Chapter M: E. Longmore

"My costume!" said Dorothy Graham, jumping up from the breakfast-table.

"You need not smash _all_ the china!" observed Dick.

"The parcels post never comes so early," murmured Dorothy's mother. "How impulsive that child is!"

In a few minutes Dorothy came back with a crestfallen air and laid a brown, uninteresting-looking envelope by her mother's plate.

"I might have known he never comes so early, except with letters," she remarked, sitting down again.

"Of course you might," said Dick, clearing the bacon dish, "but you never know anything worth knowing."

"Don't tease her," said Mrs. Graham kindly; "it is not often she gets a new frock."

"A _costume_," corrected Dick, imitating Dorothy's voice. "A _real_ tailor one--made in Bond Street!"

Mr. Graham rustled his newspaper, and Dick succumbed.

"Why, Dorothy!" Mrs. Graham was looking at her letter. "Dear me!" She ran her eyes quickly through its contents. "I'm afraid that costume won't come to-day. They've had a fire."

[Sidenote: A Fire in Bond Street]

"'Prescott's, Bond Street,'" said Mr. Graham, reading from a paragraph in the morning paper. "Here it is: 'A fire occurred yesterday afternoon in the ladies' tailoring department. The stock-room was gutted, but fortunately the assistants escaped without injury.'"

Dorothy, with a very long face, was reading over her mother's shoulder:

"In consequence of a fire in the tailoring department Messrs. Prescott beg to inform their customers that some delay will be caused in getting out this week's orders. Business will, however, be continued as usual, and it will greatly facilitate matters if ladies having costumes now in hand will repeat the order by wire or telephone to avoid mistakes."

"It's very smart of them to have got that notice here so soon," said Mr. Graham.

"Mother," said Dorothy, swallowing very hard, "do you think it is burnt? After being fitted and all!"

"It is a disappointment," said her mother kindly, "but they'll make you another."

"It's a _shame_!" burst out Dorothy, with very hot cheeks. "These sort of things always happen to _me_! Can't we go to Chelmsford and get one ready-made?"

"That's a girl all over!" exclaimed Dick. "Now the man's down, let's kick him!"

Mr. Graham turned his head with a sharp look at Dick, who immediately, getting very red, pretended to be picking up something under the table.

"I didn't say _anything_ about _any_ man!" said Dorothy, appealing all round. "Mother, can't I have a costume from Chelmsford?"

"No, dear," said Mrs. Graham coldly; "this one is ordered."

"Dick is right, Dolly," said her father. "Don't you see it is the people who have had the _fire_ we should pity? And is it not bad enough to have their place burnt, without losing their customers?"

Dorothy sulked. She thought every one was very unkind, and it seemed the last straw when father took Dick's part against her.

It was time for Mr. Graham to go to town. He had eaten scarcely any breakfast, and Mrs. Graham, who had been anxiously watching him, had eaten none at all, but things of this sort children don't often notice.

When he passed his little girl's chair, he put his hand kindly on her shoulder, and the tears that had been so near welled into her eyes.

"Poor Dolly!" Mr. Graham said presently, as he reached for his hat, "everything seems of a piece." And he gave a great sigh.

Mrs. Graham always went as far as the gate with him, and he thought they were alone in the hall, but Dick had followed them to the dining-room door. It was holiday-time, yet Dick was going to Chelmsford for an examination. He had come out intending to ask his father before he went to London for half a crown. Dick was just at the age when schoolboys try to appear exactly the reverse from what they are. He squabbled constantly with Dorothy, though he loved her very much, and now, when he heard his father sigh, he put his hands in his pockets as if he didn't care about anything, and went upstairs whistling.

When Dick got to his room, he took a money-box from the mantelpiece and smashed it open with the poker. He had been saving up for a new bat, and the box contained seven shillings. He put the money in his pocket and ran down again in a great hurry.

"Dick! Dick!" exclaimed his mother, catching him. "Come here! Let me brush your collar. How rough your hair is! Dick, you must have a new hat! You can't go into the hall with that one."

"All serene, mother," said the boy, submitting impatiently to be overhauled. "I can buy a new hat and pitch the old one away."

"How grandly some people talk!" said his mother, pinching his ear. "As if the world belonged to them. Well, never mind, dear boy! If you get on well and _pass_, no one will remember your hat was shabby. Have you got your fare?"

[Sidenote: A Telegram]

"Oh, mother, how you _do_ worry!" exclaimed Dick, wrenching himself away; "I've got lots of money--_heaps_!"

