Chapter XVI: The Mysterious Prisoner (1)

This short notice and warning was meant in the kindliest way. George knew that well, and read between the lines. But it was plain to see that the plot was frustrated by the force of circumstance. He pushed the missive into the glowing coals of the fire; it blazed up merrily, and disappeared into gray ashes.

Now for flight. It would certainly do him no good to stay longer within the camp of the enemy. He knew no method of communication with the outside, and it would be impossible for him to meet with the others who were supposed to be his fellow-conspirators. Although the furlough he had been granted had been for a month, he was all zeal to return and join his command, but determined not to do so empty-handed. If he could only find out the destination of the large army that was ready to be embarked at a word's notice, a great deal would be accomplished. Was it Albany, Boston, or Philadelphia that was Lord Howe's objective point? If he could overhear the conversation at the meeting that he knew must now be going on at Fraunce's, he would have something that would make his trip far from worthless.

When doubting, use caution, may be a good motto, but under some circumstances boldness will answer quite as well. In fact, it is often the only thing that will carry affairs to successful issues.

George determined to hear the result of that meeting if possible, and then put as many miles of land and water between himself and New York as he could accomplish with the remaining hours of darkness. It would be hard to get across the river, but he doubted not being able to find a skiff or a boat along the wharves.

Back in the town once more, he approached Fraunce's Tavern by a circuitous way, and at last reached the stable, the shed of which was closely under the windows of the private dining-rooms where many a gay party had been given, and where years and years ago the old Dutch Mynheers had met and toasted their one-legged Governor in fragrant schnapps.

It had been better for George if he had started at once for the red soil of his native State. The tribulations which Mrs. Bonsall had predicted were about to cloud his horizon.

Tall as he was, he was not able to look in at the window. He could hear the murmur and flutter of conversation coming from within the brightly lighted room. Placing his hands on the sill, and using all the strength of his muscular young arms, he managed to draw himself up until his head was level with the panes. It was a fine sight to behold. This was not a council of war, nor even a secret meeting. It was merely a gathering of officers to talk the situation over informally.

General Howe did not believe in hurrying. But often ideas and plans develop at meetings such as this that bear important results. The talk was so general that George could not at first make out a single connected sentence, and his arms were tired with holding himself in the constrained position; besides, his face was forced so closely to the window that it seemed certain that some one would see him from the inside of the room. He lowered himself to the ground, and searching the yard, found a tall barrel. Rolling it cautiously to the side of the house, he stepped upon it.

It was now plain sailing--at least, it seemed to be.

Through the window-blind, which, was partly closed, he could look without being seen. The window was lowered a little at the top to admit the air.

"Tis the strangest thing in the world," said the voice of a speaker, whom George could not see, as he was behind the angle of the wall. "He was a clever lad, well knit and straight; they say the heir to a vast property up the great river. Search high or low, no trace can be found of him. 'Tis known that he went to his room at the City Arms, and that was the last seen of him."

"So Rivington was telling me," spoke up a man facing the window. "And I saw him when he called on General Howe. Those despatches were of great importance. But it's the General's intention to leave Burgoyne to fight it out alone on the Hudson. Philadelphia must be taken; I am sure that is the plan."

George's nerves tingled. Here was something of importance to relate.

A red-faced officer arose. "Here comes the punch, gentlemen," he said. "And I propose as our first toast confusion to Mr. Washington, and may Satan fly away with him."

"On to Philadelphia!" George heard some one cry.

"Yes, and rout out their ratty Congress," said another.

Suddenly it seemed to George as if the earth's surface had opened to receive him, and that he dropped from untold heights. The fact was that the head of the barrel had given in, and he was thrown backwards onto the hard ground. He came down with a clatter. A side entrance to the tavern ran close to where he had been standing. In fact, he had been exposed to the view of any one who came up the walk. Just as he had fallen a party of five or six entered the yard from the outside, coming up the road by the stables.

"Hello! What's that out there?" said a voice. The window of the dining-room was thrown up and a white-wigged head thrust out. "I say, who's there?" was again repeated.

George arose to his feet. One of the party coming toward him stepped forward. "What is the matter here?" he said.

Now if he was called to explain his presence it might lead to his detection, and with a sense of horror George saw that one of the party was the heavy man who had been in his room at the City Arms--the uncle of Richard Blount, of Albany, whose _bona fide_ nephew was in confinement in New Jersey.

He jumped to his feet and made a leap for the wall, to get over before the others could reach the gate.

"Stop him there!" said the voice from the window. "See who it is! Stop him!"

As he reached the top, and was about to throw himself on the other side, there were a flash and a report, and a strange pain ran through George's left arm. He lost his balance and fell.

When he came to, for he had been stunned a trifle by the second fall, he saw that quite a crowd was gathered over him.

"Does anybody know him?" some one asked.

"Yes, I do," was the answer. "It is the young man who tried to steal my time-piece the other day." The voice was Abel Norton's.

"Ay, and he took mine too, if it is the same," put in another. The last speaker was Schoolmaster Anderson.

