Chapter XVI (2)

'Don't make yourself too comfortable, that's all,' said the policeman, in a warning voice, as he saw Jones settle himself snugly in his rough shelter with a big coke fire in front of him and a thick sack over his knees. 'Maybe, if you fall asleep, you will wake up to find that some rascal has made off with all the spades and pickaxes, and then your job will be some one else's.'

'No fear!' said Jones, putting some fresh lumps of coal on to the tripod fire. 'If I should drop off (and I shan't!), I am a very light sleeper; the least step wakes me, and then my dog will let no one come near the place. Oh, I am all right, and as warm as toast!

'That's more than I can say!' said the policeman, for he had no warm shed to protect him from the keen east wind. 'Well, good-night--and good-night, Jack,' he added, stooping to pat the dog, who was Jones's close friend and companion.

'Ah, he knows you!' remarked Jones, as the dog rubbed his head against the policeman's legs; 'but he can be a bit nasty to strangers, Jack can.'

'I dare say he can,' was the policeman's answer as he went off, and disappeared into the darkness.

In an hour's time he was round again, and stood awhile at the corner of the square. The tripod fire was burning as fiercely as ever, and gave light enough to show Jones--fast asleep! Jack, however, was awake, and stood there, with bristling hair, ready to guard his master.

'Good old Jack!' said the policeman, as he patted the dog's head, and Jack yawned, stretched his legs, and lay down again.

'And he calls himself a light sleeper!' said the policeman, looking at the snoring Jones, who leant back with his arms folded, and his eyes shut.

'It would be a bit of a joke to make off with his lantern and ropes,' said the policeman to himself; 'it might teach him not to be so bumptious about his light sleeping.'

The idea was irresistible, for the policeman was young, and loved a joke. 'I'll do it!' he said at last, and, as he spoke, he went towards Jones's shelter. Jack--faithful Jack--looked up suspiciously, but the policeman said, briskly, 'It's all right, Jack; your master knows me'--and Jack lay down again, feeling perhaps that a policeman could do no harm.

The next time the policeman passed the square he roused the still-sleeping Jones. 'Wake up, Jones,' he said; 'the men will be here directly, and they must not find you sleeping.'

'I only just closed my eyes,' said Jones, drowsily. He sat up, however, and the next minute exclaimed loudly: 'Hallo! who has been here? Thieves! my lantern is gone and the coil of new rope! I'm ruined, I tell you! I shall never get another night job!'

'Gone?' said the policeman, feigning astonishment. 'Surely not. You are too light a sleeper for any one to take your things without you knowing it, you know.'

'I'm ruined!' repeated the wretched Jones.

'Here, I will have a look with my bull's-eye,' said the policeman, thinking the joke had gone far enough. 'Why, here's the lantern--oh! and the rope, too--hid under these planks,' he called out, after a minute's search.

'Found?' said Jones, joyfully. 'I am glad! I will never sleep at my post again! Don't you let out a word of this, constable,' he said anxiously.

'Not I,' said the policeman, firmly; and he kept his word, for he did not wish his joke to get to the inspector's ears.

A TURKEY'S COSTLY DIET.

At a dinner given by a wealthy Washington lady, it is said, a turkey, fattened on pearls valued at over two hundred guineas, was served. Some little time before, the hostess lost a valuable brooch and a pair of earrings set with pearls. After a long search, the missing articles were found in the garden, but the pearls had been plucked out. She was convinced that a pet turkey was the culprit, and the bird was killed, but no trace of the gems was found. A chemist, who made an examination, declared that the pearls had been dissolved almost immediately after they had been swallowed. To commemorate the loss a dinner was arranged, and each guest received a photograph of the famous turkey.

THE STORY OF ROCK-SALT.