He ran across the lawn, and just because he knew she was watching, jumped right over the azalea-bushes and wire fence instead of going out at the gate, and yet the tired look went out of Mrs. Graham's eyes, and a smile crept round her mouth as she watched him.

Dorothy, standing at the dining-room window, saw him go too, and thought how horrid it was of Dick to look so glad when she was so unhappy.

"Boys are always like that," she thought. "They don't care a bit about any one but themselves."

Mrs. Graham came back into the room holding a telegram in her hand which she tore open quickly. Her face went red and then rather white.

"What is it, mother?" said Dorothy eagerly. "Have they arrived?"

"They have been in London two days," said Mrs. Graham, with a curious catch in her breath, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "They want me up for a day's shopping. If I had known, I could have gone with father."

Dorothy stood staring at her mother with wide-open eyes. Half a dozen castles in the air seemed tumbling about her head at the same time.

They were expecting her mother's cousins over from America. Dorothy had been chattering about them to the girls at school all the term, and it was in honour of these very cousins she was having her first Bond Street costume. Her mother had not said that was the reason, but Dorothy knew it. She had a _sweet_, really _big_ hat too, with tiny rosebuds, and new gloves and boots. As a rule her mother was not particular about getting everything new at the same time, but she had taken enough pains this time to please Dorothy herself.

"They do dress children so at Boston," Dorothy had overheard her mother say to Mr. Graham, as a sort of excuse. "I should like Dollie to look nice."

And from that one sentence Dorothy had conjured up all sorts of things about these wonderful cousins. Of course she thought they were coming to stay with them. She expected there would be girls of her own age, and that they would be so charmed with their English cousin that they would invite her to go back to Boston with them. She had talked about them, and thought about them so much that she imagined her mother had _told_ her all this, but really Mrs. Graham, who talked very little, didn't know much about her cousins herself, so she could not have given her little daughter all this information if she had been inclined to.

And now it all seemed so _tame_. First no costume, then an ordinary wire to ask mother to go up for a day's shopping. They might have come from Surrey instead of America. And two whole days before they wired at all.

Perhaps Mrs. Graham was thinking something of the kind too, for she stood biting her lip, with the colour going and coming in pretty blushes on her cheek, as if she could not make up her mind.

She was just "mother" to Dorothy, but to other people Mrs. Graham was both pretty and sweet.

"I _must_ go," she said at length, "and there is scarcely time to get ready."

"Oh, _mother_!" cried Dorothy, "can't I come too?"

Mrs. Graham still seemed to be considering something else, and she merely answered, "No, dear," and went quickly upstairs.

Dorothy sank down on the sofa in a terribly injured mood. Nobody seemed to be thinking of _her_ at all. And before she had got over the first brunt of this discovery her mother was back again ready to go, with her purse-bag and gloves in her hand.

[Sidenote: Left in Charge]

"Dorothy," she said, arranging her hat before the mirror of the overmantel, "you may choose any pudding you like, tell cook. Here are the keys"--she paused to throw a small bunch in Dorothy's lap. "Get out anything they want. And Dick won't be in till half-past one, tell her. And Dollie"--there was again that queer little catch in her voice--"it is possible Miss Addiscombe may call this afternoon. I have told Louisa to show her right into the drawing-room without telling her I am out, and come and find you. I want you to be very nice to her, and explain about the Merediths. Tell her I was obliged to go because they only gave me the place of meeting, and I have not their address. I shall be home as soon as possible, between four and five at latest, so do your best to keep her till I come back."

"Did you say Miss _Addiscombe_, mother?" said Dorothy dismally, yet a little comforted by having the keys, and with the thought of choosing the pudding, "I don't think _she's_ likely to call."

"I said Miss Addiscombe," Mrs. Graham answered decidedly. "Do you understand what I wish you to do, Dollie?"

"Yes, mother," said Dorothy, subdued but mutinous.

Then she ran after her to the hall door.

"Mayn't I ask some one to spend the day, mother?" she called, but Mrs. Graham was almost at the gate, nearly running to be in time for her train, and did not hear her.

* * * * *

Mrs. Graham came home looking very white and tired. "Did Miss Addiscombe call?" were the first words she said.

Louisa, who was bringing in the tea, looked meaningly at Dorothy, and went out without speaking.

"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, "I am so sorry, I had been in all day, and Helen Jones just asked me to come to the post with her, and when I came back there was a motor at the door, and----"

"She _came_!" exclaimed Mrs. Graham. "And you did not give her my message! Oh, Dorothy!"

