Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 19, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 864. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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JACK HOWARD'S SURPRISE PARTY.

It was the critical moment in the famous sham battle of Easter Monday. The bicycle corps was a mile and a half away, and the signal post had been captured by the enemy. Unless the corps could be brought into the action the day was lost, and the wood road running back of the "Cardinal's Nob" offered the only possible means of communication. But could the message be conveyed in time? Colonel Howard turned to his son Jack, who stood anxious and silent at the front handle-bars of the Arrow, a modern racing quad, geared to 120, and stripped down to the enamel. The inspection seemed to satisfy him, and hastily scribbling a few lines on a page torn from his note-book, he handed the order to his son.

"Get this through if you possibly can," he said, briefly, and turned again to his field-glasses.

A moment later and Jack and his crew were carrying the Arrow down the steep sides of the "Nob" to the wood road that ran below. The road was in splendid condition, hard and smooth as a racing-track, and the boys were all picked riders, and bound to hold on to their grips until the tires began to smoke.

"It will be a scorch, fellows," said Jack, as he swung himself into his saddle; "but let her run off easily until we can get to pedalling all together. Now, then, hit her up!"

The Arrow jumped forward like a hare as the long chain tightened and the riders bent over to their work. It took Jem Smith, No. 2, a moment longer to find his left pedal, and then the eight legs began to go up and down with the mechanical regularity of so many piston-rods. Once fairly into the long rhythmical swing, every ounce of power told, and the tense spokes hummed merrily as the speed increased and the road-bed slipped away beneath the rapidly revolving wheels. Jack Howard had his cap drawn well down over his eyes, and his hands were tightly clinched on the front handle-bars. So long as the way was smooth and the crew were pumping in strict time the Arrow steered with the certainty and quickness of a racing sloop; but every now and then a shallow rut or a half-hidden stone would cause the long machine to swerve like a flying horse, and it would take all of Jack's strength, even with the assistance of No. 2, whose handle-bars were coupled to the steering head, to keep the Arrow steady on her course. Above all, it was necessary that every rider should pay strict attention to the business in hand, or rather under foot. Uneven pedalling meant lost power and hard steering, while a slipped pedal might result in an ugly fall and a general smash-up.

Three-quarters of a mile from the "Nob" there was a gate across the road, with the approach on a curve that was also slightly down-grade. As was only prudent, speed was reduced, and the Arrow rounded the turn well under control. Luckily so, for the gate was closed. This was rather odd, for the bicycle corps had passed over the road only an hour before, and it had been understood that they should leave the gate open. The loss of time was vexatious, but there was nothing to do but to stop. The Arrow ran slowly up to the obstruction, and Jack called to Dick Long, the end man, to jump off and swing the gate aside.

"Hands up!" came with startling distinctness from the high, thickly wooded slope that bordered the road on either side, and Jack looked up straight into the barrel of a regulation army carbine that for the moment yawned as wide as the muzzle of a hundred-ton gun. It was the enemy, sure enough, a sergeant with a dozen men, and the Arrow had walked straight into the trap. Resistance was as impossible as it was hopeless, for the boys had strapped their carbines securely to the framing of the quad, and the surprise had been complete.

"You're captured," said the umpire, who had accompanied the ambuscade. "Hand over your despatches to the sergeant and stand at attention."

It was a dreadfully mortifying situation for the boys, but their captors were inclined to be magnanimous.

"It's not your fault, Jack," chuckled the jolly sergeant, as he took the precious despatch; "it was just a little game of strategy in which we happened to hold the high cards."

After all, it had been a desperate chance, and Jack was philosopher enough to abide by the result. And besides that he had faith enough in his father to feel assured that he would pull through somehow, and that his confidence was not misplaced those who have read "The Battle of Easter Monday" will remember.

The umpire hurried away for the actual field of battle, and the sergeant and his party took up their post again at the gate. It was stupid work playing prisoner, and Jack hinted as much to the sergeant. If they couldn't see the battle it was a pity to lose such a fine afternoon for a ride, and it was not likely that they would be able to borrow the quad again.