Salt under ground! It seems a strange thing, at first, to find salt amongst the rocks, deep down in the earth. What does rock-salt tell us? It reveals to us a place where once a sea existed; the water has since flowed away, leaving some salt behind. We know that ordinary salt exposed to the air soon gets damp, and then becomes quite fluid, but rock-salt away from air and sun keeps firm for ages. Rock-salt is found in various layers of the earth's crust. Some of the spaces of underground water are called 'seas,' but in fact, large as they were, they often did not resemble the 'seas' we have now, because they were much shallower. A few were fairly deep, however. Then, again, these ancient seas were sometimes so salt that no animal could live in them, and only a few plants. Such seas, in fact, were mostly 'dead,' and this accounts for the masses of salt deposited along their bottoms. But we find also signs of rough water in the numerous pebbles of the layer where the salt is found amongst hard red gravel and brown quartz.

Germany once had a tolerably deep sea, not very salt, and the bottom surface of it shows coral reefs. There are signs in it of great fishes armed with strong teeth, enabling them to crush the shell-fish upon which they fed. These swarmed below the sea in thousands. North England and the Midlands have the Kemper beds, where the 'seas' were always shallow, and where we can trace the marks of rain-drop filterings and sun-cracks. The rock-salt is often in a layer one hundred feet thick. It is supposed that one part of these seas was separated from another part by a bar of sand, over which the waves toppled only now and then. In the cut-off sea, evaporation went on through the ages, and of course a deposit of salt was formed, while the occasional overflow from outside replaced the water which had evaporated. But really this is not known for certain. It is only clear rock-salt contains the minerals we find in our present sea-water, bromine, iodine, and magnesia.

Generally, this salt is not mixed with fragments of a different substance, but is in columns of rough crystals. Now and then there is found a layer of rock-salt, with one of marl and shells under it, succeeded by rock-salt again, showing that for a time a change had taken place.

Rock-salt sometimes melts a little under the earth, and if that happens, the rocks above it sink, and in that way hollows have been formed.

Upon the land near these shallow salt seas lived some singular animals, unlike those of our earth in the later centuries of its history. There were remarkable reptiles belonging to the frog or Batrachian family. One of the species was the size of a small ox, with peculiar complicated teeth, and feet which left prints on the earth so exactly like the impressions of the human hand, that geologists gave it a Latin name meaning 'the beast with the hand.' Another strange creature was a sort of lizard, with a horny bill, and feet resembling those of the duck; it had somewhat the appearance of a turtle, it is supposed. Then there were some warm-blooded animals about the size of a rat, which had pouches in their cheeks, and preyed upon small insects.

PING-KWE'S DOWNFALL.

It was Ping-Kwe's fondness for a river excursion, combined with the fact of his possessing a very hasty temper, which led to his downfall. It happened in this wise.

One day it chanced that he was in a particularly bad frame of mind; he quarrelled with his wife, he heat his two little yellow-faced bairns, and after doing all that was possible to promote discord in his household, he started off on one of his favourite river trips, instead of going back to his work.

The cool, sweet evening air might perhaps have done something towards chasing Ping-Kwe's evil humour away, but alas! under the canopy of the boat, within which he seated himself, he saw two English ladies, the wife and sister of the British Consul in the district. Now Ping-Kwe hated the English like poison and he thereupon began a tirade against all foreigners, making use of as many English words as he could, for the benefit of the two ladies.

Fortunately, his knowledge of the English language was limited, or Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Heathcote might have been more alarmed than they already were at his storm of abuse.

'What do we want with them here?' he snarled in his native tongue, 'turning the place upside down? If I had my will I would throw them all overboard.'

'Calm yourself, Ping,' said one of his fellow-townsmen, Chang by name, who was sitting near. 'Take my advice and throw something-else overboard.'

Here he laid a restraining hand on the ill-tempered Chinaman's shoulder.

'What do you mean?' was the retort.

'Your bad temper; it will be the ruin of you if you don't.'

Alas! this open rebuke only added fuel to the fire, and Ping-Kwe's fellow-passengers (who were bound for the town of Tsoung, across the water) at length grew thoroughly tired of his company.

