Chapter XVIII: Christmas on the Tananah (1)

"Look here," said Phil, referring to the mate's last surprising statement, "wasn't your friend Mr. Robinson in the habit of drawing the long bow?"

"No," replied Jalap Coombs, in surprise at the question; "he couldn't abide 'em."

"Couldn't abide what?"

"Bows, nor yet arrers, since when he were a kid some boys put up a game on him that they called William Tell, which allers did seem to me the foolishest game, seeing that his name warn't William, but Kite, and he warn't expected to tell anything, only just to stand with a pumpkin on his head for them to shoot their bow-arrers at. Waal, the very fust one missed the pumpkin and plunked poor Kite in the stummick, after which he didn't have no use for a long bow nor a short bow, nor yet a bow of any kind."

"I don't blame him," laughed Serge. "But we would very much like to know how he determined latitude by tea and coffee."

"Easy enough," was the reply. "You see, tea is drunk mostly in cold latitoods similar to this, and coffee in warm. The higher the latitood, the hotter and stronger the tea, and the less you hear of coffee. At forty-five or thereabouts they's drunk about alike, while south of that coffee grows blacker and more common, while tea takes a back seat till you get to the line, where it's mighty little used. Then as you go south of that the same thing begins all over again; but there's not many would notice sich things, and fewer as would put 'em to practical use like old Kite done."

"Mr. Coombs," said Phil, "you sound pretty well thawed out, and if that is the case we'll get under way again."

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the mate, thrashing his long arms vigorously across his chest to restore circulation, and then slipping resignedly into his fur bag. "Anchor's apeak, sir." And away sped the sledges up the broad level of the Tananah.

Every member of the party had by this time become so thoroughly broken in to his duties, that when they made camp that night the promptness with which it was prepared, as well as the ensuing comfort, was a revelation to Jalap Coombs, who declared that there had been nothing like it in the camps of the other party.

"Of course not," said Phil, "for they haven't got Serge Belcofsky along, so how could their comfort equal ours?"

At this Serge, covered with confusion, replied, "Nonsense, Phil! You know it is because we have got such capital campmen as Kurilla and Chitsah with us."

At this the face of the elder Indian beamed with pleasure. He did not exactly understand the conversation; but believing that he ought to make some reply, he pointed to Jalap Coombs, and looking at Phil, remarked:

"You fadder. Yaas."

But the journey up the Tananah was by no means an unbroken record of swift movings from one comfortable camp to another, or of jokes and pleasantries. The days were now at their shortest, so that each could boast only about four hours of sunlight, and even that was frequently obscured by fierce storms, when the howling winds cut like knives, and it required every ounce of Phil Ryder's pluck as well as Serge Belcofsky's dogged determination to keep the little party in motion. The feet of the poor dogs were often so pierced by ice slivers that their tracks were marked with blood. The older and more experienced would bite at these and pull them out. Others would howl with pain, while some would lie down and refuse to work until they were put in boots, which were little bags of deer-hide drawn over their feet and fastened with buckskin thongs.

It was a journey of constant and painful struggle and of dreary monotony, each day being only the same endless succession of ice-bound river, snow-covered hills, and sombre forest. Especially depressing was the night of the 24th of December, when, with an icy wind moaning through the tree-tops of the subarctic forest, and the shivering dogs edging toward the fire for a share of its grateful warmth, Phil and Serge and Jalap Coombs reminded each other that this was Christmas eve. Never before had Phil spent one away from home, nor had the others ever been so utterly removed from the cheering influences of the joyous season. So Phil described what he knew was taking place in far distant New London at that very hour, and Serge told of merry times in quaint old Sitka, while Jalap Coombs recalled many a noble plum duff that had graced Christmas feasts far out at sea, until they all grew homesick, and finally crawled into their sleeping-bags to dream of scenes as remote from those surrounding them as could well be imagined.

As they always selected a camping-place, and prepared for the long night by the last of the scanty daylight or in the middle of the afternoon, so they always resumed their journey by the moonlight or starlight, or even in the darkness of two or three o'clock the next morning. On Christmas morning they started as usual many hours before daylight, and, either owing to the vagueness of all outlines or because his thoughts were far away, the young leader mistook a branch for the main river, and headed for a portion of the mighty wilderness that no white man had ever yet explored.

About noon they passed a forlorn native village of three or four snow-covered huts, the occupants of which gazed at the unaccustomed sight of white travellers in stolid amazement. They had gone nearly a mile beyond this sole evidence of human occupation to be found in many a weary league when Phil suddenly stopped.

"Look here!" he exclaimed, "what do you two say to going back, making a camp near that village, and having some sort of a Christmas after all? It doesn't seem right for white folks to let the day go by without celebrating it somehow."

As the others promptly agreed to this proposition the sledges were faced about, and a few minutes later the music of Musky's jingling bells again attracted the wondering natives from their burrows.

Camp was made on a wooded island opposite the village, and while the others were clearing the snow from a space some fifty feet square, and banking it up on the windward side, Phil took his gun and set forth to hunt for a Christmas dinner. An hour later he returned with four arctic hares and a brace of ptarmigan or Yukon grouse whose winter plumage was as spotless as the snow itself.

