Chapter III: Part 3

The scene that followed resembled a street riot, rather than the solemn proceedings of a court room. Men, wild with excitement, mounted their chairs, women rose in their seats, pushing, jostling, and crowding each other in their frantic efforts to get a better view of the highly sensational proceedings. The confusion was indescribable, the noise deafening. Not until McWhorter was seen to spring to his feet did the court officers' vigorous rapping and loud cries for order produce any effect. Instantly all was silence. Rigid suspense held the spectators breathless. With the light they had missed in his eye and the fire they had longed for in his voice the young lawyer spoke, addressing the judge:

"May it please the court,--nice customs must bow to desperate needs. When a man is called upon to face in defence of a woman's life such odds as I found in this case, when he sees justice outwitted by the devil's trick,--circumstantial evidence,--he must resort to the devil's weapon,--cunning. Such evidence as has been here given has hanged many a man, and I believe that when a man of any heart, any soul, any chivalry, sees that it is likely to hang a woman it becomes his duty to combat fate as the defence has done in this case.

"I ask your honor, I ask the jury, I ask the witnesses, to look upon these two women. As they stand there side by side, there is a marked difference in their heights, a decided difference in the color of their hair, a striking difference in the color of their eyes, a very perceptible difference, even at this distance, in the tone of their skin; and, I may add, a difference of eight years in their ages. The woman who has just been pronounced guilty of murder is the wife of a gentleman who throughout this trial has sat within the shadow of the jury. She is innocent, as God is my judge. Every moment of her life up to this very instant can be accounted for. In substituting her to-day for the real prisoner, the defence had no desire to circumvent justice. We merely wished to save this court, this community, from the everlasting shame of hanging a woman whose guilt has not been proved. We wished to show to your honor and to these gentlemen of the jury that it is monstrous to accept as conclusive such evidence as has been given in this case. May it please your honor, this jury has just pronounced a verdict of 'guilty' against my own wife. I move that here and now this verdict be set aside."

The request was granted, and, although McWhorter was charged with unprofessional conduct and threatened with disbarment, his client was promptly acquitted on the new trial which the court ordered.

FOR THE SAKE OF TOODLEUMS

"Now, Bert, listen," said Mrs. Rodney, taking her brother into full confidence. "I want to talk to you. Tom is really the best husband that ever was. Of course I've never had another husband, but just think how he adores our baby--our Toodleums!"

Bert Loring glanced at his sister's face to gather that the last remark was as a gold seal on her husband's virtues. She was young, pretty, and winsome. She was also Loring's only sister. Nevertheless he rubbed his chin a trifle doubtfully, for Rodney was a sad failure in a business sense.

"Oh, well," he returned at last. "Since you say so, I presume that settles the matter. You ought to know, Mary. Personally, I've nothing against Tom."

"No," she affirmed decisively. "No one could help liking Tom. He's just the most lovable fellow imaginable, so generous and kind-hearted toward every one."

"Um--er--Oh yes!" nodded the brother. "There's no question about Tom's generosity."

He was thinking of the last occasion when he chanced upon Tom downtown. With great cordiality Tom invited him to lunch. It was a capital lunch, too, nothing wanting, only--somehow Tom found it was unfortunately necessary to borrow five dollars to pay for it. He had forgotten to drop in at his bankers, By Golly! That was a joke on Tom, at which he laughed in the utmost good nature. His wife was quite right when she spoke of his kindly disposition toward every one. The waiter's smile bore witness to it, when helping to adjust Tom's overcoat. Loring went out with his overcoat collar bracing his ears. So much for the waiter's discernment.

"But, you see, Bert," explained Mrs. Rodney, "Tom's only drawback is that he has never been given a chance to prove what he is really worth. He's wonderfully bright."

"As bright as a new five-dollar gold piece," subconsciously acquiesced the brother. He was still thinking of the lunch.

"And ambitious for bigger things," added Mrs. Rodney.

"I don't doubt it," nodded her brother. It occurred to him that Tom was capable of _ordering_ a mighty fine dinner.

"Then, Bert, why don't you get him a good position in your insurance office?"

"What!" he cried. "Pardon me, Mary, I didn't quite--"

"Hush!" she laid a finger on her lips. "Don't be so noisy, Bert. You'll wake Toodleums. Yes," she went on in an undertone, "a good position in your insurance office. One in which Tom could shine and Toodleums feel proud of his Dada. You know how attached you are to Toodleums--the precious!"

"Yes, but you see, Mary," her brother began to protest, "the shining positions in our office are pretty well all occupied. I don't glitter much yet, and I've been years climbing up from the bottom."

"But Tom is so brilliant--such a fine talker," declared Mrs. Rodney enthusiastically. "If he were once given the chance he would jump right up to the top. Everybody likes him."

"Well, our president has been pretty good to me," he remarked. "I'd really hate to see him lose his job--I mean within the next few weeks--even on Tom's account."

"Bert, don't be ridiculous and sarcastic. Toodleums--the love--does not like people who are sarcastic."

"No, probably not. But honestly, Mary, you must see what I mean. If I got Tom a position in our office, he would have to take his chance with the rest. But, as you say, he is a good talker, and might do pretty well in outside work."

"Then you will introduce him to your president?"

