Chapter 19

As to what was to happen if I escaped, I had very little idea. Once let me get away from my present surroundings, and nothing else seemed to matter; things could not easily become worse. But, as a matter of fact, I had thought once or twice that I would run the risk of trying to discover Rogers, Captain Knowlton's servant, who had certainly not accompanied him on board the _Seagull_. I knew that Captain Knowlton had given up his rooms before he left England, but still I might succeed in finding some one who could tell me where Rogers lived, and I felt certain the man would help me if possible. Hitherto I had determined to avoid the Albany, thinking that Mr. Turton would take care to anticipate me, and perhaps make arrangements for my capture, for, in spite of all I had passed through, I shrank as much as ever from the idea of returning to Castlemore, and Augustus and the other fellows at Ascot House. Still, I had in my pocket only the bad half-crown which Mr. Parsons had given me in the train, and it seemed wiser to take the risk of being intercepted, and to make my way to Captain Knowlton's old quarters. But at present I stood no chance of making my way anywhere alone, and the first thing I had to do was to get clear of Mr. Parsons and the Loveridges.

'A lovely morning, Jacky,' Mr. Parsons remarked on Monday, as he took my arm and led me away from the house. 'Makes me feel quite young again.'

'Which way are we going?' I asked.

'Ah, now, which way?'

'I like Oxford Street best,' I answered.

'Do you, my lad?' he cried, amiably. 'Then suppose we try Oxford Street?'

There were a great many people in the street, and it was about eleven o'clock in the morning when I found we were drawing near the shop which I had planned to enter by one door and to leave by another.

'Couldn't we buy something there?' I asked.

'Where, my lad?'

'There,' I said, pointing to the chief entrance.

'That is too dear for the likes of us, Jacky.'

'Oh,' I cried, 'but I know what I could buy.'

'What?' he demanded, and I began to wonder whether I had betrayed too much eagerness.

'An evening necktie,' I replied. 'They only cost about fourpence.'

'Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, and I felt his grasp on my arm tighten, 'Jacky, that is the sort of shop a lad like you might easily get lost in. He might even make a mistake in the door, Jacky. No, we won't go in there, but I will tell you where we will go.'

'Where?' I asked, quaking with fear.

'We will go home, my lad, and I will give you such a nice little lesson as you will never forget as long as you live.'

So we turned back the way we had come, walking towards the Marble Arch, and I knew that if once I entered that hateful house, I should pay a terrible penalty for the attempt which had been so easily seen through.

For the next few minutes I was utterly hopeless and helpless. But I murmured a few incoherent words of prayer, and my head grew clearer. As the danger drew nearer with every step I took, my courage began to return, and I determined to make a bid for freedom. Mr. Parsons' threat in a way defeated his own end. Hitherto the fear in which I held him had served to cow me, to make me afraid to make a dash for liberty; but this morning the very danger seemed to encourage boldness, and as we went on our way with his strong fingers gripping my arm just above the wrist, yet in such a manner that he appeared to be holding me affectionately, I cudgelled my brains to devise some method of circumventing him.

At last, as we were close to Duke Street, Oxford Street, a bold plan flashed across my mind. Whatever was done, it should be attempted while there were some people about, to whom, in the last resort, I might denounce Mr. Parsons; and yet I did not wish my actual deed to have a spectator, since any one who saw me treat such a benevolent-looking old gentleman as I fully intended to treat Mr. Parsons must think I was a young rascal.

He hesitated a moment at the corner, and then turned to his right down Duke Street, and I fancied that he looked forward with some enjoyment to the threatened 'little lesson.' A short distance ahead stood a policeman at a street corner, and, as we approached, I looked up into Mr. Parsons' face and summoned all my courage--it was certainly the courage of despair.

'If you don't let me go,' I said, 'I will tell that policeman who you are as we pass.'