He found Serge and Jalap Coombs concocting a huge plum duff, while from the brass kettle a savory steam was already issuing. Kurilla and Chitsah had chopped a hole through four feet of ice and were fishing, while a few natives from the village hovered about the outskirts of the camp watching its strange life with curious interest.

They were very shy, and moved away when Phil approached them, seeing which he called Kurilla and bade him tell them that a present would be given to every man, woman, and child who should visit the camp before sunset.

At first they could not comprehend this startling proposition, but after it had been repeated a few times the youngest of them, a mere boy, uttered a joyous shout and started on a run for the village. A few minutes later its entire population, not more than twenty-five in all, including babes in arms, or rather in the hoods of their mother's parkas, came hurrying over from the mainland filled with eager expectancy.

To every man Phil presented a small piece of tobacco, to every woman a handful of tea, and to every child a biscuit dipped in molasses. With each present he uttered, very distinctly, the word "Christmas." At length one child, though whether it was a boy or a girl he could not make out, for their fur garments were all exactly alike, looked up with a bashful smile and said, "Kikmuk." In a minute all the others had caught the word, and the air rang with shouts of "Kikmuk," mingled with joyous laughter.

Then they all trooped back to the village, shouting "Kikmuk" as they went, and so long as they live the word will be associated in their minds with happiness and good-will. Three of them, a man and two women, afterwards returned, bringing with them a pair of dainty moccasins, a fox-skin, and an intestine filled with melted fat, which they timidly presented to Phil, Serge, and Jalap Coombs respectively. The last-named regarded his gift rather dubiously, but accepted it with a hearty "Kikmuk," and remarked that it would probably be good for his feet, which it afterward proved to be.

These three were invited to dine with Kurilla and Chitsah, an invitation which they accepted, and so became the guests of the Christmas dinner. On their side of the fire the feast consisted largely of the fish the Indians had just caught, to which were added unstinted tea and a liberal supply of the plum duff. On the other side were mock-turtle soup _a la can_, baked fish, rabbit fricassee, roast grouse, plum duff, hard bread, tea, and cocoa--all of which combined to form what Phil pronounced to be the very best Christmas dinner he had ever eaten, in which sentiment Serge and Jalap Coombs heartily concurred.

Even the dogs were given cause to rejoice that Christmas had at length come to their snowy land by receiving a double ration of dried fish, which put them into such good spirits that they spent the greater part of the night in a rollicking game of romps. On the Indian side of the fire unwonted good cheer so overcame the shyness of the villagers that the man ventured to ask questions regarding the intentions and destination of this sledge party of strangers. When these were stated by Kurilla he remained silent for a minute. Then he delivered a long and animated speech.

As a result of this, and when it was finished, Kurilla left his own side of the fire, and, approaching Phil, said,

"You go Forty Mile?"

"Yes. We all going to Forty Mile, of course."

"No like um Tananah?"

"Certainly I like the Tananah well enough. I shall like it better, though, when we have seen the last of it."

"No can see um now."

"Why not? There it is right out yonder."

"No. Him Kloot-la-ku-ka. Tananah so" (pointing to the way they had come). "You go so way" (pointing upstream); "get lose, mebbe; no fin; plenty bad. Yaas."

So, all on account of keeping Christmas, and trying to bring a little of its joy into the hearts of those children of the wilderness, Phil's mistake was discovered before its consequences became disastrous, and he was once more enabled to place his little party on the right road to Sitka.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

LIFE-BLOOD OF A GREAT CITY.

HOW NEW YORK GETS ITS WATER.

BY JULIAN RALPH.

The furnishing of water to millions of human beings in a city, and the arrangements for giving it to them as they want it, whether merely by the glassful or in the profusion with which it is used in a brewery, are among the most wonderful achievements of civilization. Imagine the way men live when they break their way into a new country; that is the only manner in which we can measure the convenience of a modern water supply. I have seen the settlers on the Canadian plains walking a quarter of a mile--perhaps half a mile--to the Bow River to fill a bucket with water with which to cook and with which to supply drink to a household. Bathing, as we understand the term, was only to be done by going to the same river and plunging in--daring the few months when the river water was warm. Thus it must have been with the first Hollanders who settled Manhattan Island. In time they dug wells in the ground, and then came that more lavish use of the splendid fluid, attended by such economy as used to lead the Dutch mothers to scold the children with that admonition we still may hear in the country, "Do you think the servant-girl has nothing to do but to carry water up stairs for you to waste it as you do?"

Did the reader ever see a medical or anatomical chart of the human body, showing the arteries and veins that carry the blood from our hearts to every main and every minute part of our bodies? How like a tree it looks, with its main stem or trunk, with its great branches, with its delicate boughs and switches and twigs. Well, a Croton-water chart of the system by which a river is brought to our bedrooms, instead of our having to go to the river with our buckets, would be just such another complicated, marvellous, treelike object, only I really think it would be more astonishing in one sense, because it is so wholly the hard brain-work of man instead of the mysterious divine creation of the Almighty, whose works are so profound that their wonders do not surprise us so much as when man produces something a tenth part or a thousandth part as extraordinary.