Her face lit up with pride at the success of her plan to obtain a position for her husband.

"I'll put him in line to show what he's made of. That's all I can promise at present."

"Then you may kiss Toodleums," she added by way of great reward.

She rose and moved softly toward a lace ruffled and beribboned shrine.

"And be careful, Bert," she enjoined, "you don't stumble over something and wake the sweetest. You are so clumsy in comparison with Tom."

Loring faithfully kept the promise to his sister. He first spoke with Tom, pointing out the excellent chances for a good talker in the insurance business, and the agreeable nature of outside work. For the right man it might lead to the confidence of millionaires, and the friendship of United States Senators. Tom was quite enthusiastic.

"Just the thing," he cried, slapping Loring on the shoulder. "The very position I've been looking for. Don't worry about the beginning at the bottom of the ladder idea. I'll climb up hand over fist. You watch me."

So Loring introduced his brother-in-law to the chief of the proper department, and with him Tom talked with much enthusiasm of purpose. He was finally told to report the next morning, when full instructions would be given. He was in such high feather on the way home that he bought a silver rattle for Toodleums--on credit.

His conference with the chief of his department the next morning was satisfactory in all respects. He appeared to grasp quickly the details of the various insurance policies, and spoke confidently of what he intended to do with the list of prominent citizens he was instructed to call upon.

"Mr. Vandermorgan. Sure! I'll touch him for a one hundred thousand dollar policy right away. If I clean him up before lunch, I guess that would be doing something."

"I guess it would," agreed the chief, who knew how for many months they had fished unsuccessfully for Mr. Vandermorgan.

So Tom gathered up his papers and strode briskly out of the office. He took the elevator with the air of a man who talked in nothing less than six figures. Then he went out and walked around the block. When he came back to the majestic portals of the Long Life Building he paused to reflect. An idea seemed to occur to him. That it was a corking idea, the pleased expression on his face indicated. He again took the elevator, and was shot up to the floor on which his brother-in-law's office was located.

"Hello, Bert!" he greeted, looking in at the door.

"Hello, Tom! How's business? How are you getting along?"

"Fine! Just going out to tackle Vandermorgan."

"Good! Hope you'll land him."

"Yes," Tom proceeded, drawing a chair up to his brother-in-law's desk, and spreading out his papers. "But I thought I'd have a talk with you first."

"Well, go ahead. Glad to help out in any way possible."

"Yes, that's just what I thought. Now, see here, Bert, how about your taking out one of our ten-thousand-dollar policies?"

"What!" cried Loring, falling back in his chair. "Man alive! What on earth do I want with a ten-thousand-dollar policy?"

"That's the point. That's just what I want to talk to you about," argued Tom complacently. "Every man ought to provide for the comfort and happiness of his wife after his death. That's about how the chief said I might begin."

"But you know I haven't got a wife," protested Loring.

"Well, that doesn't alter the case. Those near and dear to you will do as well," went on Tom sympathetically. "Those attached to you by the strongest ties."

"By the strongest ties?" questioned Loring.

"Sure! There are Mary and little Toodleums. As you are going to be Toodleums' godfather do it for the sake of Toodleums. I'll just fill out an application in his favor. Of course we'd hate for anything unfortunate to happen to you, but every man should make a suitable provision for those who are dear to him. The chief said that phrase usually catches on."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" ejaculated Loring.

"I sincerely hope not," fervently added Tom, as he prepared to fill out an application blank. "Shall we make it twenty or thirty thousand dollars?" he asked, looking up calmly.

"Make it five and then go and chase Vandermorgan," retorted Loring, fearful that worse might happen.

"All right. Five thousand dollars in favor of Toodleums. See you later, Bert," and with a smile Tom strolled out of Loring's office to deposit the signed application with the proper clerk. Suddenly he stopped, drew a pad and pencil from his pocket, and began figuring.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "not a bad beginning! My commission on that policy is just forty-one dollars and I landed it in less than an hour. That's three hundred and twenty-eight dollars a day, one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight dollars a week, and--"

His calculations were interrupted by Dick Willman, who grasped his hand and inquired: "How're you getting on, Tom, and where are you bound for? Bert tells me you've taken up life insurance."

"Congratulate me, old fellow. This very morning I dropped into a berth that pays me a hundred thousand a year. I'm through for to-day and am off for home to tell my wife. So long"--and Tom was gone.

He had not yet reached the elevator when he turned, called back to his friend, and going up to him, his face still wreathed in smiles, confided: "Dick, in my hurry to get down to business this morning I came away without even car fare. Loan me a five. Ah, thank you. And come have a bird and a bottle with me at the club to-morrow. Bye-bye," and once more Tom was on his way to carry the news to Mary.

"I knew it and always told people you would make good if you only had half a chance," interrupted his wife, as Tom triumphantly related his morning's success to her.

"Oh, yes," agreed the husband. "I know how to get there all right. By the way, how's Toodleums and how does he like his new rattle?"

IN HELL'S CAÑON

Adventurous prospectors who have followed the perilous trails over the Cabinet Mountains have, as a matter of course, heard of the Lost Lead, but only he who is a total stranger to fear has penetrated the chaotic wilderness of Hell's Cañon, and thus come suddenly upon the Grave of Gold. Four rude granite posts, connected by heavy log chains, enclose the spot. On the face of the giant bowlder that stands guard over the few square feet of sacred earth is carved:

THE LOST LEAD.
LOUIS GILBERT.
1860-1891.

