Chapter I: At Stanham Mills (2)

"About twenty years," said Blundon. "But it was in the East, where railroading ain't the same as it is out here. I was in the caboose of a train that made two hundred and twenty miles, year in and year out, in four hours and forty minutes, including three stops. It was a solid train of Pullmans, and the road-bed was as smooth as a ballroom floor. I had an eighteen-thousand-dollar ingine--the Lively Sally--and when I pulled the throttle out she was just like a race-horse when he hears the starter shout 'Go!' I don't believe I ever could have quit the railroad business if the Lively Sally hadn't come to grief. But it wasn't when I was a-drivin' her. I was laid off sick, and they gave her to another man--a good enough fellow, but you can't learn the ways of an ingine in a day nor a week, any more than you can learn the ways of a woman in a day or a week. Sally used to get balky, once a year reg'lar. For about a week she'd have the jim-jams--seemed like she got tired of working, and wanted a spell of rest in the round-house. Well, the new man didn't know this, and instead of letting her have her own way, he tried to drive her, and Sally just blew her cylinder-head out for spite. And when she was helpless on the siding a long freight came along, and the switchman lost his wits, and set the switch wrong, and that eighteen-thousand-dollar beauty was crippled so she never was worth much afterward. And about that time my lungs gave out, and I had to come up here. I never cared much about an ingine after Sally. I dare say I might get a place again to run a passenger train, but I think about poor Sally, and I don't feel like going back on the old girl; so here I am, side-tracked for life at Mudhole Junction."

"It was all on account of a patent air-brake that I'm here," remarked Laurie.

"It's coming," thought Blundon.

"I am an only child," said Laurie, after a little pause, "and I had the best daddy in the world, except that he was so obstinate."

"_You_ weren't obstinate, young feller," Blundon gravely interjected. "You were just firm. It's the other feller that's pig-headed always. Go on."

Laurie glanced up quickly, and grinned at Blundon for a moment.

"Well, perhaps I was a little obstinate too--a chip of the old block. As long as my mother lived, God bless her!"--here Laurie raised his cap reverently--"she could always make peace between us. But when she went to heaven there was nobody to do this. The first serious falling out we had was when I went to college. I took the scientific course, and apparently I didn't do much at it. But I was working like a beaver at an air-brake, and when I wasn't in the class-rooms I was down at the railroad shops studying brakes. I found out a lot about them, and I also found out that my wonderful invention wasn't any invention at all. It had been tried and discarded. My father, though, thought I was idling, and wrote me a riproaring letter. One word brought on another, until at last I walked myself out of the house after our last interview, and told my father I would never take another cent from him as long as I lived. I had a little money that my mother left me. My father said I'd come back as soon as I'd run through with what I had, and that made me mad. I knew my lungs weren't in good shape, and the doctors told me to come up here and try living in a shanty for a year. I've done it, and I'm cured, and my feelings have softened toward my father--he was a kind old dad when he had his own way--but I can't--I _can't_ make the first advance to him."

Blundon's usual address to Laurie was, "Young feller," but on serious occasions he called him "Mr. Vane, sir."

"Mr. Vane, sir," he said, "do you know the meaning of the word courage?"

"Yes," answered Laurie, promptly.

"And sense--good, hard, barnyard sense, Mr. Vane, sir?"

"Yes," again replied Laurie.

"And, Mr. Vane, sir, do you think you're treatin' your father right?"

"N-n-no," said Laurie, not at all promptly.

"Well, Mr. Vane, sir," continued Blundon, rising, and getting his lantern, "I don't think you can lay any extravagant claims to either sense or courage as long as you don't know how to make the first advance toward your own father, when you know you ain't treatin' him right. There's the express going in the tunnel."

Laurie rose too with a grave face. Blundon's words were few, but Laurie had learned to know the man, and to respect him deeply; and Laurie knew that Blundon's words were a strong condemnation.

The two went out upon the little platform to see the express pass. The night was very dark, without moon or stars. In a minute or two the train, a blaze of light from end to end, dashed out of the tunnel, and with one wild scream took the three-mile straight stretch down-grade like a streak of lightning. Not half the distance had been covered, when Blundon, almost dropping the lantern in his surprise, shouted, "She's slowing up to stop!"

Almost by the time the words were out of his mouth the locomotive was within fifty yards of them, and with a clang, a bang, and a snort it came to a full stop. The conductor had jumped off while the train was still moving, and he ran up to Blundon and Laurie.

"What's the matter?" asked Blundon, holding up the lantern in the conductor's face.

"Matter enough," answered the conductor. "The engineer slipped on the floor of the cab, about ten miles back, and wrenched his arm, so he is perfectly helpless, and almost wild with pain; the negro fireman brought us the last ten miles, but he couldn't take us over the mountain."

"I reckon _I_ can," said Blundon, coolly. "You know my record."

"Yes; and that's why I stopped," answered the conductor. "But look here."

He handed out a piece of paper, on which was written clearly:

"Pay no attention to a red light on the trestle. It means a hold up
at the end of the trestle. The men know what is in the express car,
and they have dynamite.