"Turn him over to the watch," said an officer. "We cannot afford to have suspicious characters about. Ah, here he comes, for once in the right place."

"What means this disturbance, good people? Oh, is any one badly hurt?" As these words were spoken a caped figure with a lantern hurried up. He had a long pike in his hand, and a huge rattle hung by a leather thong about his neck.

Two or three bystanders helped raise the young man to his feet.

"He is wounded," said some one, noticing the useless left arm, which was numbed with pain, and which was bleeding.

"The prison surgeon is good enough for the likes of him," said another.

"Come with me, young man," said the watchman, putting his hand on George's shoulder. "You had better have that arm attended to. Oh! he's charged with crime, eh? That's very different."

Followed by Abel Norton, Schoolmaster Anderson, and a few idlers, the party moved down the street.

The "jig" was up now with a vengeance.

"Courage," said a low voice at George's elbow. "Act well your part." It was like Schoolmaster Anderson to quote even under these circumstances. "Do not fear coming to trial. They are too busy to think of little things like this. We will take care of you as well as we can. Know no one," he whispered.

The party had turned into Vine Street, and were heading for the old sugar-house on the corner, which, like many other gloomy buildings of that kind, had been turned for the nonce into a prison.

While Schoolmaster Anderson had been talking he had shaken his fist threateningly under our hero's nose, and had interlarded his talk with some epithets such as: "You young villain. Steal a watch, will you? Rascal!" and the like.

As they entered the narrow doorway of the sugar-house a portly man met them. He carried a large bunch of keys on a huge ring. Roughly he pushed back the crowd of curiosity seekers, and admitted only the watchman, Abel Norton, Mr. Anderson, and the prisoner into the court-yard. A smoky lamp flared from a bracket in the wall.

"What have you here?" he asked.

"Some one we wish you to look out for especially well and carefully," said Mr. Anderson. He took a bit of paper from his pocket; on it was scribbled "Secretary to the Governor." For some time, however, the schoolmaster had not held that important position. But this the jailer did not know. The watchman, who was a stupid fellow, here spoke up.

"'Tis naught but a thief, I take it," he growled.

"Say nothing. How do you know?" said Abel Norton, in a whisper. The heavy face above the cloak took on a wondrous-wise expression.

George had winced, but as he did so felt a reassuring pull at the back of his coat.

"He's wounded," said the jailer, noticing that the lad was supporting one arm with the other.

"We'll send a surgeon to him," said Abel Norton. "I may be a soft-hearted fellow; but I hate to see any one suffer."

"There's an empty cell on the second floor," put in the jailer. "I suppose you don't wish him to be placed in the main gallery with the others."

Mr. Anderson managed to whisper, as George was led away: "Courage. Two of your friends are with you. We are Numbers Two and Three."

Since his arrest the prisoner had not spoken a word. He did not know how badly he was hurt, and had not recovered entirely from the shock of the fall. The pistol-ball had entered his arm below the elbow. As he weakly followed the jailer up the stairway he passed a sentry, and, looking through an iron-barred door, caught a glimpse of a long room filled with a crowd of hungry-looking, half-clothed wretches. They were political prisoners mostly, but many of them had been soldiers who had so bravely defended Fort Washington a few months before.

"Prepare to receive another guest," said a voice from within the reeking room. "Fresh herring here! All ye salt mackerel!"

Several figures got up from the floor, but the party passed down the corridor and halted before a little cell scarcely six feet square. In one corner were a pile of straw and an old worn blanket.

Faint from the loss of blood, George was only too glad to sink down with his back against the wall. So this was what it had come to, the expedition which had apparently promised so well. What would good Mrs. Mack think of her boarder's sudden disappearance? There was one comforting thought, however. He had friends who were placing themselves in a position of danger in order to assist him. He would rather die than betray them. But how odd: Anderson and Norton--men who were known as Tories. That they also possessed considerable influence was soon to be proved, for in the course of an hour a surgeon appeared and carefully dressed the wounded forearm.

"It's not serious," he said. "I will be in to see you again."

One of the safest places to hide in is a prison, and probably the knowledge of this fact influenced the actions of his supposed accusers, and in such a disturbed condition were the courts of the city that many prisoners arrested on suspicion were held for years without ever coming to trial, in fact, without any indictment being found against them, even the crime for which they had been committed having been forgotten.

As George tossed about uneasily that night in the straw, he now and then dreamed fitfully that he was back once more in camp drilling his company, and again that he was at Stanham Mills, setting traps with his brother along the banks of the roaring brook. Suddenly he felt something hard beneath him. It was the bag of gold! Prisoners who could pay lived in quite a different fashion from the impoverished wretches who were compelled to take what was given them.

He could not imagine why they had not searched his pockets, but the ceremony had been omitted. Running his hand beneath the straw, he found that one of the boards of the floor was loose, leaving a crack that ran almost the entire length of the wall. He took the guineas from the pouch one by one, and placed them in the crack.