If we could cut away all the earth of the island, leaving the water-mains bare, and if we could tear down all the buildings of the city so as to allow the water-pipes to stand up, bare and naked, just as they now stand up in their covers of brick and plaster, I suppose the sight of that wonderful forest of big and little pipes would be as surprising as anything that any human being ever saw. Just try to fancy Manhattan Island all under a tangle of towering pipes and crisscrossed tubes, and then, while we are about it, just fancy a lot of savages landing here and tampering with those pipes until one of them should touch some cock and turn on the water. What a rain there would be, in big streams and middling streams and tiny little streams, out of millions of fixtures! No shower bath that was ever conceived or heard of would compare with it. And yet--see how small and weak man is, after all--it would not begin to equal an ordinary rain-storm.

Of water mains--or big pipes sunk in the streets to distribute the Croton water from the reservoirs--there are no less than 715 miles, but when the reader thinks how at every twenty-five feet smaller pipes branch out of the mains to carry the water to every floor of every building and sometimes to every office or room, he will see that of smaller pipes there must be tens of thousands of miles, making up that grand tree which is as much the "tree of life" of a great city as the arterial system is the tree of life of each of our bodies. To carry off the water that courses through all these thousands of miles of pipes we have 456 miles of sewers--or much bigger pipes; some of which men can walk through or even paddle a boat in.

One hundred and fifty years ago, when New York was considered rather an ancient town, the people got their water for drinking from the "collect," where the Tombs prison stands, and from the little springs and streams that ran into that pond. A very few had wells, public or private, near their houses. It was not until 1750 that pumps were set up to make the getting of water easier. It will surprise the reader to know that hundreds of these old wells still remain upon the island. Two or three still have pumps affixed to them, and are used for giving drink to horses, but the rest are covered over and, in most cases, their existence is forgotten. It is not possible, even in case of war, when our water supply might be cut off, that we will ever revert to the use of these wells, for they yield a polluted water that is as bad to drink as poison. Just before the Revolutionary War a man named Colles built a little reservoir above the City Hall, but it yielded such bad water that the people who could afford to do so bought water that was hawked in the streets from carts. It was not until 1842, when we had a population of 350,000 souls, that New York got its water systematically and in such plenty that mothers did not scold their children and Mayors did not remonstrate with the people for wasting it.

New York has never been a boastful city. It never has filled the world with the noise of its greatness or the parade of its wonderful achievements. Its Broadway is the longest thoroughfare in Christendom, I believe; its suspension-bridge is only excelled by one bridge of another kind; its actual size and population are second to those of but one city; but such facts one must glean from the encyclopaedias and the letters of travellers. The New-Yorkers say nothing about them. Therefore it is but little known that the aqueduct which carries our water to us is the greatest--many times the greatest--tunnel in the whole world. It is more than thirty-three miles in length, and far from being a mere trench, averages a depth of 170 feet below the surface, and is in places 380 feet underground. It is from ten to thirteen feet high, and averages nearly as great a width. Its way is hewn through solid rock in places, and it is everywhere built of brick and granite. It passes under several rivers, and at the Harlem River, the northern boundary of this island, it is in the shape of a siphon upside down, sloping for 1300 feet under the river, and then rising 400 feet straight up through the Manhattan Island bank of the stream. It cost nearly $27,000,000, and it brings, without pumping, by the incline of the tunnel, nearly 100 gallons of water a day for each of the 1,900,000 persons in the city, or about 171,000,000 gallons of water a day for all of us. It is a solid cube of water running at the rate of two miles an hour, eight or ten feet thick, and ten or a dozen feet high.

We are in the habit of saying that the water we drink comes from Croton Lake, thirty miles north of the city in Westchester County, but that is only a part of the truth. The fact is, that Croton Lake was made by damming the Croton River when our system was begun in 1835-42. We now take that water, and the water of several other lakes, ponds, and rivers that are in a great valley or depression in the earth called the Croton watershed. We keep stored up and ready for use about 17,000,000,000 gallons of water in the following natural and artificial reservoirs: Croton Lake, Lake Mahopac, Lake Gilead, and Kirk Lake, Middle Branch, East Branch, Bog Brook, and Barrett Pond. Their names sufficiently describe the character of these great goblets of crystal water which nature and man have arranged for the needs of the great city. But these are so insufficient that, although it is believed we could draw 250,000,000 gallons a day even in dry weather, we are going to take into our system three more reservoirs, which will allow us to store 13,000,000,000 gallons more than we can store at present. And as even these will not long supply our growing needs, we are about to build the greatest dam the world ever saw. It is already called the Quaker Bridge dam. It is to be built five miles south of Croton Lake, back of the town of Sing Sing, where the great State-prison is. It will be a great pyramidal-shaped wall of solid masonry 264 feet high, and 1500 feet long, and will cost, the officials think, at least $6,000,000. When it is finished, a magnificent rich farming country will be flooded and turned into one immense glass of water for old Father Knickerbocker (as we call our patron saint) and his children. The water that will bank up against that dam will rise up over many, many farms and houses and barns and villages for a distance of no less than sixteen miles, and the present dam at Croton Lake will be thirty-five feet under the surface of the water. Now we store 17,000,000,000 gallons of water, but then we will have a liquid treasure of 84,600,000,000 gallons.

