting carefuller now; and I’m afraid, if he don’t mind, that he’ll find himself in the logs some o’ these fine days. He’s got a nice bit o’ a place over the river, on the New South Wales side, has Jim, just in front o’ Fort Dwyer, as they call the old man’s camp. You could a’most chuck a stone from one house to the other.’

So conversing, after about three hours’ steady-riding through open box forest country, flat and monotonous, we arrived at ‘Fort Dwyer’—or Dee-wyer, as invariably pronounced thereabouts—a long, low building, constructed of huge, roughly squared logs of nearly fireproof red coolabah, or swamp-gum, and situated right on the verge of the steep clay bank, twenty feet below which glided sullenly along the sluggish Barwon, then nearly half a ‘banker.’

A hearty welcome greeted us; and the inevitable ‘square-face’ of spirits was at once produced, to which my companion did justice whilst pledging the health of the company with a brief, ‘Well, here’s luck, lads!’ For my own part, not daring to tackle the half-pannikinful of fiery Mackay rum so pressingly offered, with the assurance that it was ‘the finest thing out after a warm ride,’ I paid my respects to an immense cask of honey-beer which stood under a canopy of green boughs, thus running some risk of losing caste as a bushman by appropriating ‘the women’s swankey,’ as old Dwyer contemptuously termed it, whilst insisting on ‘tempering’ my drink with ‘just the least taste in life, sir,’ of Port Mackay, of about 45 o. p. strength.

There must have been fully one hundred people assembled; and the open space just in front of the house was crowded with buggies, spring-carts, wagonettes, and even drays; but the great centre of attraction was the stockyard, where Jim Dwyer was breaking-in to the side-saddle a mare, bought in one of his recent trips ‘up north,’ and intended as a present for his bride, of whom I caught a glimpse as she sat on an empty kerosene tin, with her sleeves rolled up, busily engaged in plucking poultry; a fair type of the bush-maiden, tall and slender, with good, though sharply cut features, deeply browned by the sun, laughing dark eyes, perfect teeth—a rare gift amongst young Australians—and as much at home—so old Bray assured me—on horseback cutting out ‘scrubbers’ or ‘brombees,’ as was her husband-elect himself.

The rails of the great stockyard were crowded with tall, cabbage-tree-hatted, booted and spurred ‘Cornstalks’ and ‘Banana-men’ (natives of New South Wales and Queensland respectively); and loud were their cries of admiration, as young Dwyer, on the beautiful and, to my eyes, nearly thoroughbred black mare, cantered round and round, whilst flourishing an old riding-skirt about her flanks.

‘She’ll do, Jim—quiet as a sheep’—‘My word! she’ll carry Annie flying’—‘What did yer give for her, Jim?’—‘A reg’lar star, an’ no mistake!’ greeted the young man, as, lightly jumping off, he unbuckled the girths and put the saddle on the slip-rails.

Jim Dwyer differed little from the ordinary style of young bush ‘native’—tall, thin, brown, quick-eyed, narrow in the flanks; but with good breadth of chest, and feet which, from their size and shape, might have satisfied even that captious critic the Lady Hester Stanhope, under whose instep ‘a kitten could walk,’ that the Australians of a future nation would not be as the British, ‘a flat-soled generation, of whom no great or noble achievement could ever be expected.’

I fancied that, as the young fellow came forward to shake hands with Bray, he looked uneasily and rather suspiciously at me out of the corner of one of his black eyes. My companion evidently observed it also, for he said laughingly: ‘What’s the matter, Jim? Only a friend of mine. Is the mare “on the cross?” And did you think he was a “trap?”’

‘None o’ your business, Jack Bray,’ was the surly reply. ‘“Cross” or “square,” she’s mine till some one comes along who can show a better right to her, an’ that won’t happen in a hurry.’

‘Well, well,’ replied Bray, ‘you needn’t get crusty so confounded quick. But she’s a pretty thing, sure enough. Let’s go and have a look at her.’