This inscription marks the loneliest, yet richest, grave in the world.

Late in the spring of 1889, Louis Gilbert left his home in Kentucky for a visit to his uncle's mine in the Northwest. He had lung trouble, and the doctor had ordered an outdoor life. While his health improved, he became infected with another ailment, perhaps the only one to be caught at that altitude--the gold fever. Miners were his only associates, the talk was all of lodes, leads and drifts, and the only communication with the outside world was by the train of pack mules that carried the heavy ore sacks down the winding trail. So it was not surprising that his walks took the character of prospecting tours, and carried him farther and farther from camp. Late in October, when his visit was nearly over, he started with three days' food for a last trip, into new territory. From a conical mountain top about ten miles west of the mine, he had looked over a lower range of summits to a great expanse of wild and broken country that he had never explored.

The weather was like summer when he started, but thirty-six hours later, on the evening of the second day, a fierce snowstorm set in. By midnight, the first blizzard of the season was raging through the mountains. On the third day the storm still howled furiously, but searching parties were sent out with a faint hope of finding the young prospector before the trails became entirely impassable. In the dim twilight of the afternoon they returned one by one, almost worn out, convinced that the body of the missing man would not be found till the warm winds of spring should melt away the drifts. Yet, as a humane precaution, lights were kept burning all night in cabin windows, and, guided by one of them, Louis Gilbert staggered into camp and fell like a dead man before the messroom door. He was taken from the snow, wrapped in blankets and laid before a blazing fire. When he showed signs of life he was given hot drinks and put to bed. His prospector's belt dropped to the floor like lead, and when opened was found to be stuffed with nuggets of virgin gold.

In the fever that followed, Gilbert talked deliriously of his long struggle through the blinding drifts, hungry, cold and aching for the sleep which would mean death, yet forcing himself onward with the blizzard at his back as his only guide. The amazing richness of his find had given him the strength that saved his life.

Finally he opened his eyes with the old look and told in detail the story of his wonderful discovery. On the east side of a stream, in a cañon so terribly wild and broken that it was almost impassable, he had found the gold on the very surface of a ledge.

Filling his belt, he had started to blaze his way back, when the storm came down with frightful violence. The rest of the journey was simply a horrible nightmare.

As nothing could be done while the snow lasted, Gilbert returned to Kentucky for the winter, yet could think of nothing but his discovery. He had found a fortune, had even put his hands upon it, and knew it was his whenever he could stake off his claim and take possession. He spent his time in making a chart of the stream he had followed on which he set down every detail he could recall of the eastern bank, along which he had travelled.

Early the following spring he was back at his uncle's mine, waiting impatiently for the snow to melt and be carried away by the swollen streams. Finally, after a tedious delay, he set out with a small party of miners all eager to have a hand in locating the rich prospect.

"Hell's Cañon!" exclaimed the foreman, as, skirting Cone Top Mountain, Gilbert pointed out the way. One of the men, a Mexican, declined to go any farther with the party, and the foreman explained to the wondering Gilbert:

"The Mexicans give Hell's Cañon a wide berth. They say that one of them found a big treasure there, and then lost it and his life in some uncanny way. They found his bones though, next summer. Knew 'em by his divining rod, that he clung to even in death."

On the second day Gilbert and his companions found the stream, which fought its way among the upturned rocks, cavernous gorges and fallen logs. At the sight of it Gilbert eagerly led the search along the east bank, and every spot was carefully searched. But the bowlder, the two dead trees--every other characteristic landmark on Gilbert's chart--could not be found. All search was vain. The map was not that of the locality they were in--as Gilbert himself was obliged to admit.

During that summer Gilbert led out four other searching parties, but never got any nearer the lost lead. Then he again went South for the winter. When he next returned it was with a flushed cheek that contrasted horribly with his pale, pinched look and steadily failing strength. In spite of all disappointments, he was still hopeful, and to humor him his uncle's miners occasionally made excursions into the maze of peaks and gulches.

One morning, late in the season, Gilbert asked for one more chance to solve the mystery of Hell's Cañon. He had had a dream, he said enthusiastically, that this time he would be successful. The miners did not put much faith in dreams, but, for his uncle's sake, and because it was recalled that this was the second anniversary of the great discovery, they made up a party and started out in the usual direction. Although they moved slowly, the young man's feebleness increased until it became necessary to carry him on a litter made of boughs. This delayed them even more, and it was late on the third day before they reached the stream. At the sight of the dashing water, Gilbert's strength appeared to rally, and, sitting up, he directed them to cross to the west bank. At this strange order the bearers exchanged significant glances and called the rest of the party. They all believed that with a brief return of physical strength the young man's mind had broken down. The one point on which he had always been most positive--that the vein was on the eastern bank of the stream--he had now abandoned. It was evident to them that the lost lead would never be found.