We are apt to think about water as free because Nature evidently intended that it should cost no more than fresh air. And so it is free, so long as we are satisfied to use very little, and to go and dip up that very little out of a stream and carry it to our homes. But when we demand the full fruits of modern civilization, when we insist upon the building of huge dams and vast reservoirs and tunnels and pumping-stations, we must buy the water they bring in order to pay for the cost of the convenience. What we pay in New York amounts to about $1.75 a head for every man, woman, and child in the city, or more than $3,000,000 a year. This great tax, called the "water rents," is used to pay the interest on the debt we owe for our aqueduct, to keep the system in repair, and to swell a sinking fund which we have established. The water rents are not paid according to the amount of water each person uses, but for the quantity that passes into each house, office building, factory, brewery, and stable. The house-owners each pay between four dollars and eighteen dollars a year, and the men who use great quantities--such as brewers, makers of mineral water, sugar refiners, and the like--in the course of their business all pay special rates, which seem very large indeed when we read the sums in print.

This department is conducted in the interest of Amateur
Photographers, and the editor will be pleased to answer any
question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should
address Editor Camera Club Department.

MEMORY ALBUMS

What a wonderful thing the memory is! Grandmamma, who counts, perhaps, her threescore years and ten, sees a piece of faded calico, and her mind goes back to the time when, a little girl of eight, she was dressed in a new gown, of which this faded scrap is a remnant, and taken to town for "general training." She sees again the soldiers and the officers in their uniforms, she almost smells the cards of gingerbread, and hears the bustle and stir in the streets. She may not have thought of this special day for long, long years, but this bit of calico has brought it all back to her memory.

Since the advent of cameras into nearly every family one has the opportunity of making actual pictures of festal occasions which occur, such as the birthday parties, the family picnics, John's new bicycle and his first unsuccessful attempt to ride it, the Hallowe'en frolic, the Christmas tree--any special day or event can be preserved in gelatine, and in a few years these pictures will have for one more interest and value than many made from much finer negatives. Now we want to suggest to our young amateurs that they start memory albums at once.

Begin the album by looking over your collection of plates, and select such as have been made on special occasions. From these make prints, and be sure and look up the exact date on which the picture was taken. Do not reject a "memory picture" because it is not as clear a plate or the grouping as artistic as one could desire. For the album itself, buy the album leaves which are almost as cheap as card mounts, and they can be added to from time to time as one makes new pictures. Arrange your pictures in chronological order--that is, the earliest date first, etc., marking under each picture its proper date.

A person who has used a camera for two or three years will find he has quite a number of "memory pictures," and one who starts a memory album should make it a rule to add the pictures to his collection as soon as they are made. One can use blue prints for such albums, for a good blue print seldom fades or discolors, while aristo or albumen prints, unless very carefully finished, are apt to grow yellow or discolor. In after-years our memory albums will be considered of as much value as any of our possessions.

SIR KNIGHT ALFRED C. BAKER asks "If he can become a member of the
Camera Club, and what are the duties of a member?" We shall be
very glad to enroll Sir Alfred a member of our Camera Club, and as
he says he owns two or three cameras, and finishes his own
pictures, he will doubtless be a great addition to our club. The
duties of a member have never been exactly defined, but we expect
our members to take an active interest in the work, and they are
requested to send to the club any new or improved way of doing
anything in photography. We also want each one of our members to
become a _specialist_ along some special line of photographic
work. We hope soon to organize a correspondence and exchange club.
Sir Alfred would like to correspond on photography with some of
the members of the club. He has also a Kombi camera which he would
like to sell or exchange.

THE MERRIEST TIME.

The merriest time? Why, kite-time,
Or the time for playing ball;
Or maybe you like rolling hoop
The very best of all.

But, "Here's my own opinion,"
With a little laugh, cries Moll.
"The best is when I take a walk,
And carry my parasol.

"When muffs are packed in camphor,
And tippets put away,
When you needn't always wear your cloak
In the middle of the day.

"Yes, I declare, the merriest time."
With a dimpling laugh, says Moll,
"Is when I go to take a walk,
And carry my parasol."

M. E. S.

A MESSENGER-BOY'S ADVENTURE.[1]

BY EDWARD W. TOWNSEND.

Danny Cahill had been a district messenger for a year, and it seemed to him that he had been on every street and across every park in the great city of New York. Mr. Kean, who had helped him to become a newsboy, had secured him a position in a down-town messenger office, where he could easily learn his duties, and gradually became acquainted with the city, for most of his "calls" there were from offices which wanted messengers for short errands, and he was only occasionally sent far up town. But after six months he was transferred to an office in the fashionable part of the city, near Fifth Avenue, and then he began to go on long journeys which gave him rides on the elevated roads from one end of the city to the other; "from the Battery to the Harlem River," as the saying is.