In an instant he had swung me round to retrace his steps, but, doubling my free fist, I drew back my arm and hit him with all my strength just about the belt. The effect was instantaneous. Releasing me at once, he was completely doubled up, standing in the middle of the pavement outside a grocer's shop, his hands pressed against his body, gasping for breath. Fortunately no one had seen the blow struck, though Mr. Parsons was soon surrounded by a gaping, sympathetic group. I took to my heels at once, almost running against the policeman, and turned to my right, in the direction opposite to that of Mr. Parsons' dwelling-place. Soon, however, I ceased to run, feeling fairly certain that I should not see him again--that day, at least. And as I walked--still towards the City--I tried to take stock of my situation.

Besides the clothes I stood in, I possessed only a bad half-crown, and although I had, under compulsion, changed similar coins for Parsons, I had no intention of defrauding anybody on my own account. Taking the coin from my pocket, I stooped and dropped it down a grating. Now that I had nothing, I determined to risk a visit to the Albany, which I reached--always on the look-out for Mr. Parsons--at a little past two o'clock. Nothing, however, but disappointment awaited me here. I saw a man who appeared to be a kind of porter, and he told me that Captain Knowlton had given up the rooms on leaving London--a fact which I knew perfectly well already. But he had no notion where I could find Rogers, so that I walked away in a somewhat dejected mood.

Nevertheless I was able to rejoice at the successful escape from something much worse than I had yet endured, and having once triumphed over Parsons, I no longer feared him as I used to do. Even if I met him in the street, I believed I could prevent him from taking me back to his house, and the more pressing difficulty was how to obtain food and shelter, and, subsequently, work.

Becoming hungry as the afternoon wore on, I went into St. James's Park, and, taking off my jacket and waistcoat, did not put the waistcoat on again, but carried it under my arm to a small pawnbroker's shop near Victoria Station, where I obtained eightpence in exchange. For my tall hat I received a shilling, and then, passing a very cheap shop, I bought a grey cloth cap for threepence three-farthings, so that on the whole I gained about one and fourpence by the deal.

Knowing that I must husband my resources, I bought a penny saveloy and a chunk of bread at an eating-house, and then wandered about the streets until nearly nightfall, wondering where I should sleep. The first night was, however, by no means uncomfortable, for, passing a large stable-yard, I saw it contained several empty omnibuses, and, waiting until nobody was looking, I made a rush into one of these; I lay down at full length on the seat, and slept until a stable-man woke me at half-past five the next morning.

But over the next few days I intend to pass rapidly, for indeed they were too full of wretchedness to be dwelt upon. From early morning until late at night I wandered about the streets or in the parks, where also I slept. I took every care of my scanty stock of money, but at last it came to an end. Once I held a horse for twopence, once I carried a heavy portmanteau from Charing Cross to Tottenham Court Road for a penny, and once a lady took pity on my condition and gave me threepence. Then I parted with my jacket, and lived on the proceeds for three days while walking about with nothing above my shirt.

(_Continued on page 173._)

GOOD-BYE TO THE LAST FIRE.

Good-bye, old fire! We won't forget Your pleasant warmth and glow, When evening shades were dark as jet, And outside lay the snow. But now, you see, we're right in May, It's spring, without a doubt, And so, good fire, I grieve to say It's time that you were out.

The little leaves are springing green, The skies above are blue; The primrose everywhere is seen, The almond's blooming too. Of course, you don't expect to stay When flowers are round about, And so, good fire, again I say It's time that you were out.

But when, once more, November chill Its cloak of mist has spread, And o'er the lonely winter hill The sun goes soon to bed, We'll call you back with joyous shout, And, as the shades descend, We'll draw the blinds to shut them out And greet you as a friend.

JOHN LEA.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

IV.--THE STORY OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

On the 2nd of April, 1805, was born, amid very humble surroundings, a little Danish boy named Hans Christian Andersen, who, in later years, became the most popular tale-writer that perhaps the world has ever known. Andersen's Fairy Tales, though written in a past century, and for another generation, are just as popular to-day as they ever were, and it seems as if all children (and grown-up people who have kept their child-like hearts) could never tire of these delightful stories. We can all read, and re-read, the 'Ugly Duckling,' or the 'Eleven Wild Swans;' we can sympathise with the love of the faithful 'Tin Soldier;' and who can resist laughing at all the outrageous performances of 'Little Claus and Big Claus?' Truly, Andersen had the key to unlock all hearts!