But it was time to camp for the night, and the west bank was much more sheltered. With much difficulty, bracing themselves against the stones, they carried the litter across the swift current. Selecting a site sheltered by a huge bowlder, the men sent in advance to pitch camp began with picks to clear a spot for the tent. With a ring that could not be mistaken the steel struck the rock. The men gave a great cheer. Gilbert raised himself on his litter when it was brought up, and gazed excitedly at the great bowlder and its surroundings, which had come to him so vividly in that prophetic death-dream--his last on earth.

"The Lost Lead!" he cried in a triumphant tone, and then adding in a weak voice, "Bury me here, boys," he sank back--dead.

_Spring freshets had changed the torrent's course, and the east bank had become the west!_

They buried Louis Gilbert with the treasure he had never possessed, and while the rich mine became known in financial circles as "The Lost Lead," yet old miners themselves speak of it only as "The Grave of Gold."

THE MYSTERY OF THE THIRTY MILLIONS[1]

[Footnote 1: This story was written in collaboration with T. F. Anderson.]

At eight o'clock on the morning of March 14, the Anglo-American liner, the _Oklahoma_, left her dock in North River on her regular trip to Southampton.

The fact of her departure, ordinarily of merely local interest, was telegraphed all over the United States and Canada, and even to London itself; for there was a significance attached to this particular trip such as had never before marked the sailing of an ocean steamship from these shores.

It was not because the great vessel numbered among her crowd of passengers a well-known English duke and his young bride, the grand-niece of a world-famous New York railroad magnate, that her sailing was heralded by such a blowing of trumpets, nor because she also had upon her lists the names of the august British ambassador to the United States, returning home on a brief furlough, the noted French tragedian, fresh from his American triumphs, and a score of other illustrious personages whose names were household words in a dozen countries.

The presence of all these notables was merely incidental. What made this trip of the _Oklahoma_ an event of international interest was the fact that at this, the apparent climax of the great gold exporting movement from the United States, now continued until it had almost drained the national treasury of its precious yellow hoard, and had precipitated a commercial crisis such as never before had been experienced, the _Oklahoma_ was taking to the shores of insatiate John Bull the largest lump amount of gold ever shipped upon a single vessel within the memory of man.

Not even in the memorable gold exporting year of 1893 had any such sum as this been sent abroad at one time.

It was not the usual paltry half million or million dollars that she was carrying away in her great strong room of steel and teak wood, but thirty million dollars' worth of shining eagles and glinting bars, hastily called across the ocean because of the adverse "balance of trade" and the temporary mistrust of American securities by the fickle Europeans.

The mere insurance premium on this vast sum was in itself a comfortable fortune. Business men wondered why such a large amount was intrusted to one steamer. Suppose she should collide in the fog and sink, as one great ship had done only a few weeks before--what would become of the insurance companies then?

Suppose some daring Napoleon of crime should hatch a startling conspiracy to seize the steamer, intimidate the crew and passengers, and possess himself of the huge treasure? "It would be a stake well worth long risks," thought some of the police officials, as they read the headlines in the evening papers.

The _Oklahoma_ was a fast sailer. Her five hundred feet of length and her twelve thousand tons of displacement were made light work of by the great clanking, triple-expansion engines when their combined force of fifteen thousand horse power was brought to bear upon her twin screws. Under ordinary conditions she ought to have made port on the other side in time to let her passengers eat late dinner on the sixth day out. Incoming steamers reported a brief spell of nasty weather in mid-ocean, however, and so her failure to reach Southampton on the sixth and even the seventh day was not particularly remarked.

The great American public had been busy with other weighty matters in the interim, including a threatened secession of the silver-producing States; and the departure of this modern argosy with her precious freight had almost passed into history. For history in that year was anything that had happened farther than a week back--a day, if it was not of overwhelming importance.

If the big ship's arrival had been cabled on the eighth day, or even early on the ninth, it would still have found the public in a comparatively calm state of mind, for the mid-Atlantic storm would naturally account for a multitude of lost hours; but when the ninth lapped over onto the tenth and the tenth onto the eleventh and twelfth, with no tidings of the tardy steamer, surprise grew into anxiety and anxiety into an international sensation.

Of course all sorts of plausible theories were advanced by the steamship agents, the newspapers, and other oracles, including that of the inevitable broken shaft; and these might have sufficed for a day or two longer had it not been for another and much more startling theory that suddenly came to the surface and threw two continents into a fever of trepidation and suspense.

It was the following announcement in a leading New York morning paper that roused excitement to fever heat: "A new and most astounding phase has come over the case of the mysteriously missing _Oklahoma_. It has just been given out from police headquarters that 'Gentleman Jim' Langwood, the noted cracksman and forger, whose ten years' sentence at Sing Sing expired only a few weeks ago, was in the city several days previous to the sailing of the _Oklahoma_ and went with her as a passenger, under an assumed name. Even at that very time the central office detectives were looking for him, as a tip had been sent around that he was up to some new deviltry. One of those clever people whom nothing ever escapes had seen him go aboard almost at the last minute, and gave an accurate description of his personal appearance, which was evidently but slightly disguised.

"Langwood is probably the only criminal in the country who would ever conceive and try to execute such a stupendous undertaking, and it is something more than a suspicion on the part of the New York police that he has smuggled on board a couple of dozen well-armed desperadoes, who could easily hold the entire crew and passengers in check and make them do their bidding, for a time, at least. The idea is so replete with thrilling possibilities that the entire community stands aghast at it."