The work was hard, though, and more so for Danny, because, after or before his long hours on duty, he went every day or night to the school in the Newsboys' Lodging-house where he lived. If he had been on night duty, no matter how late he had been up, nor how many miles he had walked, he was at school the next morning, and if on day duty, he did not go to bed until he had attended the night class. I cannot say that Danny liked this, for he would much rather have gone with the other boys on their pleasure excursions about the city, but Mr. Kean had urged Danny to put in all the time he could spare in school. He promised him that if he did so he would find him a better position when he was far enough advanced to take one.

One evening, when it was nearly time for Danny to go off duty, a messenger call came in the office, and as he was "next" he had to answer it. It took him to a big fashionable house where he had often been before, and he expected as usual to have a short errand with a note to some neighboring house or shop. But when a servant let him into the big hall he was soon joined by a maid who gave him a bundle to carry, and told him he was to take it, and pilot her to the Tenement Mission, "wherever that may be," said the maid, crossly.

Danny knew well enough where it was, for it was situated only a few blocks from the place he once called "home," where he had lived with his uncle who had made him beg, and whom he had never seen since the day he escaped, by Mr. Kean's aid, from the policeman who had arrested both him and his uncle.

What he could not understand was what so grand a house as he was then in could have to do with the Tenement Mission, and he said so to the maid when they were on the street walking toward the Third Avenue elevated station.

"I don't wonder at your surprise," said the maid. "The lady in charge of that nasty mission is the young lady of our house, and I'm her maid. What she wants to go down among those trash for I'm sure I don't know."

"Say," exclaimed Danny, in amazement, "de yer mean dat Barstow lives where we's just come from?"

"Sure, Miss Barstow," answered the maid, "but how do you know?"

"Everybody down dare where I useter live knows her, and calls her 'a tenement angel,'" Danny replied. "But she don't dress grand--not so grand as you."

The maid laughed at this, and then said: "Well, she has a right to dress as she pleases, and go where she pleases, I suppose; but I don't know what right she has to telegraph me to come down there with jelly and wine and broth that you have in that bundle. I'll just tell her that I ain't going to nurse any of her poor sick she's so fond of, if I have to give up my place."

"Say, I guess she isn't tinkin' dat you won't nurse nobody," Danny said, "because she'd get fooled, for I don't believe you'd know how."

"And I don't want to know how," snapped the maid.

When the Tenement Mission was reached Miss Barstow was not there, but a note had been left for the maid directing her to come, with the messenger, to an address which was given.

"Where is the place?" asked the maid, showing Danny the note.

"Oh, dat's a back tenement-house in Roosevelt Street," Danny answered. "Dare is Italians dare," he added, for he knew the place well, his old home with his uncle having been in the same block.

"Is it any worse than this?" the maid asked, in a voice which showed she was getting frightened.

"Dis is Fift' Avenue compared to dat," Danny said.

The girl began to whimper, and said at last, "I won't go. I'm scared to death already. I won't go to her nasty sick poor, and get the small-pox and everything else."

At first Danny did not know what to do. He tried to persuade the maid to go, but she was thoroughly frightened now, and half hysterical. Finally Danny took up the bundle, saying: "Well, I'm going, anyway. If Miss Barstow wants dese things she is goin' to have dem, and you can do what you like. I don't tink you are much good except for show, anyhow."

"I'll stay here until some one comes and takes me home," cried the girl, as Danny went out of the mission.

It was dark by this time, but Danny knew the way perfectly. He found the low narrow entrance to the front tenement, went through that to a little stone-paved court where there was one gas-lamp, and was crossing that when a couple of men stopped him, and demanded roughly to know what he had in the bundle.

"Never you mind," he answered. "It's for Miss Barstow, not for mugs like you."

The men slunk away without any more threats. They were none too good, but they, like nearly all the people in that neighborhood, had been won to respect Miss Barstow, and anything which belonged to her was almost sacred in their eyes.

Danny continued on across the dimly lit court into the dark entrance of the rear tenement. At the door of the room which Miss Barstow's note had described Danny knocked softly, and was admitted by her, a tall, plainly dressed, handsome young woman, whose kindly face was at that moment clouded by anxiety. She seemed surprised to see the messenger alone, and after taking the bundle from him and placing it in a chair, she stepped out in the hall, closing the door so that their voices would not disturb the sick people inside, and heard Danny's story of the maid's fright and desertion.

Miss Barstow was silent for some time before she said, and there was no anger in her voice:

"Perhaps I was wrong to send for her. I would not have done so, but all my assistants are busy. But," she added, after a pause, "I must have some assistance until the doctor comes again."

"Say, what's de matter wid me helpin' you, lady?" asked Danny, promptly.

Miss Barstow looked at him in the half-light the hall lamp gave, and then said, quickly, "Yes. Go and put my maid on a car that will take her home, and then come back here."

Danny did so, and was pretty soon back in the sick-room with Miss Barstow and her two patients. The room was poor, very poor, but better than the one he had lived in with his uncle. There were a bed and a cot, some chairs, a rough table, a cook stove, and a few cooking and table dishes.