Her tone was almost like a cry of pain. Dorothy was startled. "She wouldn't wait, mother, and--and of course it _was_ strange she came to-day when she hasn't called for ages and ages! I didn't think she would, or I wouldn't have gone," she explained.

Mrs. Graham did not argue the point. She lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes. Dorothy longed to ask her about the American cousins, but did not dare. Presently she poured out a cup of tea and brought it to her mother.

"If you take some tea you will feel better, mother," she said softly.

"If I had asked Dick to do something for me he would have done it, Dorothy," said Mrs. Graham bitterly, and without seeming to notice the tea she got up and gathered her things together. "I have a headache," she said. "I am not coming down again. Father will not be home to-night, so you can tell Louisa there will be no need to lay the cloth for dinner. I don't wish any one to come near me." And she went out of the room.

Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have _fires_, when they had the charge of other people's things.

Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss Addiscombe thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so much.

Dick came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and had gone out again to a cricket match.

"Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a headache, and father isn't coming home."

[Sidenote: Dick's Strange Silence]

Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He _is_ a tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him."

Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again.

"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said.

"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice. I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire."

"A fire in August! Oh, Dick, how _ridiculous_!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had brought down; "don't you worry."

Dick took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep back tears.

Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the only trouble in it was her own.

"Aren't you going to take any supper, Dick?" she said plaintively.

Dick pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of bread, went out of the room without speaking.

"Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat down, ate Dick's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar, and felt a little comforted.

At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called her in.

Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as if she were angry.

She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had frightened Dick by being so cold, was now burning.

"I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a lesson to you."

Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was coming.

"Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough money to pay his creditors by Saturday he must go bankrupt. Miss Addiscombe was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was, and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I thought Mr. Meredith would have been there--he is rich too--and my cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence."

"Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could go over to-morrow to Miss Addiscombe, or write, mother; she would understand."

"No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way Dick does. If you had told me he had _passed_, Dorothy, when I came in, I should not have felt quite so bad."

"But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "Dick didn't tell me. _Has_ he passed?"

"Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all alone. Did you _ask_ him how he had got on?"

Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us."

Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood hesitating with her hand on the handle.

"I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me. Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own. What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish."

Dick's door was open and Dorothy went in.

"Isn't it dreadful, Dick!" she said. "What is _bankrupt_? How much money does father want?"

"About fifteen hundred," said Dick savagely. "It's all that old Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!"

"Dick," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when it costs so much?"

Dick sprang up with blazing eyes.

"You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!"

[Sidenote: The Last Straw]

This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed, on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. And only this morning she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.

Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when he was told not, and yet it was _right_ (even Dorothy could understand that) for him to disobey her, and _she_ had just gone to the post, and all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the other way. She was _father's_ girl, too, and father was always down on Dick, yet--her eyes filled when she thought of it--Dick was loyal, and had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for father.

She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved Him. Now it seemed as if she _must_ tell some one, and she wanted Him very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly all the time she felt much happier when she got up.

"I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had understood, and fell asleep quite calmly.

In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she had done last night. She felt as if Someone, much stronger than herself, was going to stand by her and help her through.

[Sidenote: Dorothy's Project]

Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not understood before, and a thought came into her head. It was _her_ fault, and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor Dick. It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addiscombe, and she was afraid of her, but she must go to her.

Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door, slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep.

Miss Addiscombe lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was a nearly straight road.

* * * * *

About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock was lying by the roadside.

He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large, startled blue eyes.

"What is it, my dear?" he said.

"I am dying, I think," said Dorothy. "Tell mother I did _try_."

He lifted her into his trap and got in beside her, telling the groom to drive on, and wondering very much. Dorothy gave a great sigh and began to feel better.

"I think it is because I had no breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I am dying of _hunger_."

The gentleman smiled, and searched his pockets. After a time he found some milk chocolate. Dorothy would rather have had water, but he made her eat a little. Then he took off her hat and gloves, and with a cool, soft handkerchief pushed back the hair that was clinging about her damp forehead and carefully wiped her face.

"You'll feel better now," he said, fanning her with her hat, and putting it on again, as if he had never done anything but dress little girls in his life.

Dorothy smiled with a great sigh of relief, and the gentleman smiled too. "Now tell us all about it," he said in a friendly way. "Where do you live, and where are you going?"

When Dorothy told him he looked very much surprised, and at the same time interested, and before she knew what she was about, he had drawn from her the whole story, and the more she told him the more surprised and interested he became.

"What was the name of the friend who failed your father?" he said at last, but Dorothy could not remember.

