CHAPTER X.

Tony Bronson was the son of a man who had made a great deal of money in a doubtful line of business by rather shady proceedings. In other words, he was not strictly honest, and had amassed a large fortune in a manner that would not bear investigation.

Of this Tony, of course, was ignorant; but he inherited from his father a mean spirit and a determination to turn every circumstance to his own account. He had been sent early to St. Asaph's School that he might associate with the sons of gentlemen and become a gentleman himself, but he had acquired only the outward veneering. His manners were most courteous, his language carefully chosen, and he had sufficient wit to enable him to readily adapt himself to his companions, but he had not the instincts of a true gentleman. He was mean, he was something of a coward, and he was very much of a bully.

Years ago, soon after the two boys first met at St. Asaph's, Neal detected Tony in a cowardly, dishonorable action, and had openly accused him of it. Tony never forgave him, but he bided his time. With an unlimited amount of pocket-money of his own, he soon discovered that Neal was running short. When a convenient opportunity came he offered to lend him a small sum. Neal, after a moment's hesitation, weakly accepted the money, assuring himself that it was only for a short time, and that he could easily repay it, and then have no more to do with Bronson. It saved him trouble.

Thus it had gone on. The time never came when Neal felt able to pay the debt; on the other hand, he borrowed more, and now it had reached alarming proportions. His monthly allowance, when it arrived, was gone in a flash, for Neal had never been in the habit of denying himself. It would have been hard for him to explain why he did not go frankly to his sister, tell her the whole story, and ask for her help, except that he was thoroughly ashamed of having placed himself in such straits and did not want to acknowledge it.

Tony Bronson had become intimate with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's, Tom not being particular in his choice of friends. In that way he had come to visit the Morgans in Brenton. His handsome face and apparently perfect manner attracted many to him who could not see beneath the surface, and his languid man-of-the-world air made an impression.

He cultivated this to the last degree. He was not naturally so lazy, but he thought it effective.

When he said to Edith that he wished to tell her something about Neal Gordon, she looked at him in still greater surprise.

"I want to ask your help, Miss Franklin. A girl can manage these things so much better than a fellow. I like Gordon immensely, and I want to do all I can to help him out of a scrape."

"Does he know that you are speaking to me about him?"

"No, of course not. The fact is--"

"Then I think, Mr. Bronson," interrupted Edith, gently, but with decision, "that perhaps it would be better for us not to discuss him."

"But you quite misunderstand me, Miss Franklin. I am speaking only for his own good. I can't bear to see a fellow going straight to the bad, as I really am very much afraid he is, and not lift a finger to help him. I thought if I told you that perhaps you might speak to his sister--"

Edith interrupted him again, with heightened color. "I can do nothing of the sort. Nothing would induce me to speak to Mrs. Franklin on the subject. I--I couldn't possibly."

Bronson looked at her compassionately.

"Ah, it is as I thought! You and Mrs. Franklin are not congenial. I am so sorry."

Edith said nothing. She knew that he should not make such a remark to her, a perfect stranger. She felt that he did not ring true. And yet she could not bring herself to administer the reproof that Cynthia would have given under like circumstances.

"I am afraid I have offended you," said Bronson, presently; "do forgive me! And if you like I will say no more about the bad scrape Gordon is in. I thought perhaps I could prevent a letter coming from the faculty, but I see it's of no use. I'm awfully sorry for the fellow. You don't really think you could do anything to influence his sister?"

At last Edith found her voice.

"I don't think I can. And if you don't mind I would rather not discuss the Gordons--I mean, Mrs. Franklin and her brother."

"Certainly not, if you don't wish, and you won't repeat what I said, of course. If we can't help him, of course we had better not let it get out about Gordon any sooner than necessary. But holloa! What's this? The carpet seems to be getting damp."

It undoubtedly was, and gave forth a most unpleasantly moist sound when pressed. Upon investigation they found that the bottom of the canoe was filled with water. They had sprung a leak.