In the bed was an Italian woman, and in the cot her daughter, a girl about twelve years old. Both were sick with a fever only too common in the tenement district. The husband and father was a fruit peddler, who had what is called an "all-night" stand on the Bowery. The man and his wife alternated with each other in attending the stand, and it was exposure to the cold wet nights that had brought on the woman's fever. The girl had been a scholar in the day-school for tenement children in Miss Barstow's Mission, but she had attempted to take her mother's place at the stand when the woman was taken sick, and she, too, soon came down with the fever.

It was while making inquiries about her absent scholar that Miss Barstow had found the patients both in bed, and having only the rough care the man could give them during the few hours he could leave his stand. Danny was soon at work under Miss Barstow's orders, and both the patients had some dainty food and wine, and every attention to make them comfortable. Before the Doctor arrived both mother and daughter were sleeping quietly, and Danny found himself whispering the story of his life to Miss Barstow, who, it seemed to him, had the kindest way of asking questions and understanding what he told her of any person in the world. The Doctor smiled when he came in at midnight and saw them, and Danny blushed proudly when the lady told the Doctor that her messenger had proved to be a good nurse and a very interesting companion.

The Doctor ordered Miss Barstow to go home, saying he would wait there until the husband came. When Miss Barstow had paid Danny, she asked him which way he was going. "I'm goin' to see you home, sure," Danny answered, gallantly.

They had left the tenements, and were walking up Roosevelt Street, when a man standing by a lamp-post stared at Danny, and then exclaimed:

"Oh, you little rascal! I've caught you at last! Come along home with me," and he grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulder.

It was Danny's uncle. "You've got fine clothes, and are with a fine lady, while your poor old uncle who had always given you a good honest home is starving," he exclaimed.

Some men who had been lounging about the corner ran up, and Cahill declared over and over to them that his boy had run away from an honest home, and should be taken back and help to support his old uncle, who was sick.

Danny, who had a notion that his uncle really had some sort of right over him, was sick and disheartened at the prospect of going back to his old life, but he had had his liberty too long to be willing to give it up without a struggle. He was a stout youngster; his constant exercise as a messenger-boy kept him in good physical condition, and he made a good resistance to his uncle's efforts to drag him away.

As he was struggling, Miss Barstow ran to him and asked, "Is this the man you told me of--your uncle?"

"Sure; dis is de mug, and he's no good," Danny answered, as he fought.

"Let that boy go," she said to Cahill, sternly.

"Not for you," responded Cahill, surlily.

Miss Barstow stepped to where the light fell on her face, and turning to the crowd of men, said: "Some of you must know me. I want you to make that man let this boy go."

"It's Miss Barstow," one of the men exclaimed. Then he added, "What you say goes down here, lady, mostly, but not in this case. Cahill has a right to the boy's wages. He's a good man, and the kid ain't going to get no harm by going along with him."

Miss Barstow's knowledge of this class taught her that the men had all been drinking, and she knew that the situation was serious. She had often been warned that she was in danger of just such experiences as this, but until now had been saved from danger by the respect that the tenement people felt for her. But these were not even tenement people of the lowest kind. They belonged to the class of idlers who skulked about the saloons in that neighborhood at night, and begged during the day. As she was debating what she should do, Danny managed to trip his uncle hard and break away from him. He ran to Miss Barstow, snatched her umbrella from her hand, jumped between her and the man, and told her to run. One of the half-drunken men lurched toward Danny, but suddenly halted when Danny brought the silver head of the umbrella down on the fellow's head with a whack. That was more than he expected, and while they stood irresolute Danny and Miss Barstow hurried away, Danny keeping between her and the enemy, swinging the umbrella threateningly. They reached the elevated-road station without further molestation, and Danny then found to his surprise that the woman who had been so brave while there was any danger was now white and trembling, and nigh to fainting.

"It was not that I was afraid," she said, "but it shows me that there is danger for me down there, and that I must give up my night work there."

"Why, lady," said Danny, "I taut it was a picnic; anyway it was good fun when I cracked dat mug's nut wid dis umbrella. He'll know he was in a fight to-morrow."

Danny went to Miss Barstow's door with her, and thought that would be the last he would hear of the adventure. Three days later, while he was sitting in the messenger office, a man called on him, who explained that he was the lawyer for Miss Barstow's society which supported the Tenement Mission. He had had Cahill and the men who had been with him that night arrested, and Danny was wanted as a witness against them in the Police Court.

"And now," said the lawyer, when he had explained about the arrest, "tell me all you can about yourself, and your relations with Cahill. Miss Barstow tells me that Cahill may have some legal right to your wages, and if he has we want to give you another guardian. What would you think of me as your guardian?"

Danny did not know what sort of a thing a guardian might be, and the lawyer explained. It was Miss Barstow's wish, he added, that Danny should have a proper legal guardian, and he would look into the matter, and do all that was necessary to protect Danny's rights.