"Was it Pemberton?" he suggested.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Pemberton," said Dorothy. "At least, Dick said so."

"You don't happen to be _Addiscombe_ Graham's little daughter," he said with a queer look, "do you?"

"Father's name is Richard Addiscombe," said Dorothy doubtfully.

"Well, the best thing you can do now is to come home with me and get some breakfast," he said. "It is no use going to the Park, for I have just been to the station, and Miss Addiscombe was there, with all her luggage, going off to the Continent."

Poor Dorothy's heart sank like lead.

"Oh, dear!" she said, "then it's been no use. Poor father!" and her eyes filled with tears.

The gentleman did not speak, and in a few minutes they drove in at the gates of a beautiful country house, and he lifted her down and took her in with him, calling out "Elizabeth!"

A tall girl, about eighteen, came running to him, and after whispering to her for a minute, he left Dorothy in her charge, and went into the room where his wife was sitting.

"I thought you had gone to town?" she said.

[Sidenote: Mr. Lawrence's Mistake]

"Providentially, no," he said, so gravely that she looked surprised. "Do you remember Addiscombe Graham, dear?"

"Has anything happened to him?" said Mrs. Lawrence. "I have just been reading about him in the paper; all his life-saving appliances have had gold medals at the exhibition. What is it, Edward? Of course, I know you are a friend of his."

"A Judas sort of friend," said Mr. Lawrence. "Do you know what I've done? I've nearly landed him in the Bankruptcy Court. Pemberton told me a few weeks ago he had promised to give him some spare cash that would be loose at the end of the year, and I persuaded him to put it in something else. I said, 'Graham doesn't want it, he's simply _coining_ over his inventions,' and I thought it too. Now it appears he was _counting_ on that money to pull him through the expenses."

The tall girl took Dorothy upstairs to a beautiful bathroom, got her warm water, and asked if she would like a maid to do her hair.

After a little while she came for her again and took her into a very pretty room, where there was a dainty little table laid for breakfast.

"When you have finished," she said, "just lie on the sofa and rest. I am sorry I can't stay with you, but I must go and feed the peacocks."

Dorothy took a little toast and tea, but she did not feel so very hungry after all, and for a time was quite glad to lie down on the couch. Once or twice she got up and looked out of the window. Her girl hostess was moving across the lawn. She had evidently been feeding the peacocks, and was now gathering flowers. How pleasant all this wealth and comfort seemed to Dorothy! And then, by comparison, _she_ was feeling so miserable!

Everything was quite quiet in the house save for the telephone bell, which kept sounding in the hall. Then she heard Mr. Lawrence calling out: "Are you _there_? Look sharp! Yes, to-day. Money down! Do you understand?" Then he would ring off and call up some one else. Last of all his voice changed from a business tone to a very friendly one. "Are you there? What cheer, old chap? _That's_ all right! I'll see you through. Two o'clock, Holborn Restaurant."

Dorothy could not hear what was said on the other side. How surprised she would have been if she had known the last conversation was with her own father!

Then a very kind-looking lady came in and kissed her. "The motor is round," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen you, dear. We all admire your father very much."

Dorothy felt bewildered but followed her out, and there was a lovely motor, and her friend in it!

"You won't faint by the way this time," he said, "eh? Now, if you can keep your own counsel, little lady, you may hear some good news to-night."

They were tearing along the level road already, and almost in a flash, it seemed to Dorothy, they were passing the church of her own village.

"Oh, please let me get out!" she said to Mr. Lawrence in an agony. "If mother heard the motor she might think it was Miss Addiscombe, and be so disappointed. You have been kind, very, very kind, but I can't help thinking about father."

He let her out, and waving his hand, was soon off and out of sight. Dorothy walked slowly and sadly home. It seemed as if she had been away for _days_, and she was half afraid to go in, but to her surprise nothing seemed to have happened at all. Only Dick came rushing out, and, to her surprise, kissed her.

[Sidenote: A Heroine]

"I say, Dollie!" he began, "where _have_ you been? You gave me an awful fright. Don't tell any one I called you a brute."

"Is mother frightened?" said Dollie. "I--I meant to help, but I've done nothing."

"How could you help?" said Dick, surprised. "Mother stayed in bed; she is only getting up now."

A boy came up with a telegram. Dick took it and after holding it a moment tore it open.

"Oh, Dick!" expostulated Dorothy, "opening mother's telegram!"

But Dick threw his cap high up in the air, and shouted "_Jubilate!_" Then he rushed up the stairs, Dorothy timidly following.

