Chapter 5
My chief fear when I went to bed that night was that I might not wake early the following morning, for in this event my departure would have to be put off. I must leave Ascot House before any of the Turtons were up, if I left at all; I was bent upon getting away from Castlemore at the very earliest moment. In my room there were three beds, two being unoccupied during the holidays, and there was a chest of drawers which I shared with my companions. On the knob of one of the drawers hung the bag in which were kept my brush and comb, and this I thought would serve to hold the few things I intended to take with me. Not daring to get the things ready that night, lest Mr. Turton should pay one of his occasional visits to the bedroom when he turned out the gas, I lay down, and in spite of the important coming event, soon fell fast asleep. When I awoke the sun shone into the room, and getting out of bed and looking at the watch which was to be shortly converted into money, I saw that it was twenty minutes to six.
Losing no time over dressing, putting on the better of my two knickerbocker suits, I removed the brush and comb from the bag, putting in their place two pairs of stockings, a spare flannel shirt, a pair of gum-shoes, two handkerchiefs, and a flannel cricket cap.
Having little fear that any one but the servants would be about the house, I tightened the string of my bag, and went quietly downstairs. In the room where we kept our hats and overcoats I put on my laced boots, which already were somewhat thin in the soles, and my straw hat, as the sun had been extremely hot the last few days; and then I began to think of breakfast, because I made up my mind that it would be wise not to attempt to dispose of my watch and chain until Castlemore had been left some distance behind. About ten miles on the London road, although I did not know the precise distance, stood the small town of Broughton, and there, I thought, it might be safe to replenish my exchequer. Consequently, having not a penny in my purse at present, I must wait until I reached Broughton for breakfast, unless it were possible to obtain something to eat before I left the school.
So, leaving my bag in the hat-room, I went to the kitchen, where the cook was in the act of lighting the fire.
'Good morning, Cook,' I said.
'You are up early this morning, Master Everard,' she answered.
'I am most awfully hungry,' I continued. 'Do you think you could give me something to eat?'
Turning her broad back to the fireplace, she stared at me from head to foot, seeming especially to be impressed by the fact that I had put on my boots. But if she had a suspicion of my intention, she kept it to herself, and going to the larder, returned with a plate on which lay a thick slice of dry bread and another of cold beef.
Thanking her, I took the bread and meat and left the plate, then, returning to the hat-room for my bag, unbolted the front door without making a noise and walked calmly away from the house, beginning to eat my breakfast as soon as I reached the road. It was a beautiful summer morning, and the birds sang in the garden trees as I walked towards the margin of the town. Holding my bag by the long string I let it hang over my left shoulder, and stepping out briskly soon passed the last houses in Castlemore. Although my chief feeling was one of relief at having left Ascot House and the Turtons behind, it was impossible to avoid a glance back at the days which I had spent so happily with the Windleshams. I no longer had the least doubt that Captain Knowlton had been lost with the _Seagull_, and as I covered the first mile or two of my long journey, I became impressed with a conviction of all the difference his death had made to my life. Instead of Sandhurst, I could not tell what lay before me, and yet I scarcely doubted that, whatever it might be, the end would prove satisfactory.
I determined to lose no time over my first stage, and after walking for three-quarters of an hour, I passed a finger-post, which conveyed the information that Broughton lay still eight miles distant. Although I had told myself yesterday that Mr. Turton was very unlikely to start in pursuit, that he would be only too glad to get rid of an unremunerative boarder, this morning seemed to make the affair look different. He might consider that his duty compelled him to set out in search of the runaway, so that it would be wise not to rest until the first ten miles had been put between myself and the school.
I felt anxious to reach Broughton, in order to dispose of my watch and chain, being already somewhat afraid that there might arise some difficulty about its disposal. I had never attempted to sell anything before, nor was it easy to form an opinion concerning the value of the only things I had to barter. Still, four pounds appeared a likely sum, or three pounds ten at the lowest, and this would surely serve to provide food and shelter until I reached London.