It is to be noted that the public always "stands aghast" in such a case as this; but it is more to the point just now to say that the article went on, through a column or more, to describe in minute detail the circumstances attendant upon the departure of "Gentleman Jim" even to the number and shape of the bundles he had in his arms. The famous robber was very boyish in appearance, and one of the last persons in the world whom a chance acquaintance would think of looking up in the rogues' gallery. Evidently he was "out for the stuff," in most approved stage villain style, with more millions in the stake than even Colonel Sellers, of nineteenth century fame, had ever dreamed of. Of course this theory, which was already accepted as a fact, especially in police and newspaper circles, was quickly cabled across, and created such a profound sensation on the other side that even the London papers had to give it that prominent position which is usually reserved for American cyclones, crop failures, and labor outbreaks.

Upon the phlegmatic British government it acted much like an electric shock and nearly threw the foreign office into a panic; for was not the British minister plenipotentiary himself a passenger on the ill-fated _Oklahoma_, and possibly at that very hour being butchered in cold blood by a lot of Yankee cut-throats?

The thought was too horrible for a moment's endurance, and forthwith the cablegrams began to flash thick and fast between the foreign office and the British legation at Washington.

The result was that, within a few hours after the appearance of the paragraph, one of the fastest and most powerful of her majesty's cruisers, quickly followed by a second and a third, hastily steamed from Portsmouth Roads, the three spreading out north, west, and south, like a great marine fan, as they hurried to the rescue of the _Oklahoma_ and the British ambassador.

Meanwhile, at the Boston, Brooklyn, and League Island navy yards three or four of Uncle Sam's white war dogs were getting up steam for a similar errand, and a small fleet of ocean-going steamers, specially chartered by New York, Boston, and Chicago newspapers to go in search of the absent leviathan, were already threading their way through the Narrows.

Not for years had there been such world-wide interest in an ocean expedition. The newspapers commanded an unheard of sale, for everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation concerning the fate of the missing steamer, her six hundred passengers and her thirty millions of gold.

While the public was thus feverishly awaiting the news, certain discoveries were being made by the New York police, which only went to confirm their previous suspicions. Four or five other hardened graduates from state prison were found to be absent from their accustomed haunts in the East Side slums, although known to have been in the city just before the _Oklahoma_ sailed, as was "Gentleman Jim," himself.

These discoveries had their natural effect upon the public mind, and the friends of those on board the steamer began to despair of hearing that even human life had been respected by the piratical band.

As to the British foreign office, this cumulative evidence threw it into a perfect frenzy, and it was only by a miracle that a declaration of war against the United States was averted.

Three days passed by after the departure of the big searching fleets, during which time all incoming steamers reported that they had not found a single trace of the _Oklahoma_ either in the northern or southern route. Vessels from the Mediterranean, the West Indies, South America, all made the same ominous report.

The tension was terrible. Thousands could not even sleep on account of the mental strain, and the minds of some of the weaker actually gave way beneath it. The public by this time was convinced beyond a reasonable shadow of doubt that the robbers had successfully carried out their fiendish plan; but how? and when? and where?

When they opened their newspapers on the morning of the eighteenth day of suspense, they found the answer to the question, and the greatest marine mystery of centuries was solved.

In the small hours of the night there had flashed across the European continent, and under the dark waters of the Atlantic, this startling message from the representative of the _Union Press Association_:--

"Lisbon, April 1,--The missing _Oklahoma_ is disabled at Fayal, Azores, where she was discovered by the _Union Press_ special expedition. Many of the half-starved crew and passengers are on the verge of insanity. The officers tell a most astounding story of the steamer's exciting and almost fatal adventures. On the third night out, the _Oklahoma_ suddenly came under some mysterious but irresistible influence by which she was carried rapidly out of her course towards the south. Every effort was made by the officers to bring the ship back to her course, but the big liner seemed drifting helplessly at the mercy of some powerful current. The compasses were useless, and the wheel no longer exercised the slightest control over the steamer's movements.

"Naturally the anxiety of the officers was in no way diminished when on the morning of the next day, which was then the fourth day out, another vessel,--a long low-setting craft of shining steel,--was discovered off the _Oklahoma's_ starboard bow, about a mile ahead, but moving in the same direction. By careful observations it was discovered that the course of the two steamers was identical. Both were apparently under the same mysterious influence. Instead of sighting a rescuer, the _Oklahoma_ had, so it seemed, only discovered another victim of the irresistible current!

"Time and again the _Oklahoma_ attempted to signal the companion ship, but the latter made no reply. Close observation revealed that she was built on the whaleback principle, with nothing above decks save ventilators and signal mast,--but failed to discover any sign of human beings.

"By afternoon their continued failure to bring the liner back to her course had so wrought upon the minds of her officers that their anxiety infected the spirits of the passengers, who were now aroused to the real danger that menaced them.