Everybody now crowded round the mare, praising and admiring her. ‘Two year old, just,’ exclaimed one, looking in her mouth.—‘Rising three, I say,’ replied another.—‘And a cleanskin, and unbranded!’ ejaculated Bray, at the same time passing his hand along the mare’s wither.

‘That’s a disease can soon be cured,’ said Dwyer with a laugh. ‘I’m agoin’ to clap the J. D. on her now.—Shove her in the botte, boys, while I go an’ fetch the irons up.’

‘That mare’s a thoroughbred, and a race-mare to boot, and she’s “on the cross” right enough,’ whispered Bray, as we walked back towards the house. ‘She’s been shook; and though she ain’t fire-branded, there’s a half-sovereign let in under the skin just below the wither; I felt it quite plain; and I wouldn’t wonder but there’s a lot more private marks on her as we can’t see.’

‘Do you think, then,’ I asked, ‘that young Dwyer stole her?’

‘Likely enough, likely enough,’ was the reply. ‘But if he did, strikes me as we’ll hear more about the matter yet.’

Just at this moment, shouts of, ‘Here’s the parson!’—‘Here’s old Ben!’ drew our attention to a horseman who was coming along the narrow track at a slow canter.

A well-known character throughout the whole of that immense district was the Rev. Benjamin Back, ‘bush missionary;’ and not less well known was his old bald-faced horse Jerry. The pair bore a grotesque resemblance to each other, both being long and ungainly, both thin and gray, both always ready to eat and drink, and yet always looking desolate and forlorn. As the Rev. Ben disengaged his long legs from the stirrups, the irrepressible old Dwyer appeared with the greeting-cup—a tin pint-pot half full of rum—which swallowing with scarcely a wink, to the great admiration of the lookers-on, the parson, commending Jerry to the care of his host, stalked inside, and was soon busy at the long table, working away at a couple of roast-ducks, a ham, and other trifles, washed down with copious draughts of hot tea, simply remarking to ‘Annie,’ that she ‘had better make haste and clean herself, so that he could put her and Jim through, as he had to go on to Bullarora that evening to bury a child for the Lacies.’

Having at length finished his repast, all hands crowded into the long room, where before ‘old Ben’ stood bride and bridegroom, the former neatly dressed in dark merino—her own especial choice, as I was told, in preference to anything gayer—with here and there a bright-coloured ribbon, whilst in her luxuriant black hair and in the breast of her dress were bunches of freshly plucked orange blossoms, that many a belle of proud Mayfair might have envied. The bridegroom in spotless white shirt, with handkerchief of crimson silk, confined loosely around his neck by a massive gold ring, riding-trousers of Bedford cord, kept up by a broad belt, worked in wools of many colours by his bride, and shining top-boots and spurs, looked the very beau-idéal of a dashing stockman, as he bore himself elate and proudly, without a trace of that bucolic sheepishness so often witnessed in the principal party to similar contracts.

The old parson, with the perspiration induced by recent gastronomic efforts rolling in beads off his bald head, and dropping from the tip of his nose on to the church-service in his hand, had taken off his long coat of threadbare rusty black, and stood confessed in shirt of hue almost akin to that of the long leggings that reached above his knees. It was meltingly hot; and the thermometer—had there been such an article—would have registered one hundred and ten or one hundred and fifteen degrees in the shade at the least. But it was all over at last. Solemnly ‘old Ben’ had kissed the darkly flushing bride, and told her to be a good girl to Jim—solemnly the old man had disposed of another ‘parting cup;’ and then, whilst the womenkind filled his saddle-bags with cake, chicken, and ham, together with the generous half of a ‘square-face’—or large square-sided bottle—containing his favourite summer beverage, old Dwyer, emerging from one of the inner rooms, produced a piece of well-worn bluish-tinted paper, known and appreciated in those regions as a ‘bluey,’ at sight of which the parson’s eye glistened, for seldom was it that he had the fortune to come across such a liberal douceur as a five-pound note; but as old Dwyer said: ‘We don’t often have a job like this one for you Ben, old man. We’re pretty well in just now, an’ I mean you shall remember it. An’ look here; Jerry’s getting pretty poor now, an’ I know myself he’s no chicken; so you’d best leave him on the grass with us for the rest o’ his days, an’ I’ll give you as game a bit o’ horse-flesh as ever stepped; quiet, too, an’ a good pacer. See! the boys is a-saddlin’ him up now.’