Very few persons passed me by the way, but coming within sight of the first houses of the small town, which was in reality little more than a large village, I began to overtake and soon passed a man who I little imagined would cross my path again. Broughton is approached by a long decline, at the foot of which, on the right, stands a rural inn. Before its door this morning were a couple of waggons, one laden with hay, the other with sheep-turnips. A smock-frocked carter stood eating a chunk of bread and fat bacon, while a fox-terrier begged for scraps. Having walked ten miles in the hot sunshine, I was glad of any excuse to halt, so that a few minutes after passing the man in the road, I stopped to watch the dog.
While I stood there the man caught me up again, and he also came to a stop, between myself and the waggons. He was quite young, probably not more than one or two and twenty, tall and well-built, although he walked with a slouching gait. He wore corduroy trousers fastened round the waist by a narrow strap, and a blue shirt, with an unbuttoned jacket of fustian. On his head was a limp-brimmed, dirty, drab felt hat, and in his left hand he carried a red handkerchief, which apparently contained all his possessions, and in his right a stout stick which had been obviously cut from a hedge. His hair was extremely short and black, but he could not have shaved for some days; his face was deeply sunburnt and one of the most evil-looking I had ever seen. I imagined that he was looking for a job at hay-making or harvesting, and in that case he would have little difficulty in finding one at the present season.
Without entering the inn, he walked on towards the main street, which contained two dozen or more of small shops, and a few minutes later I took the same direction, soon beginning to look about for the kind of shop I wanted. After I had passed the tramp a second time, I saw the usual sign of a pawnbroker's, and, thinking it would look better to remove my watch and chain before entering, I took the bar out of my button-hole.
Stopping outside the shop, I stood a few minutes gazing in at its window, which was filled with a miscellaneous collection: teapots, telescopes, knives, spoons, pipes, and one or two flutes and concertinas. Presently I summoned enough resolution to enter, and going to the counter, held out the watch and chain to the rather elderly man behind it.
'I want to sell this watch and chain,' I said.
'Oh, you do, do you?' he answered, and opening the watch, he began to examine the works. He looked so doubtful that I began to fear he would refuse to buy, in which case I scarcely knew what to do, as it seemed unlikely that I should find another such shop that day. It was already past eleven o'clock, and after my walk I was beginning to feel hungry. Certainly he had no right to buy the watch from a boy of my age, but I suppose that after a little hesitation he was unable to resist the temptation to make a bargain.
'How much do you want for it?' he asked, as he closed the lid with a snap.
'Four pounds,' I answered, thinking that a reasonable demand.
Still holding the watch with the chain hanging down between his fingers, he broke into a laugh which did not sound very merry.
'Four pounds!' he exclaimed. 'Think yourself lucky if you get ten shillings. I will give you fifteen.'
It was a terrible disappointment, but at the time it did not occur to me to doubt the man's good faith. I came to the conclusion that I had ignorantly over-valued my property, and at least fifteen shillings would be better than nothing.
'Very well,' I answered, and, placing the watch and chain on a shelf behind him, the man opened a drawer under the counter. While he slowly counted out the money in silver, I happened to glance at the window. In a moment my eyes seemed to be riveted by those of the tramp, whose existence I had quite forgotten. He stood outside the shop, watching me with the greatest intentness, and suddenly I felt afraid, and wished he had gone on his way, and left me to go mine. I spent as long a time as possible counting the money and putting it in my knickerbockers' pocket, but when I at last left the shop the tramp was still staring in at the window.
Still, he took no notice of me as I walked away from the door, not even turning his head. With money in my pocket, my appetite suddenly became urgent, and seeing a coffee-shop a little further down the street, I entered and sat down at a table, which sadly required scrubbing. An untidy girl came to ask what I wanted, but when I suggested a chop--for 'chops and steaks' was painted over the window--she said I could only have eggs and bacon.
'I will have some eggs and bacon,' I answered.
'Poached or boiled?' she asked.
'Poached, please.'
'Tea or coffee?' she suggested.