"When the fifth day dawned, with the _Oklahoma_ hundreds of miles out of the regular transatlantic course, the gravity of the situation could no longer be concealed. Distress signals were kept flying, and all possible steam was put on with the idea of overhauling the companion ship and giving or receiving aid. To the amazement of both officers and passengers, however, in spite of every effort, the _Oklahoma_ failed to gain a single inch on the other vessel. Before they had time to attempt an explanation of this remarkable fact, amazement gave way to consternation. For just a moment a third vessel had appeared on the horizon like a messenger of hope; but no sooner had she been sighted than with the swiftness of lightning the mysterious companion craft turned half around and darted away to the southeast, with the _Oklahoma_ following as helplessly as though she were in tow.

"In that moment the awful truth was revealed. The steel vessel was nothing more nor less than a floating loadstone, which by some mysterious power was dragging the great ocean monster hither and thither as easily as a magnet draws a toy ship from one side to the other of a mimic pond!

"Who was she, and what was her motive? Almost before those on board had asked the question, the answer flashed upon them. The thirty millions of gold! Beyond a doubt, it was their capture which she was planning to accomplish, either by luring the _Oklahoma_ from the regular path of ocean travel, and looting her and her passengers at leisure, or by compelling her to run aground upon some remote rock or shoal.

"With this revelation a new horror unveiled itself. Equipped as they were only with the supplies for a short trip across the Atlantic, the overwrought minds of many saw starvation looming up before them. That night not a soul sought his berth. From time to time consultations were held between the chief officers, and many-colored rockets spit and blazed their signals of distress incessantly across the sky.

"At length, soon after dawn of the sixth day, orders were given to bank fires and hoist sail in the hope that the _Oklahoma_ as a sailing vessel might free herself from the awful influence that chained her.

"But the effort was vain. Wind and sail proved as useless as wheel and compass against the fatal power of that mysterious craft which drew the _Oklahoma_ after her as irresistibly as though the two vessels were united by an unseen hawser.

"The steamer had now become a scene of indescribable horror. Mealtime, bedtime,--all the customary routine was disorganized; and daily prayer meetings were conducted among the more emotional of the passengers.

"Finally, seven days after she had left New York, the officers of the big liner united in one last desperate effort to offset the magnetic influence of the mysterious 'pirate.' The fires were revived in the engine room, the steam pressure in all the boilers was run up to the 'blowing off' point; then, suddenly, the reversing mechanism was applied and a shudder ran through the great floating city as the twin screws began to back water.

"For a few minutes there ensued a titanic tug of war such as the beholders had never before witnessed. The water astern was lashed into a lather of foam, and for a brief moment the triumph of steam over magnetism seemed assured.

"Only for a moment, however, for the cheer that had ascended from the anxious scores on the deck of the _Oklahoma_ when she slowly began to back had scarcely died away when with a mighty crash a vital section of the overtaxed engines gave way, followed by a hoarse yell of consternation from the excited engineers and stokers--and both screws were helpless and still.

"With this failure hope was well-nigh extinguished; and the _Oklahoma_, with her precious freight and her six hundred and forty-three human souls, abandoned all active effort to escape. With not a sail of any kind in sight, she passively rolled and plunged south-ward for seven days after her strange and terrible pilot, from which, to add to the horror of the situation, no human sign had yet been given. The supply of rockets was now exhausted, and food was doled out in minute portions as to members of a ship-wrecked crew in order to husband supplies.

"On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, when the exhausted passengers had reached the verge of distraction, a gleam of hope appeared on the horizon in the shape of a solitary steamer, bearing down from the southwest. A glance through the telescope proved her to be a fast and formidable British cruiser, evidently en route from South America to England.

"At this news a mighty shudder, half of hope, half of fear, seized the crowd assembled upon the deck. Would the British cruiser come to their assistance, and if so, would she, too, become a victim of the magnetic craft? For a moment their fate hung in the balance; then from three hundred throats rang out a hoarse cry of joy as the mysterious craft swerved, turned sharply and shot away over the surface of the Atlantic due north.

"The spell was broken. The big liner with her six hundred human souls and thirty millions in gold was freed from the power that had for so long held her captive. But crippled as she was by the accident to her machinery she was unable to proceed unaided, and was taken in tow by the British steamer, the _Midlothian_, and a day later was brought safely into port at Fayal.

"The _Union Press_ steamer is the first to bring the thrilling news. The first officer of the _Oklahoma_ and the saloon passengers, including Sir Gambrel Roufe, the British ambassador, accompanied your correspondent to Lisbon. A relief steamer is urgently needed, as the _Oklahoma's_ engines are both disabled, and she will not be able to proceed for several weeks.

"The passenger thought to be 'Gentleman Jim' Langwood, proves to be the Duke of Medfordshire, now on his wedding trip with his young millionaire American bride."

Hardly had the excitement caused by this startling intelligence subsided, when it was once more aroused by a despatch from Providence, R. I., announcing the capture in the act of robbing a jewelry store of "Gentleman Jim" Langwood, and a gang of four other oldtimers, and by the following even more important cablegram from the Russian representative of the _Union Press_:--

"St. Petersburg, April 2.--The identity of the mysterious craft by which the _Oklahoma_ was drawn from her course has been established beyond a doubt. The vessel is a Hypnotic Cruiser, recently completed by a Russian inventor, named Slobodenski, and possessed of an electric apparatus by which any vessel can be brought completely under its control.