The old preacher’s life was hard, for the most part barren, and little moistened by kind offers like the present; and his grim and wrinkled face puckered up and worked curiously as he gratefully accepted the gift for Jerry’s sake, his constant companion through twelve long years of travel incessant through the wildest parts of Queensland; and with a parting injunction to ‘the boys’ to look after the old horse, he, mounting his new steed, started off on his thirty-mile ride to bury Lacy’s little child.

The long tables, at which all hands had intermittently appeased their hunger throughout the day, on fowls, geese, turkeys, sucking-pig, fish, &c., were now cleared and removed; a couple of concertinas struck up, and fifteen or twenty couples were soon dancing with might and main on the pine-boarded floor. Old men and young, old women and maidens, boys and girls, all went at it with a will, whirling, stamping, changing and ‘chaining’ till the substantial old house shook again, and fears were audibly expressed that the whole building would topple over into the river.

‘Not to-night, of all nights in the year,’ said old Dwyer; ‘although I do believe I’ll have to shift afore long. Ye’ll hardly think it—would ye?—that when I first put up the old shanty, it stood four chain, good, away from the bank; it was, though, all that; an’ many a sneaking, greasy black-fellow I’ve seen go slap into the water with a rifle bullet through his ugly carcass out of that back-winder, though it is plumb a’most with the river now.’

So, louder and louder screamed the concertinas, faster and faster whirled the panting couples, till nearly midnight, when ‘supper’ was announced by the sound of a great bullock bell, and out into the calm night-air trooped the crowd. The tables this time had been set out on the sward in front of the house, just without the long dark line of forest which bordered the river, through the tops of whose giant ‘belars’ the full moon shone down on the merry feasters with a subdued glory; whilst, in a quiet pause, you could hear the rush of the strong Barwon current, broken, every now and again, by a deep-sounding ‘plop,’ as some fragment of the ever-receding clayey bank would fall into the water. Four or five native bears, disturbed by the noise, crawled out on the limbs of a great coolabar, and with unwinking, beady-black eyes, gazed on the scene below, expressing their astonishment every now and again in hoarse mutterings, now low and almost inarticulate, then ‘thrum, thrumming’ through the bush till it rang again. From a neighbouring swamp came the shrill scream of the curlew; whilst far away in the low ranges of Cooyella, could be heard the dismal howl of a solitary dingo coo-ee-ing to his mates.

Scarcely had the guests taken their seats and commenced, amidst jokes and laughter, to attack a fresh and substantial meal, when a furious barking, from a pack of about fifty dogs, announced the advent of strangers; and in a minute more, three horsemen, in the uniform of the Queensland mounted police, rode up to the tables. One, a sergeant apparently, dismounted, and with his bridle over his arm, strode forward, commanding every one to keep their seats; for several at first sight of the ‘traps’ had risen, and apparently thought of quietly slipping away. This order, however, enforced as it was by the production of a revolver, together with an evident intention of using it on any absconder, brought them to their seats again.

‘What’s all this about?’ exclaimed old Dwyer. ‘We’re all honest people here, mister, so you can put up your pistol. Tell us civilly what it is you’re wantin’, an’ we’ll try an’ help you; but don’t come it too rough. You ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself. Don’t ye see the faymales?’

‘Can’t help the females,’ retorted the sergeant sharply. ‘I haven’t ridden four hundred miles to play polite to a lot of women. I want a man named James Dwyer; and by the description, yonder’s the man himself’—pointing at the same time across the table to where sat the newly-made husband, who had been one of the first to make a move at sight of the police.