"Well," said the sergeant, good-naturedly, "I don't know that I have any right to do it, but I'll release you on parole, with the understanding that you go in the opposite direction from the battle-field, and that you report at the armory this evening and turn in your rifles and cartridge-belts."

The terms were too easy not to be accepted, and though the boys were naturally disappointed in not being able to see or take part in the fight, it was something in the way of consolation to have a twenty-mile spin on the Arrow.

"Let's go to Queenston," suggested Jem Smith, as the Arrow rolled slowly back along the wood road.

It was a good fifteen miles away to the old college town, but the roads were unusually good for so early in the year, and the scenery was more than enough to make up for the steepness of the hills.

"And take luncheon at Rock Hill," added Jack. "Is it a vote?" and no one dissenting, it was so ordered.

It was a glorious afternoon for a spin, and the boys enjoyed the novel experience of four-in-hand riding. But since the Arrow was geared up for racing on a level track, it was hard work hill-climbing, and nobody was sorry to see in the distance the gray towers of Queenston. A mile away from town and Jack called a halt. The stretch of road immediately before them had been broken up preparatory to macadamizing, and it was clearly unrideable. Nobody liked the idea of trundling the long machine into town; but, on the other hand, they had set out for a run to Queenston, and it would not do to give up within sight of port. And, moreover, through the town lay the shortest road back to Fairacre.

"What's that road?" asked Dick Long, pointing to a carriage drive that entered the woods at right angles to the highway.

Jack's eyes brightened. "I remember it now," he said. "It's a private road that runs back of the college and brings us out on University Square. There can't be any objection to our using it."

There was a locked gate to prevent intrusion, but the Arrow was quickly hoisted over the fence, and Jack and his crew were in the saddle again.

It was evident that the road had not been used for a long time, for it was overgrown with grass, and the old wheel-tracks were hardly discernible. But it was fair riding, for the turf was thick and firm, and as it was early in the spring, it had only just begun to grow. Half a mile in and the Arrow was running swiftly and noiselessly through the thickest part of the college wood. The university buildings were but a quarter of a mile or so away, but it was only occasionally that they showed through the leafless trunks of the great oaks and chestnuts. Here and there a chipmunk scuttled away through the dry rustling leaves, and once an early robin piped up with an original spring poem. The silence and stillness seemed almost primeval; it might have been the first Sunday morning after the creation of the world; a laugh or an idle word would have broken the spell. And then--

"Hold hard!" came in a tense whisper from Jack, and his crew mechanically bore back on their pedals. The Arrow had stopped at the brow of a gentle declivity that widened out at the bottom into a little glade, which was now the scene of a drama that looked perilously like a tragedy to the startled eyes of the new-comers. In the middle of the open space stood a rude structure of rough stones some three feet high and six long, and upon it was stretched the figure of a man bound and gagged. At a little distance were grouped a dozen masked forms armed with odd-looking axes, and listening attentively to an incomprehensible harangue on the part of the one who appeared to be their leader.

The boys looked at each other with white faces. Ku-Klux? White Caps? It was possible. Whatever it was, it looked ugly enough in all conscience.

Jack Howard began to unstrap his carbine from the framework of the Arrow.

"Our cartridges are all blanks," whispered Dick Long, hurriedly.

"I know it," returned Jack, fumbling with nervous haste at the mechanism of the breech-block, "but I'm not going to stand here and see murder done."

"But what can we do?"

"See that your magazines are full, be ready to ride the Arrow so as to get that stone pile between us and the crowd, and, above all, let nobody fire until I give the word. It's twelve to four, and the only chance is to bluff them."

It seemed like a dream to stand there waiting for the moment of action, the motionless figure stretched upon the stones, the sunlight flickering upon the grim-looking axes of the twelve masked men, the monotonous, unintelligible drone of the speaker. And yet there was a something in the picture that made it terribly alive, for all that this was the year of Our Lord 1896, and the bells in the college chapel were even now ringing the call for evening prayers.