When the under-jailer came to the iron grating of his cell the next morning with a stone jug of water in one hand and a loaf of mouldy bread in the other, George extended one of the gold pieces.

"Take this, my man," he said. "You can have more chance to use it than I just now." The man grasped it in his dirty hand, and transferred it quickly to his pocket. At the same time he glanced over his shoulder at the red-coated sentry on the stairway.

"Well, Mr. High and Mighty," he said, drawing back the loaf, "if this bread is not good enough for you, you can go hungry then." He turned as if to walk away, then, walking back, he thrust it through the bars.

"Let me hear no complaints," he went on in a loud tone of voice. "It is good enough fare for such as you."

George could scarcely swallow the rough food. But what was his surprise, in the course of an hour or two, to see the beetle-browed jailer once more before his cell.

"Ho, ho!" he said. "So you have come to your senses. Hand me that stone jug and hold your jaw." As the man extended his hand, George saw that he held a large piece of cold meat and a soft warm biscuit. He took it, and with a parting growl the jailer shuffled away with the empty pitcher.

It seemed to George that the day would never pass. Strange sounds echoed through the building--curses and ribald songs, and now and then the clanking of heavy iron-latched doors. He heard at times the voices of the guards as they exchanged their posts. The only light that entered his little cell came through the window, in the corridor. There was no outlook, and his wounded arm throbbed with pain. Late in the evening the surgeon came again, and the head jailer accompanied him, carrying in his hand a tin lantern. The dim light from the perforations danced in a hundred little spots along the gloomy walls.

After the surgeon had dressed the wound, which he did in silence, and the door had clanged again behind him, George heard him speak to the jailer further down the corridor.

"Take care of that young man," he said. "He is a prisoner of great importance. Answer no questions concerning him, but treat him well. It is necessary that his health should be preserved."

"I suspected quite as much," replied the head jailer. "I have brains. He is no common thief. They wish him for something else, hey?"

"Ay," said the doctor, "that is it. You will find it out in good time, but now I see that you are in the secret keep it close."

To his surprise, shortly after dark our prisoner heard a shuffling at the door of the cell. He had been shivering in the straw in a thin worn blanket.

"Who's there?" he said, his teeth rattling, and his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of what was going on. There was no answer, but as he put out his hand he touched a bundle. He drew it toward him. It was a heavy patch-work quilt. He drew it around him, grateful for the warmth, and thankful in his heart to his unknown benefactor. Immediately he fell asleep as softly as a child might in its cradle.

The days passed quickly. At first it seemed as if George would go wild for the lack of some one to talk to. If it were not for the voices that he could hear at times, and for a few rays of sunlight that shot down the corridor, he would have gone mad. But the jailers treated him kindly; his food was plain, and it was evident that extra attention was being paid to him.

When the man who had first taken the gold piece appeared at the end of the first week, George held another toward him.

"Get me a book, something to read, for pity's sake," he said.

The man had taken the gold piece. "Ay, growl," he said. "'Twill do you lots of good. Where do you suspect you are--at an inn, my friend?"

He had returned, however, later in the day, and thrust a volume quickly through the bars.

Latin and the classics had always appealed strongly to George Frothingham. In the short term at Mr. Anderson's he had made most wonderful progress. What, then, was his delight to see that the well-thumbed, dogeared book was a Virgil! Now how he treasured those few hours of daylight when he could read!

But imagine his astonishment when he found thrust well forward through the iron bars one morning a heavy King James Bible. As he opened it his fingers came across something hard in the back of the binding. He pulled it out--two thin files wrapped about with a bit of paper! On the latter were the familiar characters of the cipher. He had scarcely made this discovery when down the corridor he heard approaching many steps. He thrust the good book and its contents underneath the straw, and looking up, his heart almost failed him, for he caught a glimpse of red coats and gold lace.

"Who is this distinguished personage?" said a strange voice, ironically. It was one of the officers speaking.

"An important prisoner," returned the jailer.

George could see that the whole group had paused before the door. To his astonishment, he saw among them the face of Schoolmaster Anderson. He noticed that the latter plucked the jailer by the sleeve.

"He is here for some good cause. I know not what," the latter continued, hurriedly. "'Twill be divulged later, I suppose."

Two or three of the officers had glanced searchingly into the little den. One noticed the Virgil on the floor.

"Ah, he has some learning, I perceive," said one.

When they had gone, to his chagrin our hero found that the light was too dim to read the cipher message. He must wait until noon of the next day, when the sun would beat through the window around the corner of his cell.

* * * * *

On the day this visit of inspection had been made to the sugar-house prison his Majesty's frigate _Minerva_ was bowling along merrily off the southern shore of Long Island. Again a group of officers were on her quarter-deck. A short man in a cocked hat swept the horizon to the northward with his glass.

"Ah, there it lies!" he said--"there's the new country which, we hope, will soon be flying our flag throughout its length and breadth."

It was a brilliant cloudless morning. Some near-shore gulls hovered overhead or dashed down in the frigate's wake.