"Whether the Hypnotic Cruiser's bedevilment of the _Oklahoma_ was merely a trial of power, or whether plunder was intended, can only be surmised. But naval lawyers say that this marvelous new invention will revolutionize naval warfare and necessitate the passage of stringent laws to cover a crime for which at present no penalty exists."

ASLEEP AT LONE MOUNTAIN

It occurred nearly fourteen years ago, yet I never enter a sleeping-car without being confronted by that innocent face. It clings to me all the more because I have always looked upon partings and leave-takings as mile-posts of sorrow in the journeys of life. I dislike good-bys. I hate farewells.

I had just returned from Australia and was about to start on my journey across the continent. In company with two old friends who had crossed the ferry from San Francisco to Oakland to see me off, I sat chatting in my sleeper, when two Sisters of Mercy hurriedly entered the car.

Just what it was in the appearance of the newcomers that arrested the attention of the earlier arrivals--whether it was their humble yet characteristic attire, so suggestive of charity the whole world over, the apparent anxiety betrayed by their manner, or the fact that a sleeping child, clasped tenderly in the arms of one, was their sole companion--whether it was any or all of these things that caused a sudden reign of respectful silence in the car, I am unable to say. Certain it is, however, that their coming was not unnoticed; neither was the circumstance that the only visible baggage of the trio consisted of a small square bundle neatly done up in a gray shawl.

Upon being shown to seats in the section directly opposite the one occupied by myself and friends, they at once entered into earnest conversation with the sleeping-car conductor. At the first few whispered words the man's manner showed unmistakable surprise. He appeared either unable or unwilling to comply with some request they had made. Although the nature of the request was not apparent, the occupants of neighboring seats could not fail to note from the conversation, which now and then became quite audible, that it bore some important relation to the sleeping member of the party. The evident fact that the sisters felt much concerned respecting the safety and welfare of their youthful companion served only to increase the mystery of the situation.

After patiently listening for some minutes to appeals first from one and then the other, and after glancing over a railroad ticket and letter they had handed him, the conductor consented to meet their wishes, declining, however, to accept a sum of money they repeatedly tendered him. Before leaving them the man spoke a few words of reassurance and encouragement, which were cut short by the shrill whistle of the locomotive, announcing the train's departure. The sisters arose instantly, hastily expressed their earnest thanks to the conductor, and then, sinking upon their knees before the child, which had been aroused from its slumbers and sat innocently gazing about, first one and then the other clasped the infant in fond embrace, and, amid sobs and kisses, showered upon the little being the most fervent blessings and tender farewells. Then, covering their tearful faces with their hands, they arose, still weeping as though their hearts would break, and hurriedly left the car, which was already moving slowly out of the station.

No sooner had they gone than all eyes were directed towards the diminutive stranger who had caused the scene just witnessed. Too young to realize what was going on, he sat motionless, as though spellbound by fear or astonishment at his strange surroundings. In an instant the child became an object of intense curiosity. More than that, its extreme youth and utter helplessness aroused, on the part of its fellow-travelers, feelings of genuine sympathy and pity--feelings which the heroic silence maintained by the little innocent, in spite of the now swiftly moving train, only served to intensify.

Neither memory nor imagination can suggest to me a more touching picture than the one presented by that plainly clad handful of human loneliness, as it sat there in meek silence, its tiny hand timidly resting on the little bundle by its side, while its eyes remained intently fixed on the door which, a few moments before, had closed upon its late companions. Whose child was this? Who was to care for it? What was to become of it? Was one of the nuns a relative? Was the younger, perhaps, its sister? Or was either neither? These and similar questions could be easily read on the countenances of the wondering passengers.

Some minutes elapsed before the conductor again made his appearance, when he was at once besieged with questions concerning the mysterious stranger. And, as if determined that not a word should escape their ears, each of the twelve or fifteen occupants of the car crowded about him as he seated himself beside the lonely child.

The story they heard was brief and pathetic. The little boy was as much of a stranger to the conductor as he was to the passengers. His mother was dead. His home was in one of the smaller manufacturing towns of New England, where his father, who was to meet him on the arrival of our train at Omaha, lived in humble circumstances. The conductor had promised the sisters to protect and care for the child during the five days' journey. It was, however, not the little fellow's first trip across the plains, as nearly a year and a half ago, when but a few weeks old he had come to California with his invalid mother. The latter had survived the long journey but a very short time, and died among strangers in one of the foot-hill towns near San Francisco. The Sisters of Mercy of that city had by correspondence arranged with the father to adopt, or, rather, to provide a temporary home for the little waif, until he should be old enough to make the long return journey. And now, although the boy had reached but the tender age of eighteen months, the distant parent, craving for his presence, had begged the sister to enlist in his behalf the sympathies and care of some kind-hearted East-bound passenger or railway employee. Their repeated efforts in the former direction having failed, they had at last applied to the conductor.

In relating the child's sad history, the sisters had, the conductor continued, so feelingly solicited his kindly offices and paid such glowing tribute to the almost angelic disposition and exceptional bravery of the infant that, however disinclined he had been to assume the responsibility, a persistent refusal of their unusual request seemed almost inhuman. He had therefore undertaken the strange charge, and trusted, he said, that the passengers would in nowise be inconvenienced thereby. From that moment on, every one who had less than half an hour before witnessed the scene of sorrowful parting, which had so touchingly told how completely the little fellow had walked into the hearts of his benefactors,--from that time on, every one felt a personal responsibility for the comfort and safety of the boy. Introduced under circumstances that rendered him a hero at the outset, at the end of the first day he had already become the pet of the passengers and the object of their kindliest attentions.