'Coffee,' I replied, and, after waiting ten minutes or longer, I was supplied with a plate of hot eggs and bacon, a thick slice of bread, and a cup of coffee. Not in a mood to be very particular, I ate every scrap with the greatest relish, and altogether I could not have spent less than three-quarters of an hour in the coffee-shop. My meal cost eightpence, and its effect was to make me feel extremely lazy and sleepy; but, having a long day before me, I determined to find some shady spot and rest for an hour or two until the heat of the day had passed. Then I would push along until I was about twenty miles from Castlemore, when I must find a lodging for the night.
(_Continued on page 44._)
GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.
At the battle of Dettingen, George II. was on horseback, and rode forward to reconnoitre the enemy. The horse, frightened by the cannonading, ran away with the King, and nearly carried him into the midst of the French lines. Fortunately, however, one of the attendants succeeded in stopping him. An ensign seized the horse's bridle, and enabled the King to dismount.
'Now that I am on my own legs,' said he, 'I am sure that I shall not run away.'
The King then abandoned his horse, and fought on foot at the head of his Hanoverian battalions. With his sword drawn and his body placed in the attitude of a fencing-master who is about to make a lunge, he continued to expose himself without flinching to the enemy's fire, and in bad English, but with the utmost pluck and spirit, called to his men to come on.
This was the last occasion upon which a sovereign of Great Britain was under the fire of an enemy.
MY FRIEND.
Who is my friend? Not he who seeks By flattery to sway; Who, whether I be good or bad, Gives me his praise alway.
Who is my friend? Not he who frowns On me when I am wrong, But never gives encouragement To make me glad and strong.
Who is my friend? 'Tis he who makes My highest good his aim; Whose love sincere is shown alike In praise or wholesome blame.
E. DYKE.
HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.
I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]
The scene of this story is laid at Land's End in Cornwall, or, to be precise, to the west of the little village of Sennen Cove, and the time chosen is toward the end of last century.
The month of the year was November, and the night was wild and tempestuous, so that the storm beat against the little thatched cottage in one room of which a woman was dying. Gathered about her bed was her husband, Owen Tresilian, and their son Philip and daughter Mary. We pass over the sad scene connected with the death of Mrs. Tresilian, just referring to her last words to the father of her children. There had been times in Owen's life when, finding himself without means and without work, with want staring himself, his wife, and his family, in the face, he had resorted to bad ways of obtaining money. He would never have yielded to the temptation had it not been for the persuasive words and occasionally the threats of his mates. Many of these men were wreckers; that is to say, they deliberately placed on the coast false lights which lured passing ships to destruction. It was from the wrecks of the disabled vessels that they gathered up the treasures carried to them by the waves, and it was known that one or two of the more desperate characters among them had not hesitated to throw back into the water the poor unfortunate creatures whom they had lured to destruction, as they struggled to reach the shore. Owen, indeed, had never gone thus far, but he had participated in their illicit gains, and had himself helped to kindle the lights that were to wreck the boats. His dying wife, whose trouble when she heard of this was very great, had made him promise that whatever might occur after her death, he would never again be guilty of such wicked work. He had promised her faithfully that none should ever force him again to engage in such undertakings, and he had added solemnly, 'They may kill me first, but I would rather starve than do it.' Scarcely had she finished speaking to husband and children, when wild shouts were heard outside the cottage, from the midst of the storm, 'Come on, men! come on--a wreck! a wreck!' Lights passed the little windows, and the clatter of many feet along the path close by told the family what manner of men were about.
The story goes on to tell how Owen, after his wife's death, his son Philip and his daughter Mary, endeavoured to lead lives very different from those of the greater number of their neighbours. They had come under the influence of Wesley's teaching, and were not afraid to let it be seen that they wished to honour God and keep His commandments. Owen's mates, who had known him in the days when he had thought very much as they did, left no stone unturned to show their ill-will to him and his family now that so marked a change had taken place. There was in the village a certain Arthur Pendrean. He was the son of old Squire Pendrean, who had at first greatly opposed his son's wish to become a clergyman. On one occasion, when Wesley had been preaching in the village, and had been in danger from the rough crowd, Arthur, then but a boy, had been so indignant at their behaviour, that he had rushed forward with the intention of placing himself between the old man and his rough assailants.