Lieutenant William Frothingham felt the invigorating land breeze on his cheeks. He could make out now with the naked eye the low-lying hills. Home again. It was his country and the King's that lay off there, and somewhere, his brother, whom he loved more than any one else on earth, was wearing the uniform of the forces that he soon would be opposed to, maybe in battle. Little did he know that George's horizon was confined by four black walls.

The _Minerva_, with a bone in her teeth and the wind just right to bring her in, swept past Sandy Hook at last, and blossoming out into some of her lighter canvas, she reached the quieter waters of the bay. Soon were brought to view the forests of masts and the great dark hulls of the fleet that had preceded her. Signals sprang out, and the flags rattled stiffly in the wind. As she passed the _Roebuck_ a sheet of flame and white smoke burst from her side, and every frigate followed suit and welcomed her with a roaring salvo. She swept up the river, the bulwarks lined with the curious faces of the soldiery gazing at the crowded wharfs. At last anchor was dropped in the currents of the broad North River.

Early the next morning boats were manned, and the troops were disembarked. A huge band was there to meet them, and the new arrivals swept into Broadway between the lines of cheering soldiers and citizens. If disloyalty to the King was here it did not show.

The blood surged through William's veins as he walked at the head of his stalwart company and acknowledged the salute of a group of officers standing at the street corner. To his wonder as he went by a row of low brick houses he heard a voice call his name: "Mr. Frothingham! Is it you? Is it you? Is that the uniform?" he heard distinctly. He turned, but could see no one whom he recognized; it had seemed to him that it was a woman's voice, however. There was an odd figure standing there, a washer-woman, evidently; she had dropped a basket which she had been holding, and the ground at her feet was covered with frilled shirts. The crowd about her laughed. Her lips were moving, but the cheer that broke out drowned what she was saying. As the company halted, a figure came out into the street.

"Ah, Lieutenant Frothingham!" said a voice that made William start. "We have you here in the King's livery, I see."

William turned. It was a small man, very gorgeous in a red waistcoat and a heavy fur-lined coat.

"Pardon me for introducing myself. Your brother George was a pupil of mine. I knew who you were at a glance," he added. "You are alike as two pinfish."

"Have you seen aught of my brother?" was William's first exclamation.

"I think I have heard a rumor somewhere," replied the schoolmaster, with a frown, though his eyes twinkled in contradiction. "He was with Washington at Trenton and Princeton. My name is Anderson."

Of course the news of these two affairs had greeted the _Minerva_ when she first arrived in port. It had caused a thrill of astonishment.

"What did I tell you?" had remarked Colonel Forsythe, upon this occasion. "The only people that can beat Englishmen are Englishmen themselves--and what else are these Yankees?"

The regiment took up the march, and William, heading his company, once more turned into a side street, at the end of which were the new quarters. The town swarmed with the red-coated soldiery.

As they had gone down the street, they had passed beneath the shadow of the sugar-house prison. George, from within, heard the loud rolling of the royal drums, and raised himself on his elbow to listen.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

KIZNER'S PET SHEEP.

BY LEWIS B. MILLER.

The wagon was about to start, and Mrs. Adams leaned out to say: "Now, Billy, stay close around here to-day, you and Dick, and take care of things, and don't let anybody get into the house. Water the hogs about twelve."

"And you'd better cut an armful of corn-tops and give the calves, too," added Billy's father.

"Yes, sir, I will," answered Billy, dutifully.

"Dick, I want you to be a good boy to-day, and not get into any trouble, whatever you do," cautioned Mrs. Dunlap, Dick's mother. She knew his proneness to mischief and accidents, and thinking it might be well to hold out some extra inducements, added, "If you behave yourself right nicely, maybe I'll buy you something the next time I go to town."

"Yes'm," was Dick's non-committal response. He had heard that promise a great many times before.

The wagon started. Mr. Adams and Mr. Dunlap occupied the spring seat in front, while their wives sat just behind them in straight-backed chairs. In the rear end five or six small children were sitting on straw on the bottom of the wagon-bed.

"Billy," called back Mrs. Adams, "you'll find some fried chicken for your dinner in the stove oven, and a pie in the safe, and some--" The rest was lost in the jolting of the wagon. That was of little consequence, however, for the two boys had no fears of not being able to find everything there was on the place to eat when the time came.

It was a morning in August. The people in the wagon had started to a camp-meeting a few miles away, and did not expect to return till late at night. Twelve-year-old Billy had been left at home to look after things, and Dick had insisted upon staying to keep him company. The two were of the same age, but Billy was considerably the larger. Billy had on his every-day clothes, and was bare-footed, while Dick looked rather uncomfortable in his Sunday suit and shoes and stockings.

"Guess I'll take these off," he said, seating himself on the doorstep and beginning to untie his shoes. "There, that feels better," he added, as he put the superfluous articles in at the door and looked down at his bare feet. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't care. Anything you say."

"Then let's go swimming," suggested Dick. "Too hot to do anything else."