"A FRIEND."

"Maybe it's a hoax," said Blundon.

"And maybe it ain't a hoax," said the conductor.

Blundon, the conductor, and Laurie had been standing close together during this short and half-whispered colloquy, but the negro fireman had slipped up behind them, and had seen the note by the lantern's glimmer.

"Good Lawd A'mighty!" he yelled. "De train robbers is arter dis heah train! Well, dey ain' gwi git no chance fur to blow dis nigger up wid dynamite." And without another word he took to his heels, and immediately was lost in the darkness.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" exclaimed the conductor.

"Never you mind," said Blundon, with a grim smile; "this young feller will be my fireman, and I'll agree to take the train across the mountain, hold up or no hold up. I'm off duty now until six o'clock to-morrow morning, and I can get back by that time."

"All right," answered the conductor, going toward the cab, where they found the engineer groaning with pain.

"Just groan through the telephone, old man," said Blundon, as they helped him out, "and you'll get a doctor from the house over yonder, and he'll set your arm in a jiffy."

"Wouldn't it be a good idea," said Laurie, diffidently, "if the engineer telephoned to Stoneville that if the train is delayed to send a posse to the Stoneville end of the trestle! This is the night the Stoneville Light Infantry meet to drill, and they'd be handy in case of a hold up."

The conductor hesitated a moment, then went over to the express car, and came back.

"The express messenger says to telephone to the soldier boys, and if it is a hoax, he can stand the racket, and if it ain't--well, he has got near ninety thousand dollars in the safe, and he ain't a-going to give it away."

In another moment the injured engineer was ringing the telephone bell. Two or three passengers then appeared on the platform of the smoker.

"Hello!" cried one of them, in a voice singularly like Laurie's. "What's up?"

"Stopping for a new fireman, sir," answered the conductor, airily. "All aboard!"

As Laurie took his seat, in the cab beside Blundon, he said, with a pale face, "That was my father who spoke."

"Glad of it," bawled Blundon, over the roar of the train. "I hope he's got a gun."

Laurie had often heard that one never could judge of a man until he had been seen engaged in his own especial vocation, and he found it true as regarded Blundon. The old engineer was usually round-shouldered, and had a leisurely, not to say lazy, way of moving about. But the instant his hand touched the throttle of the engine he became alert and keen-eyed, his figure straightened, and the power he possessed intrinsically became visible.

The train sped on for an hour before entering a deep cut, at the end of which they would have to cross a great ravine over a long trestle. A mile or two beyond the trestle was the little manufacturing town of Stoneville. As they entered the cut darkness became blackness, and the train began to slow up a little before going on the trestle.

Laurie shouted in Blundon's ear, "This is a mighty good place for a train robbery!"

Blundon nodded, and Laurie, turning to the window, strained his eyes toward the ravine that showed like a huge black shadow before them. And in the middle of the trestle a red danger signal burned steadily.

"It's there," cried Laurie to Blundon.

By the time the words were out of his mouth a fusillade of shots rattled against the side of the cab.

"Lie down! lie down!" cried Blundon, throwing himself flat on the floor, and Laurie promptly followed suit. Then three ghostly figures leaped on the train, and two of them catching Blundon and Laurie, held them fast, while the third brought the train to a stop.

"Get up," said the first robber to Blundon, who scrambled to a sitting posture with a pistol at his ear. The second robber had likewise established close connections between Laurie's ear and another pistol, but allowed him also to sit up on the floor. The third robber jumped off, and presently the crash of dynamite showed that the express car was broken into. Then there was a wait of ten minutes, while the robbers, of whom there were several, rifled the safe.

During this time Blundon showed such perfect coolness that it calmed Laurie's natural excitement, and won the admiration of the highwaymen.

"Euchred, Mr. Vane, sir!" was Blundon's only exclamation, as he sat cross-legged, looking at Laurie.

To this Laurie replied, "I told you it was a good place for a train robbery."

"Young man," remarked the gentleman who covered Laurie with his pistol, "I am afraid you haven't had the advantages of good society, like me and my pal there. You hadn't oughter call names, especially on a social occasion like this."

"Perhaps I oughtn't," meekly answered Laurie.

"We are gentlemen, we are," continued this facetious bandit. "We don't go in for robbin' ladies of their handbags--we don't want your little silver watch, sonny. We are opposed to the bloated corporations that rule this country, and we are doing our best to maintain the rights of individuals against them by cleaning out their safes."

Laurie, without arguing this important question, remarked, "If you have so much regard for the rights of individuals, I wish you'd let me scratch my eye."

"I will do it for you with pleasure," amiably remarked the bandit, and with the cold muzzle of the loaded pistol he gently scratched Laurie's eye, to that young gentleman's intense discomfort.

In a few minutes more several of the gang who had gone through with the safe came to the cab.

"Bring one of those gents out here," said the man who seemed to be the leader. "We have got the express car and the engine disconnected from the rest of the train, but we don't exactly understand the brakes, and we want them set."