Now for the story of the writer's life.

The father of Hans Andersen was only a poor shoe-maker, but he loved reading and poetry, and seems to have taught his little boy a similar love. The shoe-maker amused himself by making a toy theatre for his little Hans, and showed him how to work the puppets, and make them act little plays. This was a winter amusement. In the long summer days he would often take the child to the woods--and here, in the great birch forests, the two would spend the hours, hardly saying a word to each other, but each dreaming his own dreams as they sauntered along the shady paths.

But these happy childish days soon came to an end: the kind father died, and Hans had to go to a charity school, where he learnt little beyond reading and writing.

Money was now very scarce in his home, and both Hans and his mother were often hard put to it for a meal.

One day they went out into the fields to glean corn, and were chased off the ground by a cruel bailiff, who ran after them with a heavy whip. The bailiff, with his long legs, soon overtook the little eight-year-old Hans, and was about to bring his whip down on the child's shoulders, when Hans turned round, and looking full at the angry man, exclaimed: 'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'

The bailiff was so taken aback at this rebuke from the mouth of a child that he dropped his whip, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced some money, which he offered to Hans to make up for his unkindness.

A year or two later a widow wanted some one to read aloud to her, and Hans got the place. The widow's husband had been a poet, and, as Hans read out his poems, the boy's ambition was fired.

'I too will be a poet!' he cried, and, on returning home, he at once set to work and wrote--a tragedy!

The news of this performance spread amongst the neighbours (very likely the mother boasted of it, as mothers will), and all wished to hear it; so they came together in one of the larger cottages, and Hans read his wonderful tragedy to the company, and felt bitterly hurt when the greater part of them laughed heartily at the play.

Meanwhile the mother was growing poorer and poorer, and Hans had to leave school, and to try and earn his bread.

He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to act scenes for their amusement from the great Danish writer, Holberg, whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do Hans' work for him.

After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory--never to return to it.

The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare. The old toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put through the scenes of the _Merchant of Venice_ and _King Lear_.

After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'

He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him) of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to Copenhagen and try his fortune.

She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off to make his own way in the world.

He reached Copenhagen--the city which now proudly claims him for her own--late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved acting.

'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.

'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow fat,' quickly answered the boy.

'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans had to go away with a heavy heart.

Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!

But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared him in the face.

At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.

It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans persevered, and at last he passed all his examinations, and was granted a travelling scholarship.

Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful; the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all over Europe.

He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years later, he stayed with Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill.

Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels, and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.

On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.

The end came a few months later, and on August 4th, 1875, Hans Christian Andersen died, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, and most of all by the band of children whom he had so loved to gather round him.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.[2]

Hurry Harry, Deerslayer, Judith, and Hetty are the four principal characters in Cooper's famous book, which has delighted many thousands of readers.

Hurry Harry, as he was nicknamed, his real name being Harry March, had a dashing, reckless, off-hand manner, and a restlessness that kept him constantly moving about from place to place. He was six feet four in height, well proportioned, with a good-humoured, handsome face. Deerslayer was a very different man from Hurry Harry, both, in appearance and character. He, too, was tall, being six feet high, but with a comparatively light and slender frame. His face was not handsome, but his expression invited confidence, for it had a look of truth and sincerity.

Hurry was twenty-eight years of age and Deerslayer several years younger. Their dress was composed of deer-skins, and they were armed with rifles, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. The two men were guided by very different principles, those of Hurry Harry being entirely selfish, while Deerslayer sought, backwoodsman though he was, to live up to what he called 'white-man's nature.'

Judith and Hetty were supposed to be the daughters of a man known as 'Floating Tom,' otherwise Thomas Hutter, a man who had been a noted pirate in his younger days, but in his later years had settled down--as he hoped, beyond the reach of the King's cruisers--to enjoy his plunder.

At the time at which the story is laid Britain and France were at war, fighting in Canada, and it is said that neither side had refrained from offering payment for scalps. Whatever excuse there may have been for tribes of Indians taking the scalps of their enemies, there can have been none for Christian white men, and so Deerslayer held, but not so Hurry Harry and Thomas Hutter, both of whom, as we shall notice, suffered for their cruel practices.