This was the wire:

"_See daylight. Meeting Lawrence at Holborn Restaurant._--FATHER."

"Don't shut Dorothy out," said Mrs. Graham, holding the yellow paper, and with tears of joy standing in her eyes. "Why, my little girl, how pale you are! I wish I had not told you. You need never have known. Mr. Lawrence is just the man."

"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, springing into her arms, and beginning to laugh and cry at once, yet happier than she had ever been in her life before. "But if you hadn't told me it couldn't have happened."

When Mr. Lawrence and father came down together that evening and the whole story was told, Dorothy, to her surprise, found when thinking least about herself she had suddenly become a heroine, even in the eyes of Dick.

[Sidenote: A very unusual hunting episode, that nearly ended in a tragedy.]

A Strange Moose Hunt

BY

HENRY WILLIAM DAWSON

Some years ago, while living in Canada, in a village situated on the bank of a large river, I was a spectator of a moose hunt of a most novel and exciting character.

That you may the better understand what I am going to relate I will first introduce you to our village Nimrod.

As his real name is no concern of ours I will here give him his popular nickname of "Ramrod," a name by which he was well known not only in our village but for a considerable distance around. It was conferred upon him, I suppose, because he walked so upright and stiff, and also perhaps because he at one time had worn the Queen's uniform.

A queer old stick was Ramrod. He knew a little of most mechanical things and was for ever tinkering at something or other, useful or otherwise as the case might be. He could also "doctor" a sick cow or dog, and was even known to have successfully set the broken leg of an old and combative rooster.

His mechanical turn of mind was continually leading him to the construction of the most wonderful arrangements of wood and iron ever seen. In fact, his operations in this direction were only held in check by one want, but that a great one, namely, the want of a sufficiency of cash.

[Sidenote: A Mystery]

Now for the greater part of one spring Ramrod had shut himself up in his woodshed, and there he was heard busy with hammer and saw all day long, except when called forth by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the door of his shop, where almost anything might have been purchased.

Many were the guesses as to "what can Ramrod be up to now?" And often did we boys try to catch a glimpse of what was going on within that mysterious shed; but in vain. Ramrod seemed to be always on the alert, and the instant an intrusive boy's head appeared above the first dusty pane of the small window by which the shed was lighted, it was greeted with a fierce and harsh gar-r-ar-r-r, often accompanied with a dash of cold water, which the old fellow always seemed to have in readiness.

But one day as a lot of youngsters were down on the river bank preparing for an early swim they were startled by the advent of another lad, who, with scared looks and awful voice, declared that Ramrod was "making his own coffin," and that he, the boy, had seen it with his own eyes.

The rumour spread, and many were the visits paid that afternoon to the little shop by the river.

But Ramrod kept his secret well, and baffled curiosity had to return as wise as it came. Ramrod was determined that his work should not be criticised until completed. He had evidently heard the saying that "women, children, and fools should not be allowed to see a thing until finished."

At last one day the great work _was_ completed, and turned out to be, not a coffin, but what the happy builder called a boat. But to call it a boat was a misnomer, for the thing was to be propelled not by oars but by a paddle.

And certainly through all the ages since the construction of the ark of Noah was never such a boat as this. It would be impossible to convey in words a true idea of what the craft was like. Perhaps to take an ordinary boat, give it a square stern, a flat bottom without a keel, and straight sides tapering to a point at the bow, would give an approximate idea of what the thing actually was, and also how difficult to navigate.

The winter had been unusually uneventful. Nothing had happened to break the cold monotony of our village life, so that when one day an excited and panting individual rushed up the river bank screaming out "A moose, a moose in the river!" it was only natural that we should all be thrown into a state of ferment.

Some who possessed firearms rushed off to get them out, while others ran along the bank seeking a boat.

As, however, the ice having only just "run," the boats and punts ordinarily fringing the river were still all up in the various barns and sheds where they had been stowed at the close of navigation, their efforts were in vain, and they could only stand fuming and casting longing eyes at the now retreating moose.

For of course the animal had turned as soon as he perceived the hubbub which his appearance under such unusual circumstances had created. Instead, therefore, of crossing the river, it now made for an island which was about half a mile out in the stream.

It had a good distance to swim, however, before it could accomplish that, and in the meantime preparations were being made a short way up the river which promised serious trouble for Mr. Moose.

Of course, you may be sure that Ramrod had caught the excitement with the rest of us, and was equally desirous of the capture of the moose. But he was a modest man and would let others have a chance first.