‘What’s the charge, sargent?’ asked old Dwyer coolly.

‘Horse-stealing,’ was the reply; ‘and here’s the warrant, signed by the magistrate in Tambo, for his apprehension.’

I was sitting quite close to the object of these inquiries, and at this moment I heard young Mrs Dwyer, whilst leaning across towards her husband, whisper something about ‘the river’ and ‘New South Wales;’ and in another moment, head over heels down the steep bank rolled the recently created benedict, into the curious and cool nuptial couch of swiftly flowing, reddish water, which he breasted with ease, making nearly a straight line for the other bank, distant perhaps a couple of hundred yards.

The troopers, drawing their revolvers, dismounted, and running forward, were about to follow the example set by their superior, who was taking steady aim at the swimmer, perfectly discernible in the clear moonlight, when suddenly half-a-dozen pair of soft but muscular arms encircled the three representatives of law and order, as the women, screaming like a lot of curlews after a thunderstorm, clasped them in a tight embrace.

Young Mrs Dwyer herself tackled the sergeant, crying: ‘What! would you shoot a man just for a bit of horse-sweating! Leave him go, can’t you. He’s over the border now in New South Wales, mare and all; and you can’t touch him, even if you was there.’

Just then a yell of triumph from the scrub on the other shore seemed to vouch for the fact, and was answered by a dozen sympathetic whoops and shouts from the afore-mentioned ‘Cornstalks’ and ‘Banana-men,’ who crowded along our side of the river.

The sergeant struggled to free himself; and his fair antagonist unwound her arms, saying: ‘Come now, sargent, sit down peaceably and eat your supper, can’t you! What’s the good of making such a bother over an old scrubber of a mare!’

‘An old scrubber of a mare!’ repeated the sergeant aghast ‘D’ye think we’d ride this far over a scrubber of a mare? Why, it’s the Lady Godiva he took; old Stanford’s race-mare, worth five hundred guineas, if she’s worth a penny. Bother me! if he didn’t take her clean out of the stable in Tambo, settling-night, after she’d won the big money! But there, you all know as much about it as I can tell you, that’s plain to be seen, for I never mentioned a mare; it was your own self, I do believe; and I’ll have him, if I have to follow him to Melbourne.—Just got married, has he? Well, I can’t help that; he shouldn’t go stealing race-mares.—Well, perhaps you didn’t know _all_ about it,’ went on the sergeant, in reply to the asseverations of the Dwyer family as regarded their knowledge of the way the young man had become possessed of the mare. ‘But,’ shaking his head sententiously, ‘I’m much mistaken if most of this crowd hadn’t a pretty good idea that there was something cross about her. However,’ he concluded philosophically, ‘it’s no use crying over spilt milk. I’ll have to ride over to G—— at daylight—that’s another forty miles—and get an extradition warrant out for him. He might just as well have come quietly at first, for we’re bound to have the two of them some time or other.’

It was now nearly daylight; and our party set out on their return home, leaving the troopers comfortably seated at the supper, or rather by this time, breakfast table; while just below the house, in a bend of the river, we could see, as we passed along, a group of men busily engaged in swimming a mob of horses—amongst which was doubtless the Lady Godiva herself—over to the New South Wales shore, where, on the bank, plainly to be discerned in the early dawn, stood the tall form of her lawless owner.

‘How do you think it will all end?’ I asked Bray.

‘Oh,’ was the reply, ‘they’ll square it, most likely. I know something of that Stanford; he’s a bookmaker; and if he gets back the mare and a cheque for fifty or a hundred pounds, to cover expenses, he’ll not trouble much after Jim.’

‘Yes. But the police?’ I asked.

‘Easier squared than Stanford,’ answered Bray dogmatically.