So it came about, after Danny had signed a lot of legal papers, and there had been a lot of petitions and motions, that one day Danny was told that the law had taken notice of such an unimportant little chap as he was, and Miss Barstow's agent had become his guardian, and Uncle Cahill had no claim on Danny's liberty or his modest little account in the Bowery Savings-bank. Danny's comment was:

"I never taut I'd get to be such a swell mug as to have a guardeen all by me lonely. De first ting you know I'll be runnin' for President."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The previous articles in this series, published in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, are "A Street-Waif's Luck," No. 792, "Danny Cahill, Newsboy," No. 803.

The action of the Interscholastic Athletic Association in passing the law prohibiting bicycle-races at all future in-door meetings held under the rules of the I. S. A. A. cannot be too highly commended. It was, of course, the logical outcome of the occurrences of the past four months, but nevertheless the promptness with which the evil was abolished is praiseworthy. Bicycle-races as an in-door sport should be universally done away with. What games in the past season have not been marred by accidents and collisions in that event? The culmination was the carrying away of W. G. Dann in an ambulance after he had broken his collar-bone at the Brooklyn Poly. Prep. games last March. It is to be hoped, now that the good work has been begun, that in the near future some of the other peculiar features of in-door meetings will receive proper attention at the hands of the legislators. I do not believe that Olympian Zeus--or whatever enlightened heathen god it was who invented and fostered track athletics--ever intended that sprints and shot-putting should be held under a roof. He surely would have drawn the line at bicycles, had he known anything about them. He wisely preferred the less-murderous four-horse chariot. But, to my mind, track athletics were never intended as an in-door sport. The gymnasium is not a hippodrome. But more of that later. Let us be thankful for one thing at a time.

I am not opposed to what some timid people call "rough and dangerous" sport. Football should be encouraged, by all means, although it may justly be termed "rough and dangerous" for young men who do not know how to play. It is not dangerous for those who do know the game and have been trained to take part in it. Yet under no circumstances is it a sport adaptable to evening clothes and kid gloves. If it were, we should not care for it as we do. But bicycle-racing--and I am speaking now essentially of in-door racing on a flat floor--is just as dangerous for experts as it is for the ignorant and the novice. More so, perhaps; for a novice's timidity will protect him from any attempt at riding through an iron girder. The dim light of an armory makes it difficult for a rider to judge angles and distances, especially when the track he is circling is marked solely by a chalk line on a slippery floor. In an open field, on a cinder track well rolled and well fenced, it is a very different matter. Should a rider fall there, his injuries are limited to a few scratches at the worst, and surgical assistance is unnecessary in such a case. As to sprinting and putting the shot on a board floor, these events are more incongruous than harmful. And if custom has made them popular as in-door sports, I am willing to defer to the dictum of Custom, until Experience shall step in and pronounce her verdict.

Another good rule adopted at this same meeting of the I. S. A. A. was that proposed by Syme of Barnard, to prevent, when possible, two boys from the same school starting in the same trial heat. It is, unfortunately, not uncommon for two boys from the same school to deliberately pocket a rival runner, especially in events like the 220, the half-mile, and the mile. Such practices are beneath the dignity of amateurs, and it is somewhat of a disgrace that any rule should be required to prevent it. But if the managers were forced to recognize this unsportsmanlike tendency on the part of even a few contestants, it is to their credit that they adopted measures to put a stop to it. Nothing in sport to-day is more important than to maintain a broad and honest spirit of fair play, for without such a spirit interscholastic athletics, and every other kind of athletics, are bound to deteriorate.

While speaking of this, I am reminded of rumors current in Brooklyn to the effect that one of the schools in the Long Island Interscholastic League has secured track athletes and baseball players by offering them half tuition, and in one case free tuition, as an inducement to attend that particular institution. This is a very ugly story, and should not be credited unless very positive proof of its veracity can be adduced. The only ground for the rumors, that I have been able to discover so far, is that the individuals in question attended other schools last year. But that fact is by no means sufficient to warrant the assertion, or even the insinuation, that the change they made was influenced by a financial consideration. If the report is unfounded, it is almost as reprehensible an offence against honest sportsmanship to circulate it as to be guilty of the dishonest practices alleged. As the matter stands now, there is no doubt that somebody--either the school in question or the other members of the league--is suffering under an injustice.

There are just ten days for practice left before the Interscholastics. The many school games of the past two weeks have shown that there is much new material in the field, and that it will not be so easy to pick the winner of the championship as might have been supposed earlier in the season. The struggle for supremacy promises to be more interesting this spring than ever, and I have little doubt that several records will be considerably bettered. Barnard, of course, will make a desperate endeavor to carry off the honors of the day, and thus secure a full title to the Interscholastic Cup. This school will be represented by a strong team, which gives good promise of equalling the record of last year's champions, although three of those 1894 point-winners are not back this year. Of the 38 points which won the day for Barnard last May, Rogers made 16; Simpson, 6; and Feigenspan, 1--in all 23, or almost two-thirds of the total victorious score. Thus, if victory perches on the Harlem banners next week, it will be due in a large measure to the development and acquisition of new material.