Jack and his crew were sitting motionless in their saddles, Dick Long, the rear man, standing ready to give the necessary shove-off.

The speaker had stopped talking, and had taken his stand at the head of the line of masked men. In his hands he held an antique-looking urn, and at a signal the others advanced one by one. As the first man passed he dropped into the urn a small object that looked like a bean. But there could be no mistake about the color--it was black. Another followed, and then another, until all had passed and cast their vote, if vote it was. The chief solemnly emptied the contents of the urn upon the ground. Every bean was black.

The leader drew from beneath his cloak a long, glittering, crescent-shaped knife, and held it high above his head.

"Your sentence, then"--he looked inquiringly at the immovable silent figures that stood about him in a circle.

"Death!" came in muffled tones from the first mask, and "Death!" echoed the next, and the next, until all had spoken.

The circle parted, and the executioner moved slowly towards the altar and the victim.

"Now!" shouted Jack, and the Arrow flashed down the slope as though sped from some gigantic bowstring. In an instant the boys had dismounted, and were kneeling under cover of the stone-work with their rifles at their shoulders. There was a moment of surprise and confusion among the masked figures, and the man with the knife pulled up sharply.

Jack snatched off his cap and tossed it into the air. It fell some twenty feet away, an improvised dead-line between the two parties.

"Keep back of that or we fire," he said, tersely.

The line of masked men wavered for an instant, and then the leader held up his hand and stepped forward.

"This doesn't concern you," he said, quietly.

"Maybe not," retorted Jack, "but we are going to make it our business. Keep back!" and he raised his rifle.

The masked man made an impatient gesture. "I tell you again," he said, coldly, "that this is no affair of yours. You had better take my advice, and hop the twig as fast as you can."

"And suppose we don't choose to profit by your friendly warning," returned Jack, jauntily. "What then?"

One of the masked figures stepped up to the leader, and whispered something in his ear. The chief nodded affirmatively, and turned again to Jack.

"We know well enough where you came from," he said, confidently, "and you can't bluff us with blank cartridges."

There was an involuntary movement of surprised consternation among the boys, which the masked man was quick to perceive and take advantage of.

"This isn't any sham battle," he continued, with a sneer. "I'll give you while I count ten to clear out. One, two--"

Jack turned hurriedly to the boys. "Remember, now, hold your fire, no matter what I do."

"Eight, nine, ten. Come on, you fellows!" and the man in the mask threw down his knife and jumped for Jack. There was a sharp report, and the leader stopped short, staggered, and fell.

It was all over in an instant. The masked figures had scattered in all directions, and Jack was cutting the cords that bound the prisoner. And by all that was wonderful, if it wasn't Tom Jones, a Fairacre boy, and a member of the Sophomore Class at Queenston College. The boys stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Take out the gag; he's trying to speak," said Dick Long, excitedly.

The gag was quickly removed, and Tom sprang to his feet.

"Well, you are a fine set of blooming wooden-heads," said Mr. Jones, reproachfully.

The boys looked at him in astonishment. Under the peculiar circumstances the remark savored of ingratitude, to say the least.

"Perhaps you would have preferred that we had not interfered," said Jem Smith, with sarcastic politeness.

"I wish to goodness you hadn't," was the disconcerting reply. "Well, old man, are you much hurt?" Tom Jones had hurried to where the wounded man was lying propped up against a tree, and was bending over him with anxious solicitude. His mask had fallen off, and his face looked familiar enough, though nobody could place him exactly.

"See here, Jones," said Jack Howard, with a desperate effort to shake off the growing conviction that the whole affair was nothing more than an ugly dream, "what does all this mean, anyhow? Haven't we just pulled you out of a pretty tight place--saved your life, I mean?"

"No, you haven't," answered Tom, snappishly.

"You've gone and interfered with my initiation into the Order of Ancient and Royal Druids, the best secret society in the college, and you shot in the leg the Captain of the university team, and the only decent half-back we have this year. That's what you've done."

"Oh, my leg!" groaned the sufferer, feebly. "There's a hole bored clear through it, and it's bleeding like one o'clock."