If Hurry and Deerslayer were unlike in appearance, character, and principle, so, too, were Judith and Hetty. Judith was very handsome, quick-witted, fond of admiration and fine clothes, while Hetty was not beautiful to look at. Hetty was possessed of a weak mind, and cared little for the admiration of others, although she was of an affectionate nature. Her principles were good, and she ever sought to follow the good she knew, her constant companion being her Bible, for which she had the deepest reverence, while the good counsels of her mother, whose body rested beneath the waters of the lake beside which the family dwelt, were put in daily practice by the devoted child.

Two other characters of the story deserve more than a passing word. One was Chingachgook the hunter, the other 'Hist,' a lovable maiden, both of whom were great friends of Deerslayer; they were Delaware Indians by nationality.

(_Concluded on page 171._)

FOOTNOTE:

[2] _The Deerslayer_, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap editions published which can be easily obtained.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--RHYMED METAGRAM.

1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet, But nearly always good to eat.

2. A pigment painters use when they The lovely blushing rose portray.

3. A garden tool we sometimes need When smoothing soil and sowing seed.

4. Our true regard for any friend; The purpose, final cause, or end.

5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold, Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.

6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep; A noisy Irish feast to keep.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 195._]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 130.

6.--1. Cat. 2. Yes. 3. Will. 4. Pony. 5. Dry. Rat. Yet. Pill. Pond. Day. Rag. Pet. Pile. Bond. Way. Hag. Pot. Pine. Band. Pay. Hog. Not. Pint. Bard. Pat. Dog. No. Pent. Bare. Pet. Went. Care. Wet. Won't. Cart.

7.--_Never despair._

1. Paris. 2. Pear. 3. Rasp. 4. Veer. 5. Rip. 6. Near. 7. Nerves. 8. Spain. 9. Span. 10. Drip.

THE TWO PUPILS.

A Hindu Fable.

An old philosopher who had two pupils one day gave each a sum of money, and told them to purchase something with it, which should fill the room where they did their studies. One pupil went out into the market and bought a large quantity of hay and straw, and the next morning he invited his master to see his room, which he had almost filled with the results of his purchase.

'Ah! very good, very good!' exclaimed the philosopher; and now turning to the other pupil, he said, 'Well, friend, and what have you bought?'

'A small lamp and some oil, which will fill the room with light in the dark evening hours. This will enable us to continue our studies by night as well as by day, if we should so wish,' replied the pupil.

'You have made the best purchase,' said the philosopher.

A wise pupil, who profits by instruction, is the delight of the master.

THE DUKE AND THE TRAVELLER.

For a quarter of an hour, during one of the greatest crises of the Battle of Waterloo, when the Duke of Wellington had sent all his _aides-de-camp_ with orders to the different divisions of the army, he found himself alone at the very moment when he most needed help. While watching the movements of his troops through his field-glasses, he saw Kempt's brigade beginning a manoeuvre which, if not promptly countermanded, would probably lead to the loss of the battle. But there was no officer at hand to convey his orders. Just then he turned round in his saddle, and saw not far off a single horseman, rather quaintly attired, coolly watching the progress of the strife. The instant the Duke caught sight of him, he beckoned to him, and asked him who he was, why he was there, and how he had passed the lines.

He answered: 'I am a traveller for a wholesale button manufactory in Birmingham, and was showing my samples in Brussels when I heard the sound of the firing. Having had all my life a strong desire to see a battle, I at once got a horse, and set out for the scene of action; and, after some difficulty, I have reached this spot, whence I expect to have a good view.'

The Duke, pleased with his straightforward answer, determined to turn his sense and daring to good account, and addressed him as follows: 'You ought to have been a soldier. Would you like to serve your country now?'

'Yes, my lord,' said the other.

'Would you take a message of importance for me?'

Touching his hat in military fashion the traveller replied, 'Were I trusted by you, sir, I would think this the proudest day of my life.'