A few days later this story reached the Squire's ears, who, in a violent passion, sent for his son and told him that if he ever went near the Methodists again, he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors. A few years later, when, between sixteen and seventeen years of age, the youth left school, he told his father boldly that he wished to go to Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The boy had a hard time of it before he won the old Squire's consent, but in time leave was given.
Arthur Pendrean had from the first taken a keen interest in the Tresilian family, and had watched most carefully over Philip. He was aware of the ill-will felt by the rest of the villagers towards his charges, and made it no secret that he was one of the sternest opponents of the evil practice of wrecking. It was well known that Arthur had set his face against their evil designs, and that it was his determination to have a lighthouse built, no matter at what cost, to warn off ships from this doubly dangerous spot. The worst-disposed among the men would have made short work of the young clergyman could they have had their way and escaped consequences. At least, they would prevent, if it lay in their power, the carrying out of his cherished plan, the erection of a lighthouse. It was perhaps natural that hating the 'parson,' they should not feel kindly disposed towards those who closely followed his advice and over whom he so carefully watched. It was in these circumstances that the following occurrences took place. Arthur was about to ride to St. Sennen one Sunday morning, when his faithful old servant, Roger, came up to him and said, 'I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with a press-gang on board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favourite day for those chaps to land; they always find the men at home then, and so they are easier to catch. I thought I would warn you about it, sir, because their game is to carry off all the men and lads who are called Methodists.'
'This is bad news,' Arthur had replied. 'I knew a press-gang was in the neighbourhood, but never thought of their coming our way. I will gallop down to Sennen Cove at once.'
Arrived at the Cove, Arthur found everything as usual, the cutter lying quietly at anchor and a few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the beach watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of those on board.
On Sunday afternoon we again see the young curate; we hear his stern voice as he asks a group of six stalwart men, 'What are you doing here, men? Take your hands off those lads at once; what right have you to drag them away?' We see the men, furious at this repulse, falling upon Arthur from behind and dragging him to the ground, and Philip with him. The young clergyman, brave man that he was, was no match for six assailants at once, and was of course unable to withstand the combined attack. Promising Philip that he would have him released when he reached Plymouth, for he was under seventeen, and handing him as a memento a small Testament, and commending him to the care of God, he was obliged to witness the rowing away of the boat that carried his young charge every minute farther out of sight.
Philip's capture would not have been brought about had it not been for the ill designs of the youths of his own age who were no friends to Arthur Pendrean. The scheme for decoying him into the immediate neighbourhood of the press-gang belonged to two of the worst characters in the village. But we will not enter into details of their scheming. It is enough to know that for the time being their wicked designs were successful, and we find Philip within a very short time on board the _Royal Sovereign_, one of the finest line-of-battle ships in Earl Howe's fleet.
The trouble and grief of his father and little sister when they learned what had happened was great. Owen at first refused all comfort. It was in vain that Mr. Pendrean promised to spare no pains to bring the lad home again: the bereaved father would not be comforted. It was in this state of mind that he set out for Falmouth, accompanied by Arthur Pendrean, as they thought it not improbable that the cutter might put into this port before proceeding to Plymouth. Her crew were, however, too wide awake, and the press-gang too anxious to secure prize-money, to run any risk of losing those whom they had captured, and pressed for his Majesty's navy; they therefore made straight for the fleet. How Philip Tresilian subsequently fought in the battle of the first of June, how he saw for the first time and understood something of the horrors of war, are all graphically described by the author.
(_Concluded on page 42._)
FOOTNOTE:
[1] This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., London.)
HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.