After a little while, though, when it became evident that unless something was done pretty soon the moose would escape, it was noticed that he became graver, and that his face wore a puzzled look of uncertainty.

[Sidenote: Ramrod's "Coffin"]

All at once, however, the doubt vanished, and Ramrod started off towards his house as fast as his long stiff legs would carry him.

When he emerged he bore in one hand an ordinary rope halter, with a noose at one end, just such a halter as was used by all the farmers for securing their horses to their stalls. In his other hand was a paddle, and with these harmless-looking implements he was about to start in chase of the moose.

Quickly proceeding to the river bank, he drew out from beneath a clump of bushes the "coffin," and, unheeding alike the warnings of the elders and derisive shouts of the youngsters, elicited by the appearance of his curious-looking craft, he knelt down in the stern and set out on his perilous adventure.

But he had not gone far before it was seen that something was wrong.

The boat had a will of its own, and that will was evidently exerted in direct opposition to the will of its owner.

It went, but how? No schoolboy ever drew a truer circle with a bit of string and a slate-pencil than that cranky craft made on the placid surface of the river each time Ramrod put a little extra strength into his stroke.

At last, however, the gallant boatman managed to make headway, and, aided by the current, he now rapidly approached the moose, which was considerably distressed by the great length of its swim.

But the instant the animal became aware that it was being pursued, it redoubled its efforts to gain the island, which was not very distant. And this it would have succeeded in doing had it not been for the almost herculean exertions of Ramrod, by which it was eventually headed up stream again.

And now a stern chase up and down and across the river ensued. It really did not last long, though it seemed hours to us who were watching from the bank.

Just as Ramrod thought he had made sure of the moose this time, and dropping his paddle would seize the halter to throw over the head of the animal, the latter would make a sudden turn, and before the baffled hunter could regain command of his boat, would be well on his way down stream again.

All this time the crowd collected on the bank were greatly concerned about Ramrod's safety.

They saw, what he did not, that the affair would end in his getting a ducking at the very least. But worse than that was feared, as, once overturned, the miserable conception of a boat would be beyond the power of any one in the water to right it again. And, moreover, the water was still intensely cold, and a very few minutes would have sufficed to give the cramp to a much stronger man than Ramrod.

Perceiving all this, some of the more energetic had from the first bestirred themselves in preparations for launching a boat.

But this occupied some time, for, as I have said, the boats usually to be seen fringing the bank during the summer months had not yet made their appearance. Oars also and tholepins had to be hunted up, and by the time all this was accomplished the need of help out there on the river was very urgent indeed.

Plenty of pluck had Ramrod, or he would have given up the chase when he found himself becoming so exhausted, by the tremendous exertion necessary to keep control of his cranky craft, that he had scarcely sufficient strength left to follow the deer in its many dodges and turnings.

But strong as the moose was, its time had come. Suddenly the animal stopped, gave a scream that made the blood curdle in all our veins, and would have sunk out of sight only that, with a last desperate effort, Ramrod got up with it, and this time succeeded in throwing the halter over its head and drawing the noose tight.

[Sidenote: An Upset]

Thoroughly exhausted as the moose appeared to be, this act of Ramrod's roused it to make one more effort for life and freedom. Turning quickly about and snorting furiously, it made for its assailant, and before Ramrod could check it had capsized the boat and sent that worthy head over heels into the water.

Presence of mind is a splendid quality, and Ramrod possessed it to the full. Retaining his hold of the halter, he endeavoured to right the boat, but soon perceiving the impossibility of so doing, he relinquished the attempt, and being a good swimmer, boldly struck out for the island, that being the nearest land.

Refreshed by his involuntary bath, and not yet feeling the effects of the cold, Ramrod made no doubt but that he should easily accomplish the task.

As for the moose, it was completely done up, and was now no more trouble than a log of wood. The effort by which it had overturned the boat was the last it made, and its captor was now quietly towing it ashore.

But cold water does not agree with all constitutions, especially if the body has been fatigued and heated before its application.

Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt that only by a miracle could he do so.

Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart.

At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he commended his soul to his Maker.

At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly hand grasped him under the arm.

With his last little bit of strength he raised his hand, still grasping the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness.

The "coffin" was brought ashore afterwards, but no one had the hardihood to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull at the oars.

Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he intended it for when he built it.

Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and mention of "Ramrod's coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face of even the most grave.

The moose, when brought ashore, proved to be quite young, though full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds."

[Sidenote: Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part. But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own reward.]

A Girl's Patience

BY