That this ‘squaring’ process was successfully put in force seemed tolerably certain; for very shortly afterwards I read that at the autumn meeting of the N. Q. J. C., the Lady Godiva had carried off the lion’s share of the money; and I also had the pleasure of meeting Mr and Mrs Dwyer in one of Cobb & Co.’s coaches, bound for the nearest railway terminus, about three hundred miles distant, thence to spend a month or so in Sydney; Jim, as his wife informed me, having done uncommonly well out of a mob of cattle and horses which he had been travelling for sale through the colonies; so had determined to treat himself and the ‘missis,’ for the first time in their lives, to a look at the ‘big smoke.’

‘That was a great shine at our wedding, wasn’t it?’ she asked, as the coachman gathered up the reins preparatory to a fresh start. ‘But’—and here she tapped her husband on the head with her parasol—‘I look out now that he don’t go sticking-up to any more Lady Godivas.’

‘That’s so,’ laughed Jim. ‘I find, that I have my hands pretty full with the one I collared the night you were there. I doubt sometimes I’d done better to have stuck to the other one; and as for temp’—— Here Jim’s head disappeared suddenly into the interior of the coach; crack went the long whip; the horses plunged, reared, and went through the usual performance of attempting to tie themselves up into overhand knots, then darted off at top-speed on their sixteen-mile stage, soon disappearing in a cloud of dust along the ‘cleared line.’

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

ARTILLERY EXPERIMENTS.

The trials lately carried on at the Bill of Portland, supplement (says the _Times_) those of Inchkeith in certain respects. At Inchkeith it was sought to obtain a just idea of the effect of machine-gun and shrapnel fire on the detachment serving a gun mounted _en barbette_ in an emplacement of tolerably recent design. Dummies were placed round the gun in exposed positions, and Her Majesty’s ship _Sultan_, under very favourable conditions of sea and weather, carried out some careful practice at various ranges. The results, accurately recorded, furnish data calculated to serve as a correction to mere conjecture. At Portland, the objects sought to be attained were two. The merits of the Moncrieff or ‘disappearing’ principle of mounting guns for coast-defence have been much discussed, and great advantages have been claimed for it with every show of reason; but no opportunity had ever been given to the system to practically demonstrate its defensive value. It was, therefore, sufficiently desirable that a practical experiment should be arranged in which ‘service-conditions’ should be observed as far as possible, so that there might be a something definite to set against prejudice either in favour of or against the system. It was proposed, at the same time, to seek to obtain data as to the accuracy of howitzer-fire from a floating platform.... To sum up the case with judicial fairness, the Portland experiments fully bear out all that the champions of the disappearing system have asserted; while its opponents—if there are any such—must perforce admit that at least nothing whatever is proved against it. More than this, however, appears to be indicated by these trials. There seems to be every reason to believe that all direct fire, whether of heavy or machine guns, against a disappearing gun when down, is thrown away; that in the short time during which this gun need be visible, it will require a very smart gun-captain on board ship merely to lay on it; that the more the smoke obscures it, the better, provided a position-finder is used; and finally, that to engage two or three dispersed disappearing guns would be a heart-breaking task for a ship. Probably the best chance of disabling guns mounted on this system is snap-shooting from the six-pounder quick-firing gun, which can be bandied almost as readily as a rifle. But, on the one hand, it does not necessarily follow that a hit from the six-pounder would have any effect on the disappearing gun; and, on the other hand, the latter would be able to get through a good deal of shooting before the six-pounder was able to come into effective action. Again, the six-pounder on board ship would presumably be met by the six-pounder on shore, which would shoot rather more accurately; while, even as opposed to these wonderfully handy little weapons, the disappearing system must stand superior to all others. In a turret or a cupola, more than half the length of the modern long guns must be always exposed to fire. All considerations, therefore, seem to point to the disappearing system as the most scientific method ever devised for protecting shore-guns, and the advantages to be obtained being so great, it becomes worth while to use every possible effort to bring the disappearing gun to practical perfection. The main difficulty is to render the larger guns independently automatic, and at present no gun larger than the eight-inch—the gun exhibited in the Inventions Exhibition—has been thus mounted in England.