'Who is that fellow?' whispered one of the occupants of the boat to another.

'Oh! it is Ping-Kwe,' was the reply, as though that answered everything.

'What! the manager of Kong-Yung's stores in the town yonder?'

'Yes.'

'How comes it that he is here, instead of attending to his work?' went on the questioner.

As there was no satisfactory answer to this query, the stranger, who was none other than Kong-Yung himself, said no more.

He had but lately come into his property, and so was not yet known to all his tenants; but in these few minutes he had learnt enough to know that Ping-Kwe was not the right sort of man to make a good manager.

Ping-Kwe, could he but have known it, would have given a year of his life rather than show himself thus in his worst colours before his wealthy employer. It was not the first time he had neglected his business, but now his sin had found him out.

Perhaps Kong-Yung might have passed over this offence with a caution, for he was not a hard man, but such a display of ill-temper was unpardonable, and so it came to pass that early on the following morning, Ping-Kwe received a curt dismissal from his post.

Nothing he could say or do had any power to alter his employer's decision, and, before a month had elapsed, the hapless man found himself utterly without the means of providing for his wife and family.

Strange to say, it was in his adversity that the best part of his nature came to the fore.

For his wife and children's sake he would have cheerfully starved himself; but alas! hunger and destitution stared them _all_ in the face. Days passed on into weeks, and still the hapless Chinaman was workless.

Never would Ping-Kwe or his patient little wife forget the miseries of one terrible night. Overhead the stars were shining as though breathing hope to the forlorn family, who were now actually without a roof to cover them. The children were crying pitifully for food, and Ping-Kwe, in his despair, began to think that even death itself would be welcome. And the stinging part of it all was that he had brought his troubles upon himself, for Kong-Yung had told him frankly the reason of his dismissal.

It was when matters were at their lowest ebb, that the English ladies, hearing of Ping-Kwe's sad plight, came to his aid.

With their own hands they tended to the necessities of the destitute family, and it was owing to their intervention that Ping-Kwe found employment again under his former master. It was humble work, it is true, but Ping-Kwe was now a humble man.

With mingled shame and gratitude he accepted the kindly aid of the two ladies, and from that time forth never more was he heard to say a word against the English. Their influence by degrees wrought such a change in Ping-Kwe that his best friends would hardly have known him.

As to his diligence in business, there could be no doubt, and Kong-Yung never had reason to regret taking him into his service again. A few months later, he chanced to be once more in the same boat with his fellow-townsman, Chang.

'What has happened to that temper of yours, Ping-Kwe?' asked Ching, with a good-natured smile; 'I have not seen it lately.'

'No,' replied Ping-Kwe, 'I don't suppose you have. As a matter of fact I have taken the advice you gave me some time ago, and have thrown it overboard.'

THE TRIALS OF LECKINSKI.

Leckinski was a young Polish soldier, who was chosen for a very dangerous mission when he was only eighteen years of age.

At that time Murat held military rule at Madrid. He desired to send important dispatches to Junot, then at Lisbon; but this was a matter of great difficulty, for all the roads to Lisbon were in the possession of Castagnos and his army of Spanish revolutionists. The dreaded guerillas also infested the way.

Murat, in his perplexity, confided in Baron Strogonoff, the Russian Ambassador at Madrid. Russia at this time was not the direct ally of France, but distinctly the friend. Strogonoff--though it was a rash and illegal act--offered help. He proposed that a Polish lancer, dressed in the Russian uniform, should be sent with dispatches from _his_ Court to Admiral Siniavin, then at the port of Lisbon, and that the messenger should at the same time convey verbal messages from Murat to Junot. It was improbable, said the Baron, that the insurgent army of Castagnos would interfere with a messenger of Russia, whose goodwill, to the extent of neutrality, at least, they were desirous to obtain. But this opinion, as we shall see, proved a mistaken one.