A gleam of intelligence passed between Blundon and Laurie which served the purpose of words.

"That young feller," said Blundon, indicating Laurie, "is a famous brakeman. He invented an air-brake once, only it wouldn't work."

Laurie, still covered by the pistol in the hands of his friends, got out of the cab, and soon the sound of hammering and knocking reverberated, showing he was working with the brakes. In a little while he was brought back, and Blundon and himself were then marched to the passenger car, hustled in, and the door locked on them. The first person Laurie's eyes rested on was his father. The excited passengers gathered around the two, but before a word was spoken Mr. Vane recognized Laurie. In another minute the two were in each other's arms. Laurie's first words were: "Daddy, I was wrong. I beg you will forgive me--"

But his father could only say, brokenly, "My boy--my boy!"

Blundon, after a few moments, raised his hand for silence, and then, in a low voice, but perfectly distinct to the earnest listeners, he said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, them train-robbers have bitten off more than they can chew. We had warning of this at Mudhole Junction, and the reg'lar engineer--I'm only a substitute--telephoned an hour ago to the Stoneville Light Infantry to be here if the train wasn't on time, and no doubt the soldiers ain't half a mile away. I've got a young amatoor fireman here--Mr. Laurie Vane--who invented an air-brake--"

"That wouldn't work," added Laurie, _sotto voce_.

"--And the robbers took him to set the brakes so they could run away with the ingine and express car. But this smart young gentleman disconnected the coil of the brakes, and everything about this train is just the same as if it was nailed to the tracks. The ingine can spit sparks, but she can't turn a wheel, and I'm thinkin' they'll be monkeyin' with her until the Stoneville Light Infantry comes along and bags 'em every one!"

A silent hand-clapping greeted this; then all the passengers, keeping perfectly still, waited for their rescuers to arrive. Meanwhile a great noise and whacking went on outside, as the robbers vainly struggled to make the engine move. Laurie sat, his arm about his father's neck, and although he said but little, every glance was an appeal for forgiveness. Blundon had made him out something of a hero in resource, and his father's proud recognition of it was plain to all. After fifteen minutes' waiting, under high tension, Blundon, peering closely into the surrounding darkness, uttered a suppressed chuckle.

"They're comin'," he said. "The robbers don't see 'em; they are too busy with the ingine."

A pause followed, unbroken by a word; then a yell, as the robbers realized they were surrounded. The passengers locked up in the drawing-room car could see little of the scuffle, but they heard it, and in a few minutes the door was wrenched open, and an officer in uniform announced that the robbers were captured, and called for the engineer to come and take charge of the engine.

* * * * *

Laurie and Blundon both wear watches with inscriptions on them--gifts from the railway company. Laurie is living in his father's house, and has altogether given up his dream of inventing a new brake, and is reading law very hard, much to his father's delight; and people say, "Did you ever see a father and son so fond of one another as Mr. Vane and that boy of his?"

And Laurie has several times asked his father, dryly, if he was really sorry that his only son had studied up the subject of air-brakes when he ought to have been in the class-room. Laurie has promised Blundon that once in two years at least he will go to Mudhole Junction. They have had but one meeting as yet, since Laurie left, when Blundon sagely remarked:

"Mr. Vane, sir, I think you did a sight better in holding that train down to the track with them ordinary brakes than you ever will with any of your own. But the best thing you did, after all, was to ask your father's pardon, and you ought to have done it a year before, Mr. Vane, sir."

A NEW USE FOR APES.

Here's a great note about two very interesting things--golf and monkeys. According to an English paper, lately received, while pets are mostly kept for the purpose of merely being petted, now and then they are taught to make themselves useful. The latest instance of the useful pet, the journal states, is in the case of certain apes which have been trained to act as caddies in the now fashionable game of golf. The caddie is indispensable to a golf player, and a Miss Dent, whose brother, Lieutenant Dent, of the United States Navy, has recently returned to America from the China station, has two Formosa apes which he brought here, and which they have trained to the business of caddies. They wear liveries of white duck, and each has a Turkish fez.

THE BOY SOLDIER IN CAMP.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

In every boy's heart--I am sure in every American boy's heart--there lies a love for martial things. The sound of a fife and drum, the sight of a soldier's uniform, stir him and set his blood a-tingling. Does there exist anywhere a boy or a man who has not "played soldier" at some time in his life? No; I judge not in this country.

Everyone who witnessed the Columbian parades in New York remembers the march of the city school-boys. With shoulders and heads erect they kept their well-formed lines; their young officers knew what they were about, and gave their orders sharp and clear.

These boys had been drilled every week on the playground, the street, or in one of the regimental armories, and they had caught the spirit of the thing.

Some people have been foolish enough to decry military training in our public schools. Have they ever thought that these boys will soon be large enough to carry real muskets if it should be necessary? The big majority of our soldiers in the last great war were under the age of twenty-four. But there are other things to be considered.