SEA-GOING FISHING LIFEBOAT VESSELS.

Mr F. Johnson, the honorary managing secretary of the National Refuge Harbours Society, 17 Parliament Street, London, has made it the one aim of his life to devise such means as will conduce to diminish the large total of lives annually reported as having been lost at sea. He is now interesting himself in bringing to a practical application an invention of Mr John White, of Cowes, described as a Sea-going Fishing Lifeboat vessel, a model of which is now on public view at 72 New Bond Street, London. Broad in the beam, she has a large air-chamber divided into two compartments at the bow; another—of a smaller size—at the stern; and one running along on either side. Thus, however much sea she may ‘ship,’ with these air-chambers in use, it is not possible for her to sink. Except for the roofs of the fore and aft air-chambers, the vessel has no deck, an arrangement which of course gives her considerable buoyancy. The roofs of the side air-chambers are curved off, so that any water which might wash over one bulwark would pass across the vessel and wash out over the other. As a matter of fact, however, it is confidently believed that, even in a high sea, the vessel will be too buoyant to ship much water. It has naturally occurred to the inventor that in fine weather the fore air-chamber might be utilised as a cabin; he has therefore arranged that it may be unsealed and access obtained to it by means of a hatchway. It will be fitted up with cooking apparatus and beds, the latter articles also filling the rôle of life-buoys.

Those who interest themselves in this invention propose that vessels of the kind shall be launched around our coasts, equipped with fishing-gear, and manned with smacksmen, so that they may be ‘self-supporting;’ while their primary object will be to afford succour during stormy weather to any craft in distress. Thus, it is felt that the Fishing Lifeboat vessels might ride in the different fishing fleets, the smacks of which, being frequently far away from any harbour of refuge, are often disabled or utterly wrecked during a storm. Then, too, the vessels might fish in the neighbourhood of dangerous reefs and shoals, where their presence would be especially valuable. We believe that two or three years ago a fishing-smack was constructed very much on the lines indicated, and that, after effecting some rescues in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands, she herself was wrecked, owing to her having been improperly laden with stone. Mr White has agreed to build Sea-going Fishing Lifeboat vessels of forty tons—a size which is considered most suitable—at a cost each of five hundred pounds. It is felt that a fair start might be made with twenty vessels, to be placed at different points around our coasts. Thus ten thousand pounds is required; and a public fund has been opened, and part of the money already subscribed. Those who desire to contribute should communicate with Mr Johnson, all cheques being crossed National Provincial Bank.

SOME FACTS ABOUT MONTE CARLO.

The Report, says a contemporary, of the International Committee in Nice upon the disgraceful gambling hell of Monte Carlo, which has just been issued, is to be made the ground of a collective diplomatic action against the protector of that institution, Prince Charles III. of Monaco. This important pamphlet gives a documentary catalogue of all the suicides which have taken place in Monte Carlo from 1877 to 1885. The total number of persons who have destroyed themselves in consequence of their losses at his Princely Highness’s gambling-tables is eighteen hundred and twenty—that is to say, there have been nearly as many suicides as the Prince has subjects. The catalogue is very complete, giving the name, the home, the age, and the date of death of each suicide, and a collection of the letters in which the wretched victims have commented upon their self-destruction. Nearly all of them curse the hour in which their eyes first set sight upon Monte Carlo. It is agreeable to learn from the table of nationality that the English and Americans have supplied the smallest number of victims. A tenth of the number are Germans and Austrians; but the largest contingent by far has been provided by France, Italy, and Russia. The appalling census was instituted by the Italian Consul-general in Nice, who found ready support from patriotic citizens of other lands. The callous brutality of the Monaco ‘government,’ if so honourable a name may be given to this organised gambling Company, is shown in the treatment of the suicides after their death. Scarcely one of them, except where friends have appeared in time to claim the body, has received a decent burial. After the poor wretch has lost all that he had, his corpse has been hurriedly hidden in the poor quarter of the burial-ground without funeral rites or mourners.

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