Murat was delighted with the plan, and Krasinski, the Polish commander, was immediately applied to for a suitable person. Leckinski volunteered for the task.

Murat, himself a brave man, thought it right to point out to Leckinski the perils of his mission.

The young Pole smiled. 'I owe your Imperial Highness a thousand thanks,' said he, 'for having so greatly honoured me as to entrust me with this duty. It shall be done to the best of my ability.'

Murat then gave him his secret instructions, and, dressed in the Russian uniform, and carrying the written dispatches for the Russian admiral, Leckinski started on his journey.

Just at first all went well, but on the third day Leckinski was surrounded and captured by a Spanish troop. His captors dragged him before their commanding officer, who chanced to be Castagnos himself. Leckinski saw that if he were recognised as an emissary of the French, his doom would be sealed. He therefore instantly determined to feign complete ignorance of the French language, and to speak only Russian or German, languages which he knew thoroughly.

In his determination he was strengthened by the terrible threats which he heard from the Spaniards around him. He recalled, too, the horrible fate of General René, who, a few weeks before, while executing a mission similar to his own, had been cruelly tortured to death. Brave though he was, Leckinski shrank from such a fate as that.

Castagnos, who had been educated at Sorrize, spoke French well. 'Who are you?' he asked in that language.

The prisoner made no answer, according to his plan. One of the staff then interrogated him in German, and his replies were made sometimes in German, sometimes in Russian. A word of French, or even a French accent, would have cost Leckinski his life.

An unfortunate incident increased the ferocity of the Spaniards. An aide-de-camp who felt assured that Leckinski was a French spy, rushed into the room, dragging with him a man attired in brown cloth, and wearing the peasant's high conical hat, adorned with a red feather. The officer, forcing his way through the crowd, placed this man face to face with Leckinski.

'Look!' he said; 'is this fellow a Russian or a German? _I_ say that he is a French spy!'

The peasant gazed steadily at the young Pole. 'Yes!' he exclaimed, 'this is a Frenchman. A few weeks ago I was at Madrid with some cut straw which had been demanded from our village; and it was this man who received my portion of forage, and gave me the receipt.'

This identification was correct. Castagnos indeed may have thought so; but there was a possibility that the peasant was mistaken, and the Spanish commander was more generous and humane than his followers. He saw that the youth was not a Russian, but he was by no means sure that he was a Frenchman--as, in fact, he was not. Leckinski's handsome face and courageous behaviour told in his favour. Castagnos decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; but he had hard work to restrain his savage followers. A hundred threatening voices arose as the General announced his decision, and the word 'traitor' was even applied to himself.

'You desire, then,' said Castagnos, 'to risk a quarrel with Russia?'

'No,' answered his officers; 'but let us at least prove the fellow.'

'So be it.'

Leckinski knew enough Spanish to understand this brief conversation, which put him more than ever on his guard. Out of the chamber he was led, and thrown into a dungeon. When its door closed upon him he had been eighteen hours without food. Nearly fainting, he fell on the wretched bed which occupied a corner of the room. Here he had ample leisure to contemplate his terrible position. At length, however, being young and healthy, he fell into a sound sleep.

(_Concluded on page 319._)

THE LADYBIRD AND THE CATERPILLAR.

One bright morning in the spring-time, a green caterpillar, on the bough of a tree, was gazing at a ladybird and seemed bent upon making her acquaintance. However, the ladybird disdained the insect, and flew away among the flowers. Some time after, in the summer, the ladybird was earnestly admiring a beautiful butterfly which was fluttering about near her. She even approached the pretty creature and began a conversation, when the butterfly exclaimed, 'No, no, madam! I do not value compliments from turncoats. You were ashamed of my appearance when I was only a caterpillar; but now that I have risen in the world, doubtless you would be very glad to make my acquaintance.' The butterfly then spread out its light wings and flew away, leaving the ladybird to her own reflections.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

X.--WILLIAM PITT: BORN 1759, DIED 1806.