"Ma told me to stay pretty close about home. Somebody went into Mr. Lawson's house last week, when there wasn't anybody there, and took a whole lot of things. Guess she's afraid the same fellow will get into ours, whoever it was."

"Can't you lock the house?"

"Not from the outside. The front door will fasten on the inside, and so will the windows. But the kitchen door won't fasten at all. The lock is off."

After going through the house to see what could be done, Billy said: "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll fasten everything but the kitchen door, and then bring old Ring down and tie him close to that. He won't let anybody get in."

Dick endorsed this plan, and they proceeded to carry it out. A stake was driven into the ground, and the dog's chain was fastened to it. Ring was part bull-dog, and rather too fond of using his teeth on strangers to be permitted to run at large.

"You'll keep 'em away, won't you, Ring?" said Billy, patting the dog's head. Then he brought a pan of water and placed it in Ring's reach, and they were ready to start.

Passing out through the gate, which they closed, but carelessly neglected to fasten, they crossed the prairie ridge that lay north of the house, and walked on slowly toward the swimming-place. The creek was more than a mile away. After reaching it, they amused themselves for an hour or two, then put on their clothes and started back.

Before coming in sight of the house they heard Ring barking furiously. Both started on a run to see what was the matter.

As soon as they came to where they could look over the ridge, Billy burst out laughing.

"It's Kizner's pet sheep. He's got into the yard, and Ring's barking at 'im. Just watch the old ram, will you, making out like he's going to butt Ring! He knows Ring's tied or he wouldn't be so bold. Just see Ring rear and charge! Wouldn't he like to get to 'im once?"

"Is it old Aleck?" asked Dick. "If it is, he's not afraid of any dog. Tommy Hendricks says he gets after their dog sometimes, and runs 'im back into the yard. He butts like everything, that old sheep does. Tommy's half scared to death of 'im."

"Huh!" exclaimed Billy, contemptuously. "Tommy may be, but I'm not. If he fools with me I'll give 'im rocks, and turn old Ring loose on 'im to boot. I'd just like to see 'im run _him_!"

"Better go slow," cautioned Dick. "You don't know that old ram. The Kizner boys taught 'im to butt when he was a little bit of a thing, and he's been getting worse and worse ever since. Why, my pa was going along over on the branch last spring, and found Aleck sticking in a mud-hole. So he up and helped 'im out, and was going ahead, when, zip! something took 'im behind. It was Aleck butting 'im. That's the kind of a sheep old Aleck is. And the old fellow was so poor then he could hardly walk. He's big and fat now, I guess."

Billy laughed heartily. "What did your pa do?" he asked.

"Why, he caught 'im and pitched 'im back into the mud-hole; but I guess he got out somehow."

"Well, I'm not afraid of 'im," declared Billy, and he began to fill his pockets with stones of a size suitable for throwing.

Taking courage from Billy, Dick did the same. Then they hurried in at the gate, and ran round to the back of the house, where the sheep and the dog were tantalizing each other.

Aleck was a vicious-looking old ram, large and strong, with curled horns, and a head made on purpose for butting. Perhaps he had received his name because of his fighting powers. At any rate, it suited him very well.

Both Ring and the sheep were out of temper. Ring was growling and barking and tugging at his chain, doing his best to get loose. Aleck charged toward him occasionally, and did not seem to be in the least afraid.

"Get out of here!" shouted Billy, as he rushed round the house and threw a stone at the ram, missing him.

Dick threw one also, with better aim, for it struck the ram on the side. Aleck promptly turned his attention to the new-comers. He was in just the right mood to deal with them.

What took place during the next few minutes the two boys had only a confused recollection of afterwards. Each was conscious of being knocked sprawling, and of trying to rise, and being knocked down again. Every time one of them started to get on his feet he was sent rolling over the hard ground. How the ram managed to move fast enough to keep both of them down they were too much excited to observe; but he did it easily, and would probably have kept a third boy down at the same time if there had been three.

At last, after being knocked and rolled some distance, they were near the stake-and-ridered fence which enclosed the large yard. Dick made a rush on his hands and knees, and succeeded in climbing the fence far enough to tumble through between the fence and the rider. Once on the other side, he was safe enough.

Billy was not so fortunate. He saw a large opening between the rails near the ground, and tried to crawl through it, but it proved to be too small for a boy of his size, and he stuck fast. He called loudly for help, and Dick promptly seized him by the arm and tried to pull him out of the crack.

Whether their efforts alone would have been successful is uncertain; but the sheep was rendering material assistance on the other side. By the united effect of Dick's pulling and Aleck's vigorous pushes, Billy was at last rescued from his exciting position.

With the exception of a few bruises, neither of the boys was hurt, but the appearance of both indicated the rough treatment they had received. Dick's Sunday clothes looked even worse than Billy's every-day ones. Their hats had been left on the other side of the fence.

They looked at each other ruefully for a few moments; then both began to laugh.

"My! didn't he knock us while he was about it?" said Billy. "It just made my head swim, the way he kept us tumbling and rolling."