The writer has for some years past been interested in one of the largest boys' clubs in the city of New York. It has grown from a rather unruly mob of youngsters, gathered from the streets and tenements of the great East Side, to an orderly, well-governed body of over three hundred boys, who can be trusted to preserve their own decorum in the club-rooms, and who do not need a policeman to make them toe the proper mark. A military formation has accomplished this. A large drum-and-fife corps keeps up the interest, and the officers and most of the governors of the club are chosen from among the boys themselves. A military training promotes a respect for proper authority, which is the foundation of all thoroughly good citizenship.

But as this is not a lecture on the advantages of the system, we must come to the point--the boy soldier in camp. No doubt the most pleasant as well as the most useful part of the drill life of our militia regiments is the week's encampment at Peekskill. The men come back brown and healthy, and with the satisfaction of having learned something. An encampment of boys can accomplish the same results.

At Orrs Mills, Cornwall-on-Hudson, an experiment has been tried with great success during the past summer. A camp of instruction and recreation was established, and the results should encourage other attempts in the same direction.

The life of the soldier boys was a combination of duty, which might be called pleasant work, and play. The routine of a regular encampment was followed, and as one regiment or brigade left, another took its place, the same as at Peekskill.

These boys belonged to a Baptist military organization; they were all in charge of an instructor who ranked as Colonel, but the Majors, Adjutants, Captains, Lieutenants, and non-commissioned officers were boys of from twelve to fourteen.

In the early morning the boy bugler turned the camp out at reveille, and the sergeants called the first roll; then the companies marched to breakfast in the mess-tent, where plain wholesome food was provided in plenty. After the meal came guard-mount, a ceremony requiring considerable knowledge, and one of the most importance. The old guard was relieved and dismissed, and the new one took its place; sentries were posted, and the day of the soldier began. Drills and squad details followed. Excursions into the neighboring hills, plunges into the swimming-pool, and target practice kept the time from dragging, and at dress parade in the evening buttons and arms were brightened, the regiment took its position on the meadow near the camp, and the companies were accounted for. Then the Adjutant read the orders for the following day, and the Colonel took command; the drums rolled, the fifes shrilled, and as the last note sounded, the cannon roared out sunset, and down came the flag. The soldier's day was over. "Taps" set the echoes going at nine o'clock, and tired and happy, the boys fell asleep in their cots and blankets.

There is no use saying that this does not pay. It is the thing the boys like. Tell a boy that a thing is "good for him," and he generally dislikes it, but in this case the boys do not have to be told. They take to it naturally.

A word as to the starting of a boys' military company might come in well here, and might be of interest. It is an easy thing to _start_ one, the trouble being to hold it together; and this all depends upon the way one goes about it.

All that is necessary at first is to get the boys and find a person who is capable and willing to assist them in learning the manual of arms and the school of the soldier. Almost any State regiment or separate company will supply a man who will take interest enough to attend all drills, and give up a fair amount of time for sheer love of soldiering.

There must be one thing kept in mind: there must be no half-way interest, and there must be no foolishness; the more serious one is at first, the more successful the latter work. It will not take long for a boy Lieutenant to be able to take command if he studies; he must enforce attention, and be _sure_ in his orders. Once let the others find out that he knows well what he is talking about, and they will respect him and obey him as eagerly as if he were forty years old and six feet tall.

Arms and uniforms are absolutely necessary, and of course cost money; but it is quite surprising at what comparatively small expense a company of boys can be outfitted. Drill muskets of wood are the cheapest, and can be procured with detachable bayonets, but the best of all is the old Springfield smooth bore cut down and reduced to about five pounds in weight. A company of boys thirty in number can be equipped with these strong pieces at the cost of about sixty dollars. A good uniform costs much more; but serviceable fatigue-caps can be purchased for less than a dollar, and a uniform made out of good strong blue cloth for five or six dollars. Good drums can be procured at about the same expense as the uniforms, but it does not pay to get a very cheap drum. By enlisting the interest of parents, uncles, and the family in general, an eager boy will accomplish wonders in outfitting himself, and a fair or an entertainment well worked up will draw funds from unexpected sources.

Supposing, however, that a company of lads connected with a school, a society, or perhaps entirely independent, wishes to reap the benefits of faithful drilling and go into camp. The first thing to be done is to get the older heads to agree in helping out the venture, then to find a suitable locality, and one not remote from home.

Good drinking-water, and plenty of it, is a _sine qua non_ (this for our Latin scholars). The ground should be dry and hard, and in as much of a sheltered position as possible, and there should be a wide open field devoid of stumps and muddy places for a drill and play ground. One of the first difficulties will be the procuring of tents, and here, of course, will come a rub. There are, however, many places where they can be rented for the purpose in the big cities, and no make-shift wigwams should be attempted. In some States the military authorities, approached through the proper channels, may be able to loan tents for the purpose, and a letter to the Adjutant-General will procure all the information upon the subject. But even if tents are not to be had, the idea of a military outing need not be given up. A hay-mow is far from a bad place to sleep in, and a fair-sized barn will accommodate a large number of boys who do not object to roughing it. The cooking could be done camp fashion, outside; and that brings us to one of the most important points--food, what it costs and how to get it. A cook should be hired, and one man can cook for a large number if he has a detail of young soldiers to help him with the mess-gear. Every boy should bring, besides his blankets, a knife, fork, and spoon, and a tin plate and cup. It will cost to feed a healthy boy in camp at least forty cents a day; the thing to avoid is waste.