On May 28th, 1759, there was born at the pretty little village of Hayes, in Middlesex, a puny babe, who in after years was to be one of the greatest statesmen of his time.

The year of his birth was one of many British successes, both by sea and land; it was the year of the victories of Minden, in Germany, and of Quebec, in America, and of triumphs both in India and Africa, so that Horace Walpole in a letter of that time says, 'One is forced to ask every morning what victory there is, for fear of missing one.'

Pitt was a most precocious child, and was fond of reading stiff books of history and poetry at an age when other children barely knew their letters. Even whilst in the nursery he would declare that 'when he was a man he would speak in the House like his father!'

Lord Chatham, his father (the elder Pitt, as he is often called), was proud of the intelligent little fellow, and took pains to fit him for a Parliamentary career by teaching him elocution, and making him recite every day a passage from Milton or Shakespeare. Lord Chatham seems to have taken more interest in the education of his five children than was usual among parents of his day. We are told by Bishop Tomline that 'he seldom suffered a day to pass without giving instruction of some sort to his children, and seldom without reading a chapter of the Bible with them.'

William was so delicate that he was never sent to school, and at one time it was feared he would not have been reared; but a doctor prescribed liberal doses of port wine, and this 'pleasant medicine,' we hear, pleased the child, and he drank a great deal of it daily. Though at the time it seemed to suit him, yet there is little doubt it planted the seeds of the disease which was to carry him off before middle age.

At fourteen, William's tutors said that he knew more than most lads at eighteen and was quite ready for College, so he was sent to Oxford, where he amazed his tutors by his wisdom and learning. At seventeen he left the University with the degree of M.A., which was, at that time, unwisely given to the sons of peers without any examination.

He then studied for the Bar, and attended the Western Circuit, and at the age of twenty-one he put his foot on the first rung of Parliamentary fame, by becoming Member for Appleby. His success was almost instantaneous, and after his third speech, one of the Opposition remarked to Mr. Fox, who was Pitt's life-long rival, 'Mr. Pitt promises to be one of the first men in Parliament,' to which remark Fox answered generously, 'He is so already, sir!'

Pitt's voice was singularly clear and deep-toned, and he had been well trained as to the use to make of it, but his personal actions were too vehement, and one wag remarked, 'Mr. Fox, in speaking, saws the air with his hands, but Mr. Pitt saws with his whole body.'

At twenty-three Pitt became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the following year the young man became Prime Minister, the youngest Prime Minister who has ever sat in the House of Commons.

His administration was at first highly successful, but his genius was better fitted for peaceable and domestic government, than for the warlike policy which circumstances thrust upon him.

When in 1792 the French Revolution broke out and a war with France seemed inevitable, and when the power of Buonaparte became alarming to every government, Pitt succeeded in forming a coalition of Austria, Russia, and England, and felt perfectly confident of opposing a barrier to the ambition of 'the Corsican.'

But while the Russian troops were slowly coming up from Poland, Buonaparte swiftly assembled together a huge army, and defeated the Austrians at Ulm. The news of this defeat came to England in a roundabout way in a Dutch newspaper. Pitt received it on a Sunday, when all the public offices were closed. He knew no Dutch himself, and feverishly anxious to learn what had happened, he be-thought himself of Lord Malmesbury, who had been our Minister in Holland, and he took the paper to him to translate.

When Pitt was thus informed of the defeat of our ally, his grief was unbounded, and though a few days later he heard of the victory of Trafalgar, yet this was overshadowed later on by the French victory of Austerlitz, a disappointment which left Pitt a broken man.

His last public speech was at the Lord Mayor's banquet after the battle of Trafalgar, when the crowd, carried away with the victory, took the horses out of Pitt's carriage and drew him along in triumph to the Mansion House.