Putting his field-glass into the man's hands, the Duke explained to him the position of the brigade that had made the false move, and added: 'I have no writing materials by me; see, therefore, that you are very accurate in delivering my message.' He then entrusted to him a brief, emphatic order, which he made him repeat, that there might be no mistake.

The orders were barely delivered before the stranger was off at the top of his horse's speed, and soon disappeared amid the smoke of the battle. After a few minutes' interval, the Duke turned his glass in the direction of the brigade which was at fault, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, 'It's all right, yet. Kempt has changed his tactics. He has got my message, for he is doing precisely as I directed him. Well done, Buttons!'

The Duke used to say he considered the alteration of Kempt's original movement the turning-point of the battle. Wishing to reward our hero for his intelligence and courage, he caused inquiries to be made for him in every direction, but in vain. It was not till many years afterwards that he accidentally heard of the man's whereabouts, and managed to secure for him a good appointment in the West of England, in recognition of his services.

NEVER DRAW A SWORD EXCEPT IN A CAUSE THAT IS JUST AND RIGHT.

An English sailor, when travelling through France, arrived at the town of Vernon, where he met with a great crowd of riotous men and women. The mob had laid hands on a wealthy man, though he had done no wrong, and knew the use of money much better than they did. The rich man was to be hanged. In vain did the young sailor plead with the crowd: they only laughed at him, and pushed him aside with words of scorn. As a last resource he boldly pushed his way through the crowd, and with a strong grasp clung fast to the man who was so near his death.

Above the wild yells and uproar, his voice was heard: 'This man has done no wrong. I come to save you from a great sin. If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'

The worst of hearts are often touched by a noble act of self-sacrifice, and the fearless words of truth. The Frenchmen gave a cheer for the brave sailor, and were ready to carry him off like a hero. This gave time for the captive to escape. When the incident became known in Paris, the sailor received much honour, and a sword was presented to him, for they said, 'He who had no arms, and yet could save a stranger at the risk of his own life, will never draw a sword except in a cause that is just and right.' The sailor became afterwards Admiral Nesham, who lived to serve his country for many years, and died at Exmouth in 1853.

THE PIONEERS.

A crocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed, In a wood where the red robins sing, And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spread I heard the first footfall of Spring.'

And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top above There fluttered the song of the Wind: 'I come from the south, with a message of love, And the Spring follows closely behind.'

Then while the soft echo was stealing along, The snow melted gently away, And over the meadow a bee's early song Told stories of April and May.

The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast, And see, where the snow-drifts still cling, The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly cast At the feet of her Majesty, Spring.

SMITHFIELD TOURNAMENTS.

Many _Chatterbox_ readers have, no doubt, visited Smithfield, and others have seen pictures of it as it was in the olden time, when it was known by its executions and burnings. Upon St. Bartholomew's Eve, 1305, Sir William Wallace was put to death under the elms, a large clump of which then stood on one side of the open space. At Smithfield, too, Wat Tyler met King Richard II. on June 15th, 1381, when he received his death-blow from the Lord Mayor of London. In more recent years it was familiar to the public as a big cattle market, now fortunately removed to a better spot north of London. Evidently, too, it was for centuries a very favourite resort with the citizens, the name at first, so historians think, being 'Smoothfield.' The level open space was turfed, and made suitable for horse exercise and a variety of sports.

During the Middle Ages our kings had a palace in the city, and many of the nobles built themselves houses within the walls, or not far off. For some centuries tournaments were forbidden on account of their danger, and they were seldom held in England till after the reign of Richard I. The position of Smithfield was very convenient for holding jousts and tournaments. None but those who were esquires or knights were allowed to take part in these contests, which usually celebrated some important event, such as a royal marriage or a great victory. These tournaments gave an opportunity for a display of courtesy and chivalry. Galleries were arranged for ladies, and one in particular was chosen to preside, who was usually called the 'Queen of Beauty.' If any dispute arose, this lady settled it, and she also gave away the prizes awarded to the victors. A remarkable tournament was held in 1374 at Smithfield. A grand procession was started from the Tower; the King rode first in a triumphal chariot, followed by a number of ladies on horseback, each of whom had a knight leading her horse by the bridle. Many gallant feats of arms were performed, and the tournament lasted a week.