In such a short article as this it is out of the question to go into general detail, and of course without the help of older people and without funds it is impossible to do anything.

A boys' encampment should be managed by the boys themselves so far as the duties are concerned. They should be responsible for their own order and behavior, but of course it is necessary to have some one with experience at the very head, and a doctor or a surgeon must be enlisted for the time. This is most important. Any militia regiment would provide a volunteer for the position of Colonel or post commander, and care should be taken that he is a man who is well fitted to instruct and versed in the usages of camp life.

Three or four things the boys must have constantly in mind. While they are supposed to have all the enjoyment they can, they must remember that they are soldiers, and that duty is first. Once looked at seriously in this light, it is wonderfully surprising how quickly a boy will learn. Another thing to remember is that every one of them may be an officer some day, and that his companions recognize merit as quickly as men do, and that he must listen. To a young officer a good word of advice is, "make your men listen"; and that can be accomplished by speaking distinctly and evenly, and not pompously or in a shambling, careless manner.

They say that a week in camp is worth a winter's drill; and if the advantages are so great for our grown-up soldiers, they will of course work the same way with the boys.

During the war of the rebellion a military school in Virginia turned out into active service on the Confederate side. They actually met and fought grown men, and stood their ground bravely. Discipline made men of them, and a pride in their organization put years on their shoulders. Of course it is not expected that our boy companies will be called upon to fight nowadays, but as the strength of a nation often depends on the striplings in the ranks, it can work no possible harm to begin early. We trust that in the next year there will be many new encampments, many new companies formed, and that the various State governments will give all encouragement to the boy soldiers who in a few years may serve them well in the National Guard in case of riot or of trouble.

SOME CLEVER CHILDREN.

The children of the town of Clitheroe, in England, are not afraid to ask for what they want. According to an item in the Lancashire _Daily Post_ a meeting of the children of Clitheroe was recently held in the market-place to petition the Town Council to provide them with play-grounds. There was a fair number present. A boy named John Yates presided. It was decided to send the Mayor and Corporation the following memorial: "We, the children of Clitheroe, in public meeting assembled, beg to lay before you our needs in the matter of play-grounds. We have none; if we play at all, we are forced to play in the streets. Then, by your instructions, we are liable to be pounced upon by the police and prosecuted. Such a state of things, we venture to suggest, is very unfair to us, and seeing that you are elected to your positions by our fathers and mothers, and as we are sure they would not object to pay a little extra in taxes for our benefit--we are perfectly aware that to provide play-grounds would incur expense--we beg of you to take this matter into your serious consideration, and do honor to yourselves by recognizing our needs and providing us with play-grounds."

It would seem as if it ought to prove very difficult to the authorities to refuse to yield to so reasonable and respectfully framed a request as this. Certainly the future of the town of Clitheroe should be an interesting one, seeing what style of citizens it is likely to have when these brave little boys and girls grow up and "run things" to suit themselves.

A FAIR EXPLANATION.

There are some men who are never at a loss to give an explanation of any thing they are asked about, and often they do not go so far wrong even when they have no actual knowledge in the matter. Among these, according to a story lately encountered, is a boatswain of one of the large transatlantic steamers. A little time ago, as the story has it, one of the crew of this steamer (while the passengers were at dinner) picked up a menu, and seeing on the top "Table d'hote," inquired of one of his mates the meaning of it.

"What does this 'ere mean, Joe?"

Joe, taking the menu, gazed on it with a puzzled air, scratched his head, and said: "I can't make nothing out of it. Let's go to old Coffin; he's a scholard, and sure to know."

On giving the menu to the boatswain, he thoughtfully stroked his chin, and said: "Well, look 'ere, mates, it's like this 'ere. Them swells down in the saloon have some soup, a bit of fish, a bit of this, and a bit of that, and a hit of summat else, and calls it 'table dottie.' We haves 'table dottie,' only we mixes it all together and calls it Irish stew."

GRANDFATHER'S ADVENTURES.

KIDNAPPING POOR COOLIES.

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.

The rain was sweeping a musical tattoo against the windows of the room in which Ralph Pell was devouring an ancient volume of sea-yarns, discovered by him that morning among other old books in the attic chest, and which collection represented the little ship's library that had been carried by Grandfather Sterling's vessel on many long and venturesome voyages to all quarters of the globe. In a sleepy-hollow chair near the window that overlooked a sweep of sodden meadow-land sat the old sailor, his eyes closed, and his head nodding over a long-stemmed pipe in which the fire had gone out some time before, but whose mouth-piece he held between his lips with something like the tenacity of a bull-dog's grip.

As Ralph ran his eyes along the line of type that marked the ending of the last story, he gave expression to a sigh in which enjoyment and regret were equally divided, and turned the leaves of the book through his fingers idly, as though reluctant to realize that he had parted company with its sea heroes, buccaneers, beautiful captive maidens, and other characters who had played their several parts against backgrounds of tempest, fire, and piracy.