I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'
(_Concluded from page 39._)
We shall now take a peep at the lighthouse and its first watcher. 'That will never be finished,' said one of the wreckers, when he saw the work slowly progressing on the lonely rock at Land's End. But it was finished. Arthur Pendrean wrote to many rich ship-owners in London and elsewhere, and at length, by the aid of their money and the toil of skilful workmen, a light began to burn in the Longships Lighthouse on September 29, 1795. Those were early days of lighthouses, and experience had hardly yet proved the risk and the danger of leaving one man alone on a solitary rock to attend to the lights, often cut off for days, or even weeks, from all communication with the shore. In these days things are very different. Three men, and sometimes four, are appointed to take charge of lighthouses, such as the Longships, Eddystone, and others.
One night a furious gale from the south-west raged along the coast; many were the watchers at Sennen and other villages along the shore, keeping a sharp look-out for wrecks; but whether owing to the lighthouse or to the fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortunes of others were frustrated. Owen felt very anxious about the lonely lighthouse-keeper, whom he could not help thinking of as trimming his lamps on the solitary rock with the roar of the ocean around and below him. He knew that one who had not been there could not possibly have any idea of the awful noise on the Longships Rock occasioned by the roaring and the raging of the waves in the caverns underneath. We cannot stay to describe all that Jordan, the lighthouse-keeper, in his loneliness experienced, nor to tell how the waves, leaping above the lighthouse, sometimes completely covered it. We see him as he walks about, now up and now down, almost terrified by the fierce yells and shrieks which fell upon his ears, and at last watch him, in despair, fling himself upon his bed. Oh, that he had never been tempted to come to this accursed, haunted rock--for haunted he felt certain it was! Like most sailors, he was more or less superstitious, and the angry roar in the caverns beneath sounded to him like the roar of hundreds of imprisoned wild beasts, until, by-and-by, losing all his presence of mind, his hair turns white in a single night with terror, and he becomes a maniac. It was thus that Arthur Pendrean found him several days later, when, seeing, to his great grief, that the lamps were unlit, he put out to learn the cause in a little boat manned by Owen and one or two of his friends. How Owen and the others failed to effect a landing on the rock, and how the brave young clergyman made a bold leap, springing safely upon a projecting ledge of the Longships, is all thrillingly told in the chapter headed 'A Hazardous Voyage and a Bold Leap.'
Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is the bravery of Mary Tresilian, Philip's little sister, who, although only a child, when she sees that no man can be found to undertake the dangerous and difficult work of keeping the lamps lit on the Longships, begs her father most earnestly to himself undertake the task, and permit her to accompany him. At first he would not hear of it, neither would Arthur Pendrean; but the child pleaded so earnestly and fearlessly that, in the end, no one else coming forward to undertake the duty, they yielded to her prayers. And so we find the light burning again in the lighthouse, thanks to the courage and unselfishness of a brave little girl.
'Trust me, I will be a match for them, somehow or other,' said Nichols, when he knew who the new lighthouse-keepers were. 'I have an old grudge against that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that parson, you all know what I think of him.'
'Well, John, there's many a chap here will be glad enough to help you,' said Pollard.
A very exciting chapter is that entitled 'A New Conspiracy,' which tells how Owen, coming ashore with some fish, was waylaid by a ruthless gang of wreckers and smugglers, who tied him up as a prisoner, and would have left him to starve had it not been for one of them with a little more heart than the rest, who cut the cords that bound his wrists, seeing there was no chance of his escape from the cavern into which they thrust him, bolting and barring the gate that closed it. A more wretched dungeon could scarcely be imagined. Dark even in brilliant noon-day, damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the ground full of pools of stagnant sea water, the air so chilly that it seemed to freeze one to the very bones, such was the place to which these cowardly enemies consigned the unfortunate man. And he? His thoughts were of his little child. Truly his troubles were great; his wife was dead, his son torn from him, and now his daughter, his only child, doomed, as he thought, to a terrible fate, while he, her father, was a prisoner and powerless to help her. But was he powerless? Could he not pray? It was this thought that caused him to fall on his knees in his lonely prison and entreat protection for her from the Father in heaven.