After the battle of Poictiers, a three-days' tournament took place in the cold weather of March, when the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and the sheriffs offered to hold the field against all comers. The chief of the heralds and minstrels had forty pounds given him for his services--a large sum in those days. Richard II. held a great tournament in 1394, when the Earl of Mar and other nobles from Scotland appeared in the field. Then, and for several years afterwards, there were several jousts and combats between Scots and Englishmen. A remarkable combat took place in 1398 on London Bridge, a wooden structure broad enough to give room for the fighters and spectators. Sir David Lindsay and Lord Wells agreed to run courses on horseback for life or death, and this was done in the presence of King and court. After a desperate struggle, Sir David Lindsay won. Again, there was a joust at Smithfield during the same reign, when the Queen gave as prizes to the most successful in tilting a gold coronet and a rich bracelet. At this tournament, too, there was a grand procession from the Tower; in front there rode an array of minstrels and heralds, while along the streets flags and banners were displayed.

The fifth Henry held several famous tournaments, and so did the fourth Edward. Edward IV. had a tournament at Smithfield in which his queen's brother, Lord Scales, engaged the young Duke of Burgundy. They fought with spears, swords, and pole-axes, until Lord Scales slightly wounded the Duke. It seems probable that tournaments at Smithfield ceased after the Wars of the Roses.

It may be as well to explain the difference between a tournament and a joust. Jousting, or tilting, was a frequent amusement; in this the knights fought with blunt lances, and each tried to break his opponent's lance or to unhorse him. But in a tournament they engaged with sharp weapons, and the combatants were often wounded, sometimes killed outright. The large open space in St. James's Park, next to the Horse Guards, was at first called the Tiltyard, because of the tilting that went on there when our kings came to reside in Westminster.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.

(_Concluded from page 167._)

'The Deerslayer' abounds in incident. One of the most thrilling adventures is that which befell 'Floating Tom' and Hurry Harry, who had so far forgotten what was due from their white man's nature as to plan to enter the camp of the Indians at night, with the object of securing the scalps of unwary men, women, and children, and so obtaining the bounty offered by the Government for each scalp. On one of these occasions, when they had gone ashore, they were taken captives by the Indians and came very near to losing their lives. They only escaped through the brave conduct of Hetty, the well-known straightforward dealings of Deerslayer, and the fact that hidden away in an old sea-chest of Hutter's, amongst fine clothes and other relics, were some beautifully chased ivory chessmen, among them being four castles supported by elephants, an animal unknown by sight to the American Indians. When the grim old warriors who held Hutter and Hurry prisoners saw the little ivory animals, their delight knew no bounds. They were familiar with horses and oxen, and had seen towers, and found nothing surprising in creatures of burden. They supposed the carving was meant to represent that the animal they saw was strong enough to carry a fort on its back. It was fortunate for the prisoners that the old sea-chest contained such treasures; had it been otherwise, they would probably both have lost their lives.

They were not so fortunate when they fell a second time into the hands of the Hurons, who had secretly gained possession of 'Muskrat Castle,' as Hutter's house had been called. This 'castle' stood in the open lake, at a quarter of a mile from the nearest shore. There was no island, but the house stood on piles, with the water flowing beneath it. The lake in other directions was of a great depth, but just where the piles had been driven was a long narrow shoal, which extended a few hundred yards in a north and south direction, rising to within six or eight feet of the surface of the lake. Floating Tom had built his house strongly, while the position made him safe against attack unless his assailants came in a boat. One day when Hutter and his friends were absent from the 'Castle,' the Hurons took possession of it, and when Hutter and Hurry returned they knew that they had fallen into a complete trap. Only a short time previously, Hurry's reckless spirit had led him to commit an act of wanton cruelty,--that of raising his gun and firing from the canoe in which he was seated into the woods. His random shot struck down an Indian girl, and caused her death, so that the Hurons felt no goodwill towards him. The Indians knew, too, that Tom and Hutter would have been only too willing to attack any of their party should it lie within their power to do so. Hurry, whose conduct towards his foes had been ferocious, was captured by means of a rope of bark, having an eye, which was thrown so dexterously that the end threaded the eye, forming a noose and drawing his elbows together behind his back with a power that all his gigantic strength could not resist. A similar fastening secured his ankles, and his body was rolled over on to the ground, as helpless as a log of wood.