"Grandpop!" he called, gently, and the old man slept on. "Oh, grandpop!" he said, in a louder voice; but the grizzled seaman responded only by a little deeper snore and a tighter hold upon the stem of his pipe. A mischievous look stole into Ralph's eyes. Suddenly he called out strong, "There goes flukes!"

"Where away?" shouted Grandfather Sterling, dropping his pipe and jumping excitedly to his feet, imagining that he was on board of a whaling-ship, and that the lookout had reported a school of whales in sight.

At this Ralph threw himself back in his chair, laughing heartily, and did not observe the old sailor's look of bewilderment change to that of comprehension and fun-making. Grandfather quietly laid hold of the fire-bellows hanging on the chimney front, stole across the room to Ralph's chair, and just as its occupant was indulging in a renewed burst of mirth the nozzle of the bellows found its way into his generously open mouth, and a strong and unexpected rush of air sent his head bumping against the back cushion.

"There she blows! There she blows!" yelled Grandfather Sterling, as he worked the bellows handles energetically.

After the merriment had ended, and the Captain's pipe had been recovered and lit, Ralph said:

"Grandpop, there's a story in that old book of yours about the way that the poor coolies were deceived in the East Indies and taken to other countries to work as slaves. Do you know any stories about them?"

The old sailor nodded an affirmative. Ralph was all excitement in a moment.

"Oh, tell the story, grandpop, please! When did it happen, and what is it about?"

Captain Sterling allowed a cloud of smoke to float slowly upward in front of him in order to screen the look of mischief in his gray eyes, then answered,

"It happened a good many years ago, Ralph, and it is about a ship that I was an officer on when she was in the coolie trade."

Ralph jumped to his feet in amazement.

"Grandfather," he said, with a break in his voice, "you don't mean that _you_ were once little better than a negro-slaver? It can't be true. You're only fooling; now tell the truth, grandpop."

The ashes in the bowl of his pipe seemed to require all of the Captain's attention as he replied, quite meekly,

"Yes, Ralph, it's kinder tough to admit it, but the truth is I was once a member of the crew of the most noted 'coolie packet' in the business."

Seeing the grieved, reproachful look on Ralph's face, the Captain added:

"Of course it may make you think a little better of your grandfather when I tell you that I would not have joined such a vessel willingly, and that I did not know her character until I was on board."

Ralph hurried to his grandfather's side, passed his arm affectionately around the old man's neck, and said, in a relieved way:

"I'm so glad you said that, grandpop, because I wouldn't want to know that my grandfather had ever been a coolie-stealer. And now, after scaring a fellow so badly, the least you can do to make things square is to tell the story in your best style, which you would call 'ship-shape and Bristol fashion.'"

"All right, my boy, I'll do penance in that way; and now to begin:

"I had gone out to China as second mate of the ship _White Cloud_. She was an old vessel, and in a typhoon that we made acquaintance with had been so badly strained and damaged that we just managed to reach port by keeping all hands at the pumps day and night for more than a week. A board of survey condemned the ship, pronouncing her unfit for further service, so all hands were paid off, and we then cast about for other berths. I was offered several chances to go before the mast, but having been an officer, I disliked to again enter the forecastle. I had considerable money, so held back, waiting for something better to turn up. At last I was told by one of the shipping-masters that a big English vessel had dropped anchor in the harbor to send her second mate to the hospital, as he was suffering with the fever peculiar to that coast, and that I could get the vacant office by applying to the British Consul. I at once made my way to the consulate, saw the Captain of the _Irving Castle_, hurriedly signed articles to serve as her second officer, and an hour from that time was on board the ship. As soon as I stepped over the rail I saw that she was a 'coolie-runner,' and would have backed out if possible; but it was too late, so I was forced to make the best of a bad bargain.

"I will not attempt to describe to you the horrors of that voyage--how we ran out of water owing to calms and head-winds, and how sickness ravaged among the wretched creatures packed like pigs in the hold of the ship. You may get an idea of that fearful time when I tell you that out of the eight hundred coolies that we had on board at the time of sailing, only one hundred and fifty lived to reach the port where the full measure of their deception and betrayal was realized. The poor ignorant fellows had understood that the contract signed by them was simply an agreement to work on a plantation at good wages, and that they were to be free agents to remain or to be returned to their country after a short time, when the expense of their passage had been worked out. Instead of that they discovered that such an exorbitant rate was charged for their transportation that it would require several years' labor to clear them of debt, and a like number more before they would be entitled to the return voyage. Protest availed them nothing, and they were led away as so many slaves to begin their weary servitude.

"I was heart-sick of the trade, and a little ashamed, too, of sailing under a foreign flag, so I left the _Irving Castle_ at the first opportunity. I know that all hands were glad to see the 'Yankee' go, for I had held up the honor of my own country in a rather forcible way on several occasions when the discussion as to the wars of 1776 and 1812 had waxed warm beyond the limits of what might be called gentlemanly argument.