And then Mr. Jones, who had been examining the injured member, did a very remarkable thing. He deliberately bestowed upon his wounded superior a couple of hearty kicks, and then proceeded to assist him to his feet.

"Get up, Phil, and don't make an ass of yourself. Here's the fatal bullet that laid you low." He picked up something from the ground, and showed it first to Captain Phil and then to Jack. The latter nodded, took it, and stowed it away in his pocket. A few words in undertone followed, and then the football Captain laughed and held out his hand to Jack.

"I wish you fellows would come up to the college and have some tea," he said, heartily. "Sure you haven't the time? Well, then, remember that I'll expect you over for the first baseball game of the season next Saturday--and your friends too."

"You're sure that you're all right again?" inquired Jack.

Captain Phil turned a handspring with remarkable agility, and came up smiling, to the manifest astonishment of three or four of his late companions in crime, who were cautiously making their way back to the scene of battle, in the evident expectation of having to perform the last sad offices for their late leader.

"Straight as a string and sound as a bell," announced Captain Phil, cheerfully. "But just wait, young fellow, until you enter Fresh, in the fall, and I can get a chance to tackle you on the twenty-yard line. That ought to square things between us."

Jack laughed, and with another hearty shake of the Captain's hand, he sprang into his saddle, and the Arrow was quickly speeding towards Fairacre again.

"He ought to make a rattling quarter-back," said Captain Phil, reflectively, to Tom Jones. "A fellow with his nerve is just the man we want to fill Robinson's shoes."

And Jones nodded an oracular assent.

* * * * *

Half a mile down the pike, and Jem Smith's curiosity could no longer be restrained.

"Well, if you must know," said Jack, finally, "here's the fatal bullet. It just occurred to me to slip it in my rifle-barrel in the hope that it might do some execution if it came to actual hostilities. Of course it was only a bluff to make them think that your guns were really loaded with ball cartridge, and it worked just that way. Of course, when it broke against his leg, and he felt the ink running down--"

"What are you talking about?" said Jem, impatiently; "and what is this little rubber cap, anyhow?"

"All that's left of a brand-new stylographic pen," answered Jack, mournfully.

A MYSTERY.

BY CLARA LOUISE ANGEL.

I know of a dry little, sly little man
Who comes o'er our threshold whenever he can;
Though little, he cares for the sunshine and light;
He haunts our big library when it is night.

When papa is reading his paper with care,
And I'm dozing all snug in the cushioned arm-chair,
When mamma looks up from her sewing--"My dear,
Perhaps you don't know that the sand-man's been here."

Then I hunt round the curtain, on top of the books,
'Neath table and sofa, and all sorts of nooks,
And out on the stairway, and down in the hall;
But I can't find the sly little sand-man at all!

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE M. S. D'S.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"It fell upon a day in the balmy month of May" that the M. S. D's went for an out-of-door frolic.

Who were the M. S. D's? Merry Sons and Daughters. The society had been incorporated the year before; there were no dues, no president, secretary, treasurer, or by-laws; there was but one qualification--being merry. No long faces among the members of _that_ society; no boys or girls who always want things done _their_ way. No, that style of person was not eligible, nor selfish folks, or any other kind of disagreeable people.

The M. S. D's were stanch, true-hearted, and sunny, their greatest joy being forgetfulness of self. They were always merry because they were always happy; and they were always happy because they trod evil underfoot, and thought out great thoughts white and godlike, thoughts that shone with the clear and steady light that reflected good-will on all.

Therefore, when the society went for a day's fun it was the gayest of roving, a complete El Dorado of enjoyment; and an outing in the blithesome month of May to them meant a full and happy one.

For some reason the usual parties had been omitted this year, and therefore none of the girls had been crowned Queen, and none of the boys had paid their respects to the Court.

So when they reached the "happy independence grounds," as the boys dubbed them, because everybody was to do as they pleased when they got there, it was most amusing that each one seemed to have the same desire to gather handfuls of blossoms, weave crowns, hunt for four-leaved clover, and listen to bird calls. And thus it was that soon were gathered blue violets from the meadow, and dandelions, buttercups, and daisies from among the long waving grass that covered field after field through which these Merry Sons and Daughters laughingly ran.