Hutter fared even worse, for he was found by his daughters wounded, and in a dying condition.

'Oh, Judith!' exclaimed poor, weak-witted Hetty, as soon as they had attended to the sufferer, 'Father went for scalps himself, and now where is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful punishment.'

A different scene is that which tells what befell Deerslayer when he fell into the hands of the foe. They had let him out on furlough, well knowing that they could trust his word. It was in vain that his friends in 'Muskrat Castle' tried to persuade him that he was not obliged to keep faith with such a cruel foe. Deerslayer was firm. A promise to return had been given, and it must be kept, for God had heard it, and God would look for its fulfilment. Well he knew that the cruelties of the Indians would be practised on him, and that he would be put to the 'tortures'--the young Indians, all of whom hoped to become warriors, would not, he knew, hesitate to subject him to such woes that even to read of them makes one's heart sink. Yet this knowledge could not deter him from keeping faith with them.

Bound so tightly to a tree that he could not stir an inch, he was obliged to submit while the various young men of the Indian tribes threw their tomahawks so as to strike the tree as near the victim's head as possible without hitting him. His nerves stood the terrible test, and he neither winced nor cried out with fear. The second torture was that with the rifle, only the most experienced warriors taking part in this. Shot after shot was sent, all the bullets coming close to the Deerslayer's head without touching it. Still no one could detect even the twitching of a muscle on the part of the captive or the slightest winking of an eye.

But we will not continue to describe the tortures to which the brave Deerslayer was subjected, none of which could cause his brave spirit to quail. Hetty, whose feeble mind won for her the esteem and care of the Hurons--who believed that the feeble-minded were under the special favour of the Great Spirit--unable to endure the thought of what Deerslayer, their good friend, might be suffering, made her way to the camp of the foe, carrying her Bible with her, and there addressed the chiefs and warriors assembled at the 'sports.' They listened to her patiently and kindly for a time, but after a while bade her sit down, and proceeded with their dreadful work. In vain did Judith, dressed out in all the brocaded finery from the old sea-chest, suddenly appear on the scene, telling them that she was a great mountain-queen who had come in person to demand that Deerslayer be set free. Both the sisters' attempts failed, and death would have been the lot of the good man had not troops from the nearest garrison arrived at the very moment when they were most needed, and so saved Deerslayer.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 163._)

I descended to terrible depths during those homeless days, and, at the lowest, when half-starving, dirty, hopeless, it happened that I almost ran against Mr. Parsons. It was about a quarter to three, in Brook Street. He stopped abruptly, and stood gazing at me with an evident effort to maintain his usual expression of benevolence.

'Now,' he said, smoothly, 'you will just make up your mind to come along with me, my lad.'

'I know I won't,' I answered.

He stood with his hands on the crook of his umbrella, while his lower jaw moved as if he were trying to swallow something; but whether it was one of his favourite aniseed lozenges, or his indignation against myself, was more than I could tell. One thing, however, seemed certain: if he strove to hide his wrath, it could only be with the object of getting me once more into his power.

'Ah, Jacky, my lad,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, 'you have not done much good for yourself since you turned your back on your best friend. A great mistake, Jacky--a great mistake!'

Indeed, I must have looked very disreputable. A pair of grey trousers, supported by one brace--the other having given way some days ago--a dirty shirt, neither jacket nor waistcoat, unwashed hands and face, boots coated in mud, hair which had not lately known a comb and brush--it would have been difficult to find a grubbier street-arab within a few miles.

'Anything is better than living with you,' I cried.

He had drawn closer, but at the same time I took the precaution to edge away, determined on no account to allow him to put a hand on me again.

'Don't be afraid, my lad,' he said.

'I'm not,' I answered, though it was only half-true.