And Mary, what was she doing? At first, when she found that her father did not come back, she gave way to grief. The darkness coming on and the tempest rising, with trembling hands she tried to make a fire. Suddenly the thought struck her that the lamps were not lit, and she determined, brave child that she was, to light them herself. She had often watched her father do it, and she knew how. She stood on tip-toe to reach the lamps, but they were far, far above her. Nothing daunted, she piled one thing above another until every article that she could lay hold of was in use except the old Bible. Being a very reverent little girl, she could not bear the idea of treading on the Holy Book; but, at last, when she had reflected that her standing on the book for the purpose she had in view, the saving of the lives of many poor sailors, could do it no harm, she placed it reverently on the top of the pile, and above it, that she might not tread directly on to it, a large basin. And now she was just high enough, and found, to her great delight, that she could light the lamps. Great was the surprise of Nichols and his companions when they saw, as they ascended rising ground with their false light, the bright rays of light streaming out from the Longships. For a minute or two they could say nothing; then a volley of wicked words proceeded from them.
'Who would have thought it? That child has managed to light the lamps, and there they are burning as brightly as ever.'
'Who would have thought it indeed?' exclaimed Nichols. 'If it had ever entered my head that the girl would have been up to those tricks, I'd have rowed out in Tresilian's boat, carried her off from the lighthouse, and locked her up with her father; and now here's all my fine plan spoiled.'
For the beautiful ending of this attractive story, of Owen's release and Philip's rescue from drowning by his own father, and of the punishment that befell the wicked men who occasioned the deaths of so many brave fellows, we can only say that our young readers should go to the book itself, where they will find these facts all set forth in a thoroughly interesting manner. To-day a new lighthouse stands on the Longships, and the light shines out at an elevation of one hundred and ten feet above high-water mark, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles.
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
II.--SOME WEAPONS OF OFFENCE.
The sting of the bee and the lancet of the gnat, although fashioned of very different materials, bear a close likeness in their mechanism. In each case the piercing organ is, in the first place, a gouge-like weapon which prepares the way for more delicate lancets. But in the spider we find a very different piece of machinery for the injection of the poison. It is formed by a pair of peculiarly modified legs which act as jaws, and are armed each with a powerful claw, at the tip of which, as in the poison-fang of the viper, is a small hole. Out of this hole a drop of poison oozes when the prey is seized, and this has the effect of paralysing the victim. The poison is formed in a curious bag, or 'gland' (G.L), which communicates with the claw by means of a long tube or duct.
Many people feel a remarkable repugnance or even dread for spiders. This, in many cases at least, is due to the supposed venom in their bite. Yet, except the famous 'Tarantula,' no spiders really inflict a painful wound. Tales of fearsome black spiders are common enough. One of the spiders known as 'line weavers' is reputed to have a very poisonous bite. To test the truth of this, one authority on spiders repeatedly allowed himself to be bitten, yet suffered no inconvenience! In the early and barbarous days of medical practice, a spider was frequently applied to the wrists of patients suffering from fever.
Even the virulence of the dreaded Tarantula's bite has been greatly exaggerated. It was supposed to cause the disease known as Tarantism: the victim was seized with a mad desire to dance. The mania, while it lasted, was accompanied with leaping, contortions, gesticulations, and wild cries, until finally the fit of hysteria, for such it was, wore itself out. The methods of treatment were many and curious. One of the most favoured was to bury the patient up to the neck! But the dulcet strains of music were believed to be the most powerful of all cures, and certain peculiar tunes came to be regarded as especially effective, and hence became known as Tarantella!
Parts of India now desert are said to have been deprived of their inhabitants through the dread caused by certain huge spiders known as the Galeodes. Their bite is without doubt extremely painful, and may cause violent headache, fainting fits, or even temporary paralysis. Camels and sheep are sometimes so severely bitten by these spiders that death results.
Occasionally the spider catches a Tartar, for wasps and bees now and again get entangled in the web spread for more helpless victims. Rushing out in a blind fury, the spider closes with his captive, and then follows a fight to the death. Sometimes the spider wins, but as often as not the sting of his would-be victim is thrust home with deadly effect, for the soft and pulpy body of the spider offers a target not easily missed.