And then followed the butterfly hunt; just to see if anybody could really catch one of these "ne'er-do-weel" fellows. But their fragile painted wings carried them so safe and rapid that when a hand was almost over the petal tip that held the happy fellow, he would up and away in the breezy blue, and ride on graciously out of sight, or sometimes, as through a desire to tempt his pursuer, skim over the clover blossoms, and finally light again on a bunch of daffadown-dillies, or possibly make a round of all the sweet May blossoms.

"What the Dandelions said" was then played, which is the old game so familiar to all from babyhood--that of blowing the soft down of the ripened dandelion to learn "How old am I?" Blow once, one year old; blow twice, two years, and so on, until all the downy stuff has gone. The number of times the blows have been given before the down has altogether disappeared indicates the age.

And then the players ran at utmost speed to the babbling brook, which was a short distance off; and having first torn the dandelion stems into quarters by splitting the tubular stem from tip to flower, they laid them in the cool flowing water, and watched them curl until all were tightly rounded; then shaking off the gathered drops, they firmly fastened these curls to their hats, together with the bunches of clover, buttercups, violets, strawberry blossoms, or whatever else fanciful taste dictated.

This pastime was soon followed by the "Daisy Catch." Both girls and boys stood in a group, with the exception of one girl, and to her was given a bunch of daisies. There was also a tree selected as a place of safety, after which the other girls then counted ten, allowing ten seconds for the count. During the counting the girl ran wherever she pleased, but the moment ten was spoken the boys raced after her. The idea was to "tag" her while the flowers were in her hand. If she was "tagged," the girl must then throw the daisies, as if they were a ball, to the boy tagging her. If he caught them, the game would proceed as before, by reversing the players; but if he did not catch them, the girl could try over again. The girl could also demand another chance if, when fearing she would be tagged, she threw her daisies away and caught them again before any of the boys did. Whenever the game was repeated it commenced regularly from the beginning, the players taking the same position as at the start. On the way back from the brook everybody's attention was drawn to a pair of yellow-birds that had braved the yet unsettled atmosphere, and were building a very pretty home for themselves near the top of a blackberry bush, when all of a sudden a cat-bird's song was heard, and knowing that he was very shy, all breathlessly kept quiet. And then how uneasy the little yellow-birds became! The young people wondered what it all meant; but afterwards they saw both the yellow-birds fly off for fern down or other soft stuff with which to line their nest, and this disappearance was evidently what the cat-bird desired, for no sooner had the birds gone than, quietly and cautiously, and yet rapidly, as if seizing opportunity much after the manner of other thieves, he approached and stole all the building materials he could possibly carry from their pretty home.

This sight reminded the boys of a game called "Keep It." It was nothing more nor less than an echo, and those who knew lightly closed each hand so that the first two fingers touched the thumb. Then putting one hand on top of the other, and calling through the column thus made, trumpet fashion, the noise was greatly accelerated, and, "Keep it, keep it," were the words over and over again repeated in the uncanny peculiar way that echo repeats sound. The children then ran in various directions, laughingly trying to get ahead of each other, and discover who could make the clearest and loudest echo.

But the great feature of the day was the boat-race, and this was an impromptu amusement, for the boys had planned the girls should botanize, tell stories, or anything that they liked, while they went fishing; and with fishing in mind the boys had many a secret conclave beforehand, as each one was trying to get all the fishing points possible, and many and various were the ones received, everybody agreeing, however, that all the fishermen must understand both shoving and sculling a boat before attempting to fish in that particular water, as it was winding, narrow, and full of all sorts of rushes, meadow grasses, and snags in variety, and if rowing was attempted, fishing would be impracticable. Then, too, there should be a slight wind blowing from the southwest, and a cloudy sky. So as fishing was the uppermost thought, the boys were sure the weather would be right when they got there, and therefore came laden with bait, tackle, and fishing-baskets in abundance, for they had assured their mothers they would bring home a lot of shining fat fellows for supper. A few, too, of the more skilled had refused to bring bait, saying, with an important toss of the head, they only fished with flies; and no sooner had the M. S. D's gotten to their destination than these fishermen ran to the water to watch the sort and color of flies the fish were mostly jumping for.