At the semiannual field day of the Academic Athletic League of the Pacific Coast, held at the Olympic Club Grounds, San Francisco, on March 16th last, the Oakland High-School and the Berkeley High-School, with 52 points each to its credit, tied for first place, and the championship was consequently awarded to the former for having been the winner the previous year. The struggle, as may well be imagined, was a close and exciting one throughout, there being no event, except perhaps the shot, hammer, and mile run, that was not hotly contested to the end. The O.H.-S. has been the Coast champion for sixteen years past, and if Cheek, the captain of the team, had entered this year, no doubt the score would have been very different. Cheek is a promising all-round athlete. In addition to vaulting and jumping he puts the shot 33 feet, throws the hammer over 100 feet, runs the 100 in 11 seconds, gets over the high hurdles in 17-1/2 seconds, and the low hurdles in 28 seconds. The reason given for his non-entry into these sports is that his team was so much stronger than that of any of the other schools in the league, that the O.H.-S. preferred to contest the games without his aid, and so decide the day by a few points only. This experiment proved a most risky one. If the B.H.-S. had won the Relay race, they would have taken the championship by the score of 55 to 48. Such a self-sacrificing and eminently sporting spirit as Cheek's is something I have not yet observed in the East. The rules governing the contests of the A.A.L. are somewhat different from those of other leagues. The team of each school is limited to seven boys, and six more are allowed to enter for the Relay race, which counts as an extra event, and gives 10 points to the winner, 6 points to second, and 2 to third. There is some advantage in this limitation, but I should think that in many cases it would operate unjustly. Nevertheless, it is a great preventer of that worst feature of our Eastern track-athletic games--countless trial heats necessitated by unlimited and unrestricted entries.

The high hurdles were the occasion for a hot struggle between Dawson, O.H.-S., and Hoppin, B.H.-S. Dawson had never run the full course before, and this was only his fifth attempt at clearing the sticks, but he ran well and breasted the tape in 19-1/2 seconds, with Hoppin at his heels. In the first heat of the low hurdles Hoppin won in 31-1/2 seconds. Dawson fell at the seventh, but picked himself up quickly and finished, thus qualifying for the finals, which he won in 31-1/2 seconds, with Hoppin third. Dawson will no doubt improve greatly within the next year, and I confidently look forward to see him smash some Coast records. He takes the hurdles without the suggestion of an effort, and although only 5 feet 5 inches tall, he gets in the seven steps without any trouble. He trained for the half-mile earlier in the spring, and so attained good endurance. Another boy with this quality strongly developed is Hanford, the O.H.-S. sprinter. He is slow at starting, but his endurance is such that he has been known to do 50 yards in 6-1/5 seconds on a dirt track, then walk back to the start, get on his mark and repeat the performance; and do this again a third and fourth time. He took the 220 in 25-1/5 seconds, without being pushed, but came in a foot behind Lippmann, B.H.-S., in the 100 on account of his slowness in getting away from the mark. In the field events the B.H.-S. walked away with everything, taking all the points in the hammer and shot events. They got first in the broad jump and pole vault, and tied for the high jump. In the hammer, Lynch, B.H.-S. threw 104 feet and won, and was going to try for a record, when the attention of the judges, for some reason, was distracted by the exciting Relay race, and so Lynch lost his chances and his rights. He is said to have done 125 feet in practice. On the whole the day was a notable success, and the scholars of California showed themselves sportsmen of the true stripe in the enthusiasm and energy which characterized the occasion.

COMPARATIVE TABLE OF NEW YORK AND SAN FRANCISCO INTERSCHOLASTIC MEETINGS.

I. S. A. A. Games at the Berkeley Oval,
New York, May 5, 1894.

Event. Winner. Performance.

100-yard dash Rogers 10-2/5 s.
220-yard dash Simpson 23-3/5 s.
120-yard hurdles Beers 16-2/5 s.
220-yard hurdles Syme 27-1/5 s.
Half-mile run Irwin-Martin 2 m. 10-1/5 s.
Mile run Veiller 5 m. 1-1/5 s.
Running high jump { Rogers } 5 ft. 9 in.
{ Baltazzi }
Running broad jump Beers 19 " 5 "
Pole vault Whitney 10 "
Putting 16-pound shot
Putting 12-pound shot Ball 39 " 1 "
Throwing 12-pound hammer Ball 110 " 3-1/2 "

A. A. L. Games at Olympic Club Grounds,
San Francisco, March 16, 1895.

Event. Winner. Performance.

100-yard dash Lippmann 10-4/5 s.
220-yard dash Hanford 25-1/5 s.
120-yard hurdles Dawson 19-1/4 s.
220-yard hurdles Dawson 31-1/2 s.
Half-mile run Russ 2 m. 20-2/5 s.
Mile run Jackson 5 m. 5-1/2 s.
Running high jump McConnell 5 ft. 3 in.
Running broad jump Lloyd 18 " 6 "
Pole vault Woolsey 9 " 2 "
Putting 16-pound shot Lloyd 32 " 8 "
Putting 12-pound shot
Throwing 12-pound hammer Lloyd 104 " 5 "