"And now, my boy, you know how it was that I came to serve on a 'coolie-slaver' under the British flag."

THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

I.--JIMMIEBOY MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE.

The telephone was ringing, of that there was no doubt, and yet no one went to see what was wanted, which was rather strange. The cook had a great way of rushing up from the kitchen to where the 'phone stood in the back hall whenever she heard its sounding bells, because a great many of her friends were in the habit of communicating with her over the wire, and she didn't like to lose the opportunity to hear all that was going on in the neighborhood. And then, too, Jimmieboy's papa was at work in the library not twenty feet away, and surely one would hardly suppose that he would let it ring as often as Jimmieboy had heard it this time--I think there were as many as six distinct rings--without going to ask the person at the other end what on earth he was making all that noise about. So it was altogether queer that after sounding six times the bell should fail to summon any one to see what was wanted. Finally it rang loud and strong for a seventh time, and, although he wasn't exactly sure about it, Jimmieboy thought he heard a whisper repeated over and over again, which said, "Hullo, Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy, Hullo! Come to the telephone a moment, for I want to speak to you."

Whether there really was any such whisper as that or not, Jimmieboy did not delay an instant in rushing out into the back hall and climbing upon a chair that stood there to answer whoever it was that was so anxious to speak to somebody.

"Hullo, you!" he said, as he got his little mouth over the receiver.

"Hullo!" came the whisper he thought he had heard before. "Is that you, Jimmieboy?"

"Yes. It's me," returned Jimmieboy. "Who are you?"

"I'm me, too," answered the whisper with a chuckle. "Some people call me Hello Hithere Whoareyou, but my real name is Impy. I am the Imp of the Telephone, and I live up here in this little box right over where your mouth is."

"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy in pleased surprise. "I didn't know anybody ever lived in that funny little closet, though I had noticed it had a door with a key-hole in it."

"Yes, I can see you now through the key-hole, but you can't see me," said the Imp, "and I'm real sorry you can't, for I am ever so pretty. I have beautiful mauve-colored eyes with eyelashes of pink, long and fine as silk. My eyebrows are sort of green like the lawn gets after a sun shower in the late spring. My hair, which is hardly thicker than the fuzzy down or the downy fuzz--as you prefer it--of a peach, is colored like the lilac, and my clothes are a bright red, and I have a pair of gossamer wings to fly with."

"Isn't there any chance of my ever seeing you?" asked Jimmieboy.

"Why, of course," said the Imp. "Just the best chance in all the world. Do you remember the little key your papa uses to lock his new cigar box with?"

"The little silver key he carries on the end of his watch chain?" queried Jimmieboy, eagerly.

"The very same," said the Imp, "That key is the only key in this house that will fit this lock. If you can get it and will open the door you can see me, and if you will eat a small apple I give you when we do meet, you will smallen up until you are big enough to get into my room here and see what a wonderful place it is. Do you think you can get the key?"

"I don't know," Jimmieboy answered. "I asked papa to let me have it several times already, but he has always said no."

"It looks hopeless, doesn't it?" returned the Imp. "But I'll tell you how I used to do with my dear old father when he wouldn't let me have things I wanted. I'd just ask him the same old question over and over again in thirteen different ways, and if I didn't get a yes in answer to one of 'em, why, I'd know it was useless; but the thirteenth generally brought me the answer I wanted."

"I suppose that would be a good way," said Jimmieboy, "but I really don't see how I could ask for the key in thirteen different ways."

"You don't, eh?" said the Imp, in a tone of disappointment. "Well, I _am_ surprised. You are the first little boy I have had anything to do with who couldn't ask for a thing, no matter what it was, in thirteen different ways. Why, it's as easy as falling up stairs."

"Tell me a few ways," suggested Jimmieboy.

"Well, first there is the direct way," returned the Imp, "You say just as plainly as can be, 'Daddy, I want the key to your cigar box.' He will reply, 'No, you are too young to smoke,' and that will make your mamma laugh, which will be a good thing in case your papa is feeling a little cross when you ask him. There is nothing that puts a man in a good humor so quickly as laughing at his jokes. That's way number one," continued the Imp. "You wait five minutes before you try the second way, which is, briefly, to climb upon your father's knee and say, 'There are two ends to your watch chain, aren't there, papa?' He'll say, 'Yes; everything has two ends except circles, which haven't any'; then you laugh, because he may think that's funny, and then you say, 'You have a watch at one end, haven't you?' His answer will be, 'Yes; it has been there fifteen years, and although it has been going all that time it hasn't gone yet.' You must roar with laughter at that, and then ask him what he has at the other end, and he'll say, 'The key to my cigar box,' to which you must immediately reply, 'Give it to me, won't you?' And so you go on, leading up to that key in everything you do or say for the whole day, if it takes that long to ask for it thirteen times. If he doesn't give it to you then, you might as well give up, for you'll never get it. It always worked when I was little, but it may have been because I put the thirteenth question in rhyme every time. If I wanted a cream cake, I'd ask for it and ask for it, and if at the twelfth time of asking I hadn't got it, I'd put it to him finally this way--

"'_I used to think that you could do_
_Most everything; but now I see_
_You can't, for it appears that you_
_Can't give a creamy cake to me._'"

"But I can't write poetry," said Jimmieboy.