So it was a genuine disappointment when, at ten o'clock in the morning, the sun shone unusually hot and the water was as smooth as a mirror, for not even a perceptible zephyr was stirring.

Therefore it was that the girls begged the boys not to attempt fishing, that it would be only a great waste of time, and to further quote their words, "when it gets cooler, as it's bound to after a while, let's have a boat-race"--for there was a clear space of water where such could be held.

This was a happy suggestion, and immediately the race was arranged. The girls who did not care to row were to act as umpires; and a grand stand was selected, which was nothing more nor less than a massive irregular rock over which a tangle of vines ran luxuriously, and for canopy there was a wide-branched locust-tree.

There would be three races--one between the girls, another between the boys, and the third between the girls and boys together, and they were to be given in the order indicated. Two willow-trees which conspicuously over-hung the water, and so could not be mistaken, were selected as the points that would start and end the race, the prow of the boat being even with the centre of the tree-trunk at starting, and the stern of the boat being even with the centre of the tree-trunk on closing. Only one person would be in a boat at a time, and no person could have a second chance. As the water was too narrow to allow for all the boys or all the girls to try at once, it was decided that two boats only should row, and then two more, and so on. After the race was over, the victors would be obliged to row again, two and two, as at the first, and so determine the winners. When the winning girl and the winning boy were known, they would race together, and thus the champion rower would be discovered. Whoever was champion was to be rewarded with a wreath of laurel, after the fashion of the great Roman victors; laurel was not very plentiful in this section, but the boys were confident that by a run of a mile or so they could find some, and if they couldn't they would use oak leaves, and tell the hero they were meant for laurel. In any case, the wreath must be made and at the grand stand before the race opened; at this stand, also, the coronation would take place.

Providing for the race led to the gathering of numberless flowers, with which the boats were decorated, and later, as they sped over the water, they seemed a part of a great picture--over and around them air and clouds, exquisite colorings of matchless reds, yellows, violets, pinks, and greens, soft reflections of the same in the water and the distance, and, added to all, the ambition of the rowers and the contending emotions of those who watched the pretty play. One boat was very simply trimmed. It was carpeted with mosses and wreathed around with fern leaves; another was so daintily decorated it seemed as if it was a fairy boat; and yet another style was richly and gayly covered, as though it was at the disposal of a grandly beautiful queen, and almost, unconsciously we turned to look if Cleopatra was near. This boat was canopied with apple blossoms; the branches were held in place between the narrow strip of wood that forms the border of the lining and the boat herself. But this boat was not among the winners; it was top-heavy, and therefore too difficult to steer and row. The shades of night were indeed fast falling when the M. S. D's reached home again. The sunburnt faces, joyous laughter, and light-hearted confusion of voices told their own story.

DOROTHY'S PROBLEM.

I've only a single quarter left
Of all my allowance, that looked so large
On last pay-day, when dear mamma
Said, "Now, you must neither borrow nor 'charge,'
But keep out of debt, and never forget
That dollars are made of single cents."
I'm sure I've tried, but it's very hard
To keep to the rule of your good intents.

There were creams and bonbons the other day,
And a box of paper, and, let me see,
A bunch of the dearest violets
Tucked into my jacket flap. Ah! me,
They faded and died, and I almost cried;
It seemed a shame with my funds so low;
But the wonderful thing is, do your best
To save, and still your money will go!

And where will my Christmas gifts come in?
Pray, what can I buy with this little bit
For papa and mamma and Fred and Nell?
Of course, I ought to have thought of it
A month ago, but I didn't, you know.
And here is my purse so flat and thin;
I'm just as discouraged as I can be,
For where will my Christmas gifts come in?

M. E. S.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.

BY MARION HARLAND.