"Mine too. And he did it so quick. He didn't give a fellow time to say scat before he was right on 'im."

The boys walked round the yard fence, throwing stones at the ram and trying to drive him out. Aleck, however, showed no inclination to go. He stalked back and forth across the yard, perhaps longing for more boys to conquer. But the two who had just escaped him had no intention of getting in his reach again.

What to do they did not know. The sheep was between them and the only unlocked entrance to the house.

"If old Ring was just loose once, he'd soon fix 'im," declared Billy, who believed that Ring could whip anything but an elephant.

"Couldn't you slip around the house and get to Ring before Aleck saw you?"

"Don't believe I want to try it," answered Billy, as he rubbed one bruised knee. He had a great deal of respect for Aleck by this time. "You can if you want to."

Dick didn't want to. "Well, what _are_ we going to do?" he asked, feeling that Billy, being at home, should find some way out of the difficulty.

"I don't know," replied Billy, scratching his head, "unless we just sit down and wait till the old sheep gets ready to leave."

Dick's face fell. He was thinking of the pie and fried chicken which Billy's mother had spoken of as the wagon drove off. "Must be nearly two o'clock," he remarked, glancing up at the sun.

"Yes, I guess it is. I'm feeling mighty hungry. How are you?"

"I'm half starved," answered Dick, emphatically, very glad of an opportunity to mention the matter, which, being company, he had not felt at liberty to speak of before. "I do wish we could get in somehow or other. If we only just hadn't left the gate open!"

They walked round to get in the shade of the smoke-house, for the sun shone hot on their bare heads. Aleck kept watching them, as if he expected they would come into the yard again.

For an hour or more they stood by the smoke-house, discussing various plans of getting the dog loose. All their hopes centred in Ring. It was easy to suggest ways of reaching him, but they all required courage--more courage than either of the boys possessed so soon after their disastrous encounter with Aleck.

Finally Billy suggested a plan that was wholly original. The smoke-house, which was of logs, stood at the back end of the yard, the rear of it forming a part of the yard fence. The ground sloped considerably from the smoke-house to the kitchen door.

"We can climb in at the gable end of the smoke-house," Billy explained, "and take one of the empty barrels there and put it out at the door; and one of us can get in it and roll right down to the kitchen. Then there won't be anything to do but just turn Ring loose and watch the wool fly."

Dick was enthusiastic over this plan as soon as he heard it. He was sure that it would succeed.

Climbing through an opening in the gable, they were soon in the smoke-house. There were three or four empty flour-barrels against the wall, each having an end out. One of these they moved to the door, and were on the point of opening the door to put it outside.

"How are you going to get in, Billy--head first or feet first?"

"I expect, maybe, you'd better roll, Dick. You're smaller than I am, and you can get in the barrel further."

Dick's enthusiasm died out very suddenly at this suggestion, and he looked discouraged. He had taken it for granted that Billy would be the one to get into the barrel.

"Oh, you can crawl in easy, Billy! There's just lots of room in there for you."

"But I can start the barrel to rolling better than you can," insisted Billy.

Perhaps Dick would have consented to go, but just then the sheep, hearing voices in the smoke-house, came nearer to investigate, and Dick's courage failed.

There was another long discussion between the two boys, each urging the other to get into the barrel. Finally Billy took out his "Barlow" pocket-knife. It had but one blade, and had cost ten cents.

"I'll give you that if you'll roll," he proposed.

Dick had no knife, and looked longingly at the offered reward. Then he looked out through a crack at Aleck, and shook his head.

Billy put his hand in his other pocket and took out some marbles. "Then I'll give you them," he said, spreading them out temptingly on his hand.

"Will you give me them and the knife too?"

"Not much, I won't," Billy answered, emphatically. "I wouldn't give you both if you rolled all the way to Granbury." Granbury was the nearest town.

Again they discussed the matter for several minutes. Aleck was nibbling at some tufts of grass. The boys were growing hungrier, and now and then glanced up longingly at some middlings of bacon hanging over their heads.

"I don't care," said Billy at length, being rendered desperate by hunger. "You can have the marbles and knife too. Let's open the door enough to put the barrel out."

Dick did not seem to be at all elated over having his offer accepted. "I don't know about it," he said, hesitatingly. "Don't believe I want to."

"But you said you would," urged Billy. "If you don't, that'll be backing out."

"Aleck might butt the barrel with me in it," objected Dick.

"Who ever heard of a sheep butting a barrel? And what if he does? He can't hurt you and you inside of it."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll give me the knife and marbles, and that long lead-pencil of yours to boot, then I'll get in the barrel and roll."

"No, sirree!" declared Billy, indignant at Dick's cupidity. "You don't get any lead-pencil from me. I'll stay here a year first. Why, I wouldn't give you that pencil and all the other things besides if you rolled all the way to Missouri." Billy's parents had removed from Missouri to Texas when he was small, and Missouri was farther than any other place he knew of.