"Oh, yes you can!" laughed the Imp. "Anybody can. I've written lots of it. I wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though he said he was sorry I had discovered what he called his secret."

"Have you got it with you?" asked Jimmieboy, very much interested in what the Imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the Imp had said, write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps of his father, whose every production, Jimmieboy's mamma said, was just as nice as it could be.

"Yes. I have it here, where I keep everything, in my head. Just glue your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and I'll recite it for you. This is it:

"_I've watched you, papa, many a day._
_And think I know you pretty well;_
_You've been my chum--at work, at play--_
_You've taught me how to romp and spell._

"_You've taught me how to sing sweet songs;_
_You've taught me how to listen, too;_
_You've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs;_
_You've made me love the good and true._

"_Sometimes you've punished me, and I_
_Sometimes have wept most grievously_
_That yours should lie the hand whereby_
_The things I wished were kept from me._

"_Sometimes I've thought that you were stern;_
_Sometimes I could not understand_
_Why you should make my poor heart burn_
_By scoldings and by reprimand._

"_Yet as it all comes back, I see_
_My sorrows, though indeed most sore_
_In those dear days they seemed to me,_
_Grieved you at heart by far the more._

"_The frowns that wrinkled up your brow,_
_That grieved your little son erstwhile,_
_As I reflect upon them now,_
_Were always softened by a smile._

"_That shone, dear father, in your eyes;_
_A smile that was but ill concealed,_
_By which the love that in you lies_
_For me, your boy, was e'er revealed._"

Here the Imp stopped.

"Go on," said Jimmieboy, softly. "Tell me some more."

"There isn't any more," replied the Imp. "When I got that far I couldn't write any more, because I kind of got running over. I didn't seem to fit myself exactly. Myself was too big for myself, and so I had to stop and sort of settle down again."

"Your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested Jimmieboy.

"Yes, he was," said the Imp; "although I noticed a big tear in his eye when I read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and I was glad I'd written it. But you must run along and get that key, for my time is very short, and if we are to see Magnetville and all the wire country we must be off."

"Perhaps if the rhyme always brings about the answer you want, it would be better for me to ask the question that way first, and not bother him with the other twelve ways," suggested Jimmieboy.

"That's very thoughtful of you," said the Imp. "I think very likely it would be better to do it that way. Just you tiptoe softly up to him and say,

"_If you loved me as I love you,_
_And I were you and you were me,_
_What you asked me I'd surely do,_
_And let you have that silver key._"

"I think that's just the way," said Jimmieboy, repeating the verse over and over again so as not to forget it. "I'll go to him at once."

And he did go. He tiptoed into the library, at one end of which his papa was sitting writing; he kissed him on his cheek, and whispered the verse softly in his ear.

"Why certainly," said his papa, when he had finished. "Here it is," taking the key from the end of his chain. "Don't lose it, Jimmieboy."

"No, I'll not lose it. I've got too much use for it to lose it," replied Jimmieboy, gleefully, and then, sliding down from his papa's lap, he ran headlong into the back hall to where the telephone stood, inserted the key in the key-hole of the little door over the receiver and turned it. The door flew open, and before him stood the Imp.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Two weeks ago, in commenting upon the Spirit displayed by a certain class of scholastic athletes--they cannot properly be called sportsmen--I remarked that should ribbons be offered as prizes at future interscholastic track-athletic games, I feared five-eighths of those who enter under existing conditions would take no further interest in the sports. I feared at the time this might be a slight exaggeration, and I hope it is: but that my assumption was well grounded there is no doubt. I heard of one young man, who proudly canters about the cinder track in the spring-time, and claims to be a sportsman, who upon reading the paragraph in question exclaimed: "Ribbons? Well, I guess not. You can bet that if they had ribbons for prizes, _I_ would be one of the five-eighths that would drop out!"

If the awarding of ribbons as prizes could purge the ranks of school athletics of such cup-hunting, medal-seeking mercenaries as that young man frankly admits he is, I devoutly hope and pray the expedient may be adopted. In chemistry there is a way of testing fluids for impurities by applying certain acids. If some good genie would only come up out of the earth and apply the ribbon test to interscholastic sport as conducted in New York city, I can assure him he would get a response that would startle him. But I don't suppose there is any use of advocating the ribbon scheme. I know, as well as the next man, that it would be impracticable. The custom of awarding prizes of value has become too general for us to be able to do away with it, even in behalf of such a holy cause as the purification of sport. Such a step, too, would injure the clean as well as the unclean, and although there is no doubt the former would be quite willing to suffer temporarily for the sake of redeeming or of getting rid of the latter, the suggestion is too radical, I am well aware, to be put into execution. We shall have to look for some other method of routing these Tammanyites of interscholastic sport.