* * * * *
There is a saying that we should 'eat to live,' but the dragon-flies seem to have reversed this rule, for they appear almost to 'live to eat,' their appetites being enormous. This is especially true of the larval or infantile stages of growth, and the manner of capturing their prey is peculiar.
Readers of _Chatterbox_, who combine a love of natural history with a fondness for boating, have probably many a time watched the gauze-winged dragon-fly hawking for flies. But how many have realised that, below the surface of the stream, the coming generation of dragon-flies was waging a precisely similar war--a war, too, even more relentless? The full-fledged dragon-fly cannot bring himself to venture out, even to eat, unless the sun be shining; but the budding dragon-fly has not yet learnt to be so particular, and hunts incessantly, be the weather fine or wet. The apparatus by which his prey is captured cannot, however, be easily described. The mouth of an insect is made up of many separate parts, and that which in other insects forms the 'under-lip,' is in the young dragon-fly peculiarly modified to form what is known as the 'mask.' This remarkable piece of apparatus may be compared to a pair of nippers mounted on a jointed and freely movable handle. When not in use these nippers are kept folded up close under the head; but as soon as prey comes within reach, the nippers flash out, and the victim is seized and brought to the powerful jaws, where it is rapidly torn to pieces.
The weapons of offence of the spider and dragon-fly larva differ in one important particular from those of the bee and the water-bug, and similar insects: the former are used for the capture of victims intended as food, whilst the latter are employed, in the case of the bee, for attack or defence; and in the case of the water-bug for robbing the animal or plant of a small and quite insignificant quantity of its blood, or sap, as the case may be.
W. P. PYCRAFT, A.L.S., F.Z.S.
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 38._)
Thoughts of the ill-favoured tramp had once or twice come into my head while I ate my eggs and bacon, but, perhaps as one result of the meal, I felt very little doubt that he had by this time got some distance ahead, while the rest which I had determined to take would allow him to leave me still further behind. On coming into the street again, however, I took the precaution to look to the right and left, and rejoiced to see no sign of the man. The houses of Broughton soon grew farther and farther apart, but I had to walk a mile or more without seeing any tempting resting-place. The sun was very hot, and my legs were beginning to ache, when, at the foot of a slight hill, I saw that the road was edged on each side by a thick wood, whose shade looked particularly inviting. As soon as I reached the shade, I found that I was not alone, for sitting in the road were two men wearing wire spectacles and breaking stones with a hammer. They paid not the slightest attention to me, while, for my part, I felt rather glad of their presence. The shade made the spot seem more lonely than the road I had as yet traversed, so that I stepped into the wood on my right with a pleasant feeling of security. A few yards from the road I lay down at the foot of a large beech-tree, and resting my head on my bag, after listening for a few minutes to the ring of the hammers in the road, I must have fallen asleep. On reopening my eyes I instinctively felt for my watch, and when I realised that I should never see it again, it seemed that I had lost a familiar friend. The sun now shone lower in the sky, and it must in any case be time that I continued my journey.
Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walked towards the road, when what was my dismay to see the tramp, who I imagined had long left me behind, seated by the roadside, smoking a very short, black pipe and gazing silently at the stone-breakers. Although he took no notice of my presence, I now began to wonder whether he had deliberately followed me from Broughton, or whether his presence in this shady part of the road was merely a chance coincidence. It was quite possible that he had hidden himself while I was in the coffee-shop, watched me from its door, and set forth in my wake. If this were the case, his purpose seemed scarcely doubtful, for he had certainly seen me receive the money for my watch and chain.
Still, it was not possible to stay where I was all day, so reluctantly turning my back on the stone-breakers, I walked on, trying to hope that, after all, the tramp might be perfectly harmless in spite of his evil appearance. Though strongly tempted to look behind and ascertain whether he was following or not, I warned myself that it would be wiser to appear to take no notice, till, at last, when the stone-breakers must have been half a mile to the rear, I looked back, and saw, to my horror, that the tramp was still dogging my steps.