They remained silent a short while, hunger all the time gnawing at their vitals. It seemed several days since they had eaten anything. At last Billy could stand it no longer. "I don't care. Go ahead, and I'll throw the pencil in. Now don't back out this time, or I won't have anything to do with you any more."

Dick was so pressed by hunger that he had been on the point of accepting the knife and marbles, so he was glad to take advantage of the more liberal offer.

The door of the smoke-house was opened cautiously and the barrel put out, the open end near the door. Then Dick hastily crawled into it, head first. Billy leaned out of the door and turned the barrel so that it would roll toward Ring. Aleck had learned that something was going on, and was coming to find out if he could take any part in it.

"Here you go!" shouted Billy, giving the barrel a vigorous push, and then shutting the door to keep Aleck out.

The sheep, however, was giving his attention to the barrel. He evidently suspected a trick, and he also saw Dick's feet, which persisted in sticking out at the open end, for the barrel was a small one. He rushed toward it, striking it with his head so as to cause it to move faster, but in a different direction. When at last it came to a standstill, it was against the fence at one side of the yard, at about the point where the boys had escaped from the sheep.

Dick was pretty badly scared, knowing that something had happened. But when he felt the barrel stop, he started to crawl out backward.

"Stay in! stay in!" shouted Billy, frantically. "Aleck's right there! You're not close to Ring at all!"

"Get 'im away, Billy!" entreated Dick, from the depths of the barrel. "Get him away somehow!"

"I can't!" answered Billy, helplessly.

"Get out and let him run after you!"

Billy opened the smoke-house door and ventured a few feet from it. Aleck did not see him, and he advanced a few feet farther. Then an idea occurred to him, and he did what he might have done sooner if he had not been afraid--made a dash toward Ring. The dog's collar was quickly unbuckled.

"Sick 'im, Ring!" shouted Billy; but Ring needed no encouragement. His only wish for the last two or three hours had been to get to the sheep.

A few moments later, Aleck, after a fierce but brief struggle, was lying on the ground bleating for mercy, while the dog held him by the throat. But for the boys, Ring would soon have finished him. They forced the dog to release his hold, not because they felt any kindness for Aleck, but because they were afraid their fathers would have to pay for him if he should be killed. As soon as the ram was released he sprang up, rushed round the house, out at the gate, and down the road as fast as his legs could carry him, and was never seen there again.

"Don't you think you ought to give back the knife and marbles and pencil?" asked Billy, after they had watched Aleck till he disappeared, "You didn't turn Ring loose like you were to."

"No, I won't," declared Dick. "I did my part. I rolled. I couldn't help where the barrel went to."

"Oh, all right," said Billy, in indifferent tones; but he looked disappointed.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Billy," said Dick, relenting a little as he followed Billy into the kitchen. "I'll keep the knife, and give you back the marbles and pencil. Isn't that fair!"

"Why, yes, that's fair enough, Dick," answered Billy, looking pleased. "And let's give Ring some fried chicken and a little piece of pie for his dinner. He helped us. If it hadn't been for him, no telling how long that old sheep would have kept us out."

"All right!" was the enthusiastic response; and they began to make hasty preparations for the long-delayed meal.

"STRAW-FIDDLERS."

On a certain cold morning in the October of 1824 a young man, scarcely eighteen years old, but with a thin face full of premature intelligence and a poetic sort of beauty, was hurrying through the street of Sklow, in Poland, his cloak wrapped closely about his slender figure, his head thrown back, the felt hat not concealing his eager anxious dark eyes, which, roving here and there, were in reality absent in their expression as young Gusikow reflected on a verdict just passed on him by a prominent physician.

For some weeks he had been suffering from pains in his chest, increased whenever he played his beloved flute, and that day J----, the doctor, had declared that the musician must at once give up his work.

Gusikow, boy that he was, had a young wife awaiting his return in a little house, which he entered with a sad enough expression, for what would they have to depend upon if he was forced to abandon his performances in the theatre, his lessons, his concert tours?

I fancy Michael and Marie Gusikow, poor children, were miserable enough that morning. But genius, especially when it is musical, will not be subdued, and in his wretchedness the lad searched the garret for an old "strohfiedel" he had cast aside long ago as an instrument too insignificant to be of any value. I cannot tell you precisely the origin of the strohfiedel, which was made of strips of fir on a straw frame-work, but it belongs to a most interesting "family" of instruments, the present generation being the wooden and glass xylophones, which we hear nowadays in every orchestra, while one of its prominent traditions is the unexpected producing of musical sounds on glasses partially filled with water, and which has suggested to innumerable boys and girls, I am sure, experiments, from the trial on a finger-bowl to a whole row of glasses on a smooth piece of board. In the quaint old town of Nuremberg some instruments are preserved, known now as harmonicas, which were played with the moistened finger; but I think the instrument best known is that which the composer Gluck is said to have invented, and which, by the name of the "musical glasses," was all the rage in England in 1746. Gluck arranged twenty-six glasses irregularly filled with clear spring water, and upon these he played a variety of music with his fingers slightly moistened. In the _Vicar of Wakefield_ the fashionable London ladies are described as able to "talk of nothing but high life ... pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the _musical glasses_," while Horace Walpole, writing the same year, 1746, to his friend Mann, refers to Gluck's performance, but says he thinks he has heard of something of the same kind before. But it was to our own Benjamin Franklin that the improved or perfected harmonica is due. He was in London eleven years after Gluck's visit, and found a Mr. Puckeridge performing on these musical glasses, very well, it is true, but Franklin at once said that something better could be done.