The Lord Mayor proposed Pitt's health and hailed him as the 'Saviour of Europe,' but Pitt in his answer made use of the following memorable words: 'I thank you for the honour you have done me; but England is not to be saved by a single man. England has saved herself by her exertions, and will, I trust, save Europe by her example.'

Pitt had now but a few more weeks to live. He died on January 23rd, 1806, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day when he first took his seat in Parliament, and his death was undoubtedly hastened by his distress at the state of affairs between France and England.

He was awarded a public funeral, and on one of the monuments erected to his memory it is recorded that 'having for twenty years dispensed the favours of the Crown, yet he ever lived simply and died poor.'

A BRAVE LAD.

It was Saturday afternoon when the boys of Wedderburn School went off as usual to swim their boats on a beautiful lake, only a quarter of a mile away. Fred Langton had a new boat, a regular beauty, which his grandfather had sent to him as a birthday present, and it must be admitted that many admiring eyes were directed to this boat, for it was a larger and better-constructed one than any of the others, and each boy was of course, anxious that his own boat should win the race. But although all the boys admired Fred's boat, and wished that they could have had one as good, still they felt no grudge towards Fred himself, for he was a general favourite in the school, being kind-hearted, unselfish, always willing to lend anything that he had to his companions, and never known to tell tales, or to do a mean action of any kind.

'I tell you,' said Bill Cowan to his own particular chum, Joe Morris, 'that boat of Fred's will beat ours all hollow! I wish I had one as good!'

'Well, suppose it does win,' replied Joe Morris, 'I shall not grudge it to him, for Fred is no sneak; he is out-and-out the jolliest fellow in Wedderburn School.'

'So he is,' said Bill Cowan, 'and no mistake about it. Well, here we are at the lake, and now for some fun.'

On this particular Saturday, however, Fred was destined to distinguish himself in quite another way, and to win the applause not only of his companions, but of the people who were walking up and down the border of the lake, enjoying the sunshine and the refreshing breeze. The little boats were all in full sail, and the schoolboys were shouting with glee at the fun, when quite suddenly a fine fox-terrier took it into his head to pursue the boats and show that he could swim as well as they could. Poor dog! It was quite true that he could swim; but unfortunately he got entangled among weeds, and after floundering about for a little and barking piteously for help, he gradually sank till his body was quite out of sight, only his head and neck being visible to the schoolboys, who looked on in horror, not knowing how they could save the poor animal.

'Oh, I say, I can't stand this!' cried Fred Langton; 'he will be drowned. I must go in and fetch him out!'

'No, no!' cried Bill Cowan; 'the lake is quite deep just at that place.'

'Yes, I know it's deep,' added Joe Morris, 'and, besides, you can't swim, Fred; don't be silly. Who cares for a dog being drowned?'

'I do, for one,' cried Fred, and dashing into the water he waded out to where the poor dog was half-standing, half-lying, among the choking weeds. Yes, the water was deep; but stretching out his arms he contrived to catch hold of the poor animal, and he quickly waded back to shore amid ringing cheers from all the people who had now gathered on the bank to watch the plucky lad. And whose was the dog? Nobody knew; it seemed, indeed, to have no owner and no home. But Fred and his companions carried it back with them to the school, and, after having told their tale, they begged the head master to keep it for himself; and as Dr. Williams could not discover anything about the dog's ownership, he _did_ keep it. So Fred's brave deed not only saved the animal's life, but procured a good home for it as well.

TRUE HAPPINESS.

How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which lords or kings can cause or cure;
Still to ourselves, in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.

These lines were added by Dr. Johnson to Goldsmith's poem, the _Traveller_, with Goldsmith's consent, and the lesson in them is well worth remembering.

DREAM-TIME.

The wind against the window blows;
The dustman comes along the street;
The lamps are lit, the darkness grows;
The dreams come in with noiseless feet.

Oh, haste to bed: the dreams await
The children, with their sweetest song.
Don't loiter; you may be too late,
The best of dreams are never long.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 299._)