While the claim that this child was remarkable for beauty and cleverness might lend sentiment and romance to my simple narrative, the fact is that he was neither handsome nor bright. In appearance he was simply a plain, plump, red-cheeked, flaxen-haired baby boy, with apparently little to be proud of, save his evident good health and a pair of large blue eyes that seemed frankness itself. His accomplishments were few, indeed. He was still, as the sisters had said, learning to walk. His vocabulary included but three or four imperfectly spoken words, and he was conspicuously deficient in that parrot-like precociousness so common and frequently so highly prized in little children. But what our youthful companion lacked in attractive outwardness was more than made up by the true inwardness of one accomplishment he did possess. That was silence. This virtue he practised to a degree that soon won for him the admiration and affection of all. Though exhibiting no sign of embarrassment at the friendly advances of the passengers, and while not unmoved by their tender attentions, he maintained through that long journey a humble air of mute contentment that lost its balance on but three occasions.

His quiet ways were a theme of constant comment, while his presence proved not only a source of increasing pleasure to our small band of tourists, but did much to relieve the monotony of the tedious journey.

One important detail in the boy's eventful history was missing. Cared for by strangers from earliest infancy, deprived of his mother's love and father's care, he had thus far not even received that all-important parental gift,--a Christian name. To the sisters he had been known simply as "Baby." By that infantile appellation he had passed from their gentle mercies to the conductor's care. And only as "Baby homeward bound" was he spoken of in their letter addressed to his father.

Before he had spent a day among us it was suggested that his exemplary conduct entitled him to a more dignified name--at least during the period of our companionship. And this suggestion led to one of many amusing incidents. By what name should the boy be known? After the question had been eagerly answered a dozen times in as many different ways, with apparently little hope of a unanimous choice--for every one felt that his or her preference was peculiarly appropriate--a quiet old man, whose appearance was strongly suggestive of the pioneer days, offered a happy solution of the difficulty. He proposed that, in view of the humble circumstances of the child, the privilege of naming him for the trip be sold at auction among the passengers of our car, adding, by way of explanation, that the sum thus realized might "give the little fellow a start in life."

The average overland tourist is never slow to adopt any expedient to relieve the tedium of the journey; and here was, as one chap expressed it, "A chance for an auction on wheels, and one for charity's sake, at that." So the proposition was no sooner stated than acted upon. The auctioneer found himself unanimously elected, and, placing himself in the center of the car, heard the bidding, prompted by every generous impulse that enthusiasm and sympathy can give, rise rapidly in sums of one, two, and three dollars until thirty-five was called. There it halted, but only for a moment. The situation had become exciting. The auctioneer himself now took a hand in the competition; and a round of applause greeted his bid, made in the name of his native State, "Ohio bids fifty dollars." It was regarded as a matter of course that this sum would secure the coveted privilege. But no! Some one remarks that yet another county remains to be heard from. The voice of the weather-worn pioneer,--the suggester of the scheme,--has not yet been heard in the bidding. He has been a silent looker-on, biding his time. Now it has come. As he rises slowly in his seat he is intently watched by every eye, for somehow the impression prevails that he hails from "the coast," and that consequently there can be nothing small in anything he does. In this no one is disappointed. The heart and purse of the gray-haired veteran are in the cause. Besides, his "pride is up" for the State he worships, almost idolizes. As his clear voice rings out with: "California sees Ohio's fifty, and goes fifty better," he is greeted by a storm of cheers that he will remember as long as he lives. And when the auctioneer announces: "California pays one hundred dollars and secures the privilege of naming the boy; what name shall it be?" the answer comes back quick as a flash:

"Grit! That sounds well and seems to fit well."

The passengers thought so, too, and very plainly showed their approval by overwhelming the man with congratulations and good wishes.

Reports of our proceedings were not slow in reaching the passengers in other parts of the train, whose curiosity or compassion led to numerous daily visits, while thoughtful sympathy found expression in liberal gifts of fruit, photographs, and a variety of Indian toys, as curious as they were welcome. To the old Californian, whose great liberality had secured for him a place in the respect and good-will of the entire party which was second only to that held by Grit himself, these continued attentions proved a source of special delight. Though he bore his honors with becoming modesty, he found early opportunity of proposing the health of the boy, who, as he aptly expressed it, "had been rocked in the cradle of misfortune, but had at last struck the color." Equally happy was his reply to a party of jolly cowboys, whom curiosity had led to solicit "a peep at the silent kid," while the train was delayed at one of the eating stations along the road. Their request having been granted, one of their number felt so highly elated upon receiving a handshake from Grit that he insisted upon presenting him with his huge cowboy spurs as a keepsake, proclaiming as he did so--with a trifle more enthusiasm than reverence--that in "paying a hundred to nominate the cute little kid, 'old California' carved his own name upon the Rock of Ages."

"Bless his little heart," replied the grizzled miner; "I'd give ten thousand more to own him, now that he has won his spurs."