Accordingly he put his scientific wits to work, and the result was an instrument he called the armonica, to which an "h" was added, as being more appropriate, and on this many celebrated musicians performed. It consisted of basins of glass strung on an iron spindle, the lower edge dipped into a trough of water. As an improvement on Gluck's method, Franklin regulated the pitch of the tone by the size of the glasses, not the amount of water in or under them. Mozart and many other well-known composers did not disdain to write for the harmonica, and in 1788 a "Method" for students was compiled. The very simplicity, however, of the instrument made it easy of imitation and improvement. Wood and glass with straw were combined under various names. In the beginning of this century Ernst Chladni, who is called the father of modern acoustics, devised an instrument of glass cylinders, wood, etc., which he called the euphon, from which he evolved another, remarkable chiefly for its power of increased and diminished sound, which he named a clavi-cylinder. Dr. Chladni travelled about Europe with this instrument, giving lectures on acoustics, which started much of the research we benefit by to-day; but unfortunately for certain important work he had on hand, Dr. Chladni died suddenly in 1827.

To return to Gusikow and his little wife, we can fancy the young people on that chill October day accepting the dismal fact that the young artist must lay aside his flute, yet realizing that only by means of music could he earn a living. He took the strohfiedel to pieces, worked over it, practised on it, and at last devised certain valuable improvements; indeed, so far expanding and increasing its power and musical importance that he was talked of by some almost as though he had invented it, and presently he was known as a straw-fiddler of wonderful ability, while his playing revived interest in all the old dulcimers and psalteries, which the straw-fiddle closely resembles.

Gusikow continued to work over his strohfiedel, to improve it, and from his suggestions we have a variety of the wooden, glass, and straw instruments heard on all sides to-day. To what perfection he might have brought his crude materials I can scarcely say, for he was busy with new designs when, in 1837, he fell ill with his old foe, pulmonary trouble, and died at Aix-la-Chapelle, in October of that year, in the thirty-first year of his age.

If boys--and I know more than one of them--have contrived to make a violin out of an old cigar-box and some rough materials, surely they might do something with the ideas suggested by strohfiedels, and their family connections in wood, glass, and chamois-leather hammers.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

I.

FROM BOB TO JACK.

NEW YORK, _June_ 4, 1895.

DEAR JACK,--I don't think they's going to be much chance for us to see each other this summer, for where do you suppose we're going to go to? You'd never guess. _Hoboken_! It's a queer place for a summer resort, and Pop says there ain't much to do there, only, he says, getting there's going to be fun. He says about the only thing people do in Hoboken is to leave it in the morning and go back to it that night, which I can't say strikes me as quite so much fun as being off there in the White Mountains, with you getting scared at 'maginary bears, playing wild Indian, fishing, rowing, playing tricks on bell-boys, and all that. It may be just as Pop says, that living in Hoboken and going to business in New York is a great thing for a man, because it makes going to business a pleasure, but for a boy I don't see what good it is. Even if it's true that Hoboken people don't need yachts, because they've always got the ferry-boats handy for sailing, I can't get excited over the idea of going there. There ain't any fishing, and as for hunting, Pop says there's nothing wild there except Trolly Cars, and I never could see what fun there was in hunting trolly cars. They arrest you for even throwing stones at 'em in Brooklyn--I know that because I read it in a newspaper. There was a boy who lived in a crowded part of Brooklyn where there never was any birds and precious few dogs, and as he was the kind of boy that had to throw stones at something, he flung a few at the trolly cars, and a policeman caught him and took him to court, and the judge made his father pay ten dollars to get him set free again, and, of course, when he got him free again and took him home, you and I know what the boy got, which I don't think isn't fun. I haven't got any use for throwing stones at birds or dogs or trolly cars, but, as far as I can find out, Hoboken's very much like Brooklyn in not having anything else to hunt, even in fun. It hasn't got any woods for Indians to hide in, and not a cave anywhere around.

You can't go off and have a real picnic anywhere. Pop says there 'ain't ever been more'n eight blades of grass in the whole place, and five of those was ate up six years ago by a donkey that was so hungry he didn't know any better, and he isn't sure but what one of the other three was killed by the intense cold of last winter. That, of course, spoils all chances for picnics. Even if all the grass was left, you couldn't have much of a picnic on eight blades, anyhow, and besides, they didn't all grow in the same place. It must be a queer old spot, that Hoboken, and I can't say I see how Pop ever made up his mind to go there. He says he can't help going there, but seems to me that must be a mistake, because a man as old as he is can generally manage to do about what he pleases.