'I don't want to hurt you, Jacky,' he continued, in a wheedling voice. 'I want to be your friend. You look hungry, my lad; now come along with me--not home, but to a nice little eating-house I know. The hot joints will be just ready. Nice hot joints, Jacky--roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and apple pie to follow. It is waiting for you round the corner, Jacky, as much as you like to eat, and then we can have a nice quiet chat together.'

It appeared inconsistent, but the naming of these luxuries caused a feeling of something like temptation for the moment, which only those who have been in need of food can understand. While I knew that nothing in the world could induce me to accompany Mr. Parsons, still the mention of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tickled my palate, and a great longing for something to eat came over me. I had tasted no food that day, and yesterday only a few scraps.

Instead of answering, I turned my back, whereupon Mr. Parsons thrust out his umbrella, catching my right arm with its crook, while at the same time he grasped my left wrist with his disengaged hand. Now I had been conscious of a strange giddiness and weakness, with a tendency to let my thoughts wander, during the whole of yesterday and to-day, and at this moment the fear suddenly seized upon me that I might be unable to resist the man and consequently fall into his hands again. So raising my voice I shouted with all my might, 'Police! police!' and although no policeman appeared, two or three passers-by soon collected around us, while Mr. Parsons still gripped my wrist.

'Would some gentleman kindly call me a cab?' said Parsons, in a voice which might have deceived anybody. 'You will break your father's heart, Jacky,' he continued. 'Now come home to your mother without making any more trouble.'

'You are not my father,' I answered, still speaking as loudly as I could. 'You are a thief, you make false coin, and you live at----'

'Ah!' cried an old lady, who formed one of the small crowd which by this time had collected, 'here is a policeman at last,' and at the same moment I felt Mr. Parsons' grasp relax. Pushing his way through the throng, he stepped into the middle of the road, stopped a passing hansom, entered it and was driven off. While the old lady intercepted the policeman, I seized the opportunity to get away, turning my steps towards Hyde Park, where I sat down on a seat.

Now I began to find a difficulty in keeping my eyes open; my chin constantly dropped on to my chest, and then I would wake again with a start.

I seemed to be living again through all that had occurred since I left Castlemore: again I was selling the silver watch and chain at Broughton, while the tramp gazed at me through the window; again I was being pursued along the main road, sleeping under the tree in the wood, robbed of all I was possessed in the chestnut plantation. Once more I was awakened after a short sleep by Mr. Baker's dog, Tiger, and taken to the cosy farmhouse with the red blinds, where Eliza gave me food and a comfortable bed, in which I dared not lie down to rest, because I knew that Mr. Baker would be certain to carry me back to Ascot House the following morning. Then again I was racing across fields, floundering into damp ditches in the darkness, sleeping in the shed, and afterwards helping a bicyclist to blow up his tyre in the country lane. Once more I seemed to be lying prone in the cornfield, while Mr. Turton inquired whether Mr. Westlake had seen me, and Jacintha was looking down from the other side of the hedge at the same moment. I was sleeping in the empty house on the forest, and shivering at the weird, ghostly sounds in the night; I was again delighted to make friends with Patch, and regretful to have him taken away from me by the fat ginger-beer man.

I could almost taste the pear and the preserved apricot which I had eaten in the arbour at Colebrooke Park with Jacintha and Dick; once more I made the acquaintance of Mr. Parsons in the train.

Which, if any, of these were waking memories, which were feverish dreams, it is quite impossible to tell, but every day's experience seemed to be lived through again, and, at all events, at last I must have fallen pretty soundly asleep; and after I actually woke again, reality appeared like a dream. It seemed perfectly natural, after my recent adventure with Parsons, to meet Jacintha and a lady, who, from the likeness, in a confused kind of way I imagined must be her mother.

I fancy that I must have opened my eyes for an instant, and then, unwillingly, have closed them again. At any rate, as I sat on the seat, there stood Jacintha, much more gaily dressed than I had seen her before, with gloves and a sunshade, and high buttoned boots, but apparently taking no notice of me as she continued to talk very quickly and excitedly to her companion. They were still in the same position, Mrs. Westlake listening with a kindly, grave face, Jacintha looking almost as if she had been crying, when I once more opened my eyes.