"We had better get back as quickly as possible," said Edith, rather relieved to have the conversation come to an end. "Is there a sponge there? I can bail if it gets any worse."

But no sponge was to be found, and it rapidly grew worse; Edith's skirts were damp and draggled. Presently there was an inch of water above the carpet.

"We shall sink if this goes on," she said.

"Oh, I fancy not," returned Bronson, easily; "we haven't very far to go."

But their progress was not rapid, and the pool in the canoe grew deeper.

"Perhaps you will lend me your cap," said Edith; "I can use it as a dipper." He did so, and she bailed vigorously. "It must be a very large leak. I suppose we got it on that rock in the rapids, and we scraped again just before we tied up, which made it worse. If it were our boat I would not care, but I think it is Neal's."

She was so occupied that she did not see Bronson smile. His smile was not attractive, though his teeth were perfect.

Matters would have gone badly with them if they had not at this moment met Jack and Kitty Morgan in the Franklins' canoe.

"What's the row?" called Jack.

"Nothing much," said Bronson. "We've sprung a little leak, that's all."

"A little leak! I should think so. My eye! Why, man, you must have a regular hole for the water to come in like that. Where have you been, anyhow? You had better put in here at this little beach and step over into my boat."

"What's the matter with stepping over right where we are? No need of going to shore."

Jack eyed him with curiosity and contempt. He looked so much like Cynthia that Bronson felt withered. He did not care for Cynthia, for he knew that she did not like him.

Jack did not speak at once, but paddled towards the bank. Then he said:

"You won't try stepping from one canoe to another in mid-stream if I have anything to say about it."

The change was safely accomplished, and they proceeded down the river towing the injured boat, the carpet and cushions having been transferred with the passengers. Relieved of the weight it did not fill as rapidly, and they at last reached the picnic-ground.

Bronson was mortified at coming back in such ignominious plight, but he made the best of it.

"I am awfully sorry, Gordon, if it is your canoe. It must have been pretty frail, though, to go to pieces at a mere scratch."

"She's the finest cedar canoe to be found in the city of Boston, and it would take more than a mere scratch to do her up this way. From appearances I should say you had pounded round on the rocks pretty freely," growled Neal, who had turned the boat upside down, and was examining it carefully.

Bronson stooped over him. For the moment they were alone.

"Of course I would feel worse about it if it were any one's but yours. As it is, we'll just call ten off that fifty still owing. That will go towards repairs. More than cover them, I should say."

Then he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets.

"What a cad the fellow is!" muttered Neal. "It would give me real pleasure to knock him down."

"I heard him," said Cynthia. Her cheeks were red and her blue eyes had grown very dark. "He is an odious, hateful creature, and I _de-spise_ him!"

Having delivered herself of this, Cynthia felt better.

They all went home soon afterwards, Edith leaving earlier in the carriage with Mrs. Franklin, for her shoes and skirts were too wet for her to wait for the slower movements of the canoes. It was an unfortunate ending to the day, and Edith was uncomfortable also about her conversation with Bronson. She knew that she ought not to have listened to a word of it.

She wondered if it were really true that Neal was in difficulty. She thought she must talk it over with Cynthia that night. Of course Cynthia would stand up for Neal, that went without saying, but it was always a relief to Edith to talk things over with her.

It was a rather silent drive home, and Mrs. Franklin sighed to herself when Edith barely replied to her remarks. It seemed perfectly hopeless; she and Edith would never grow any nearer to each other; but there was nothing to be done.

That night, when the girls went to their room, Edith was spared the necessity of opening the subject, for Cynthia began at once.

"What a perfectly hateful creature that Bronson is! I don't see how you could go on the river with him, Edith. I think you got well paid for it."

"I don't see why you dislike him so, Cynthia. You take such tremendous prejudices. He is awfully handsome."

"Handsome! I don't admire that style. That la-da-da-it-is-I-just-please-look-at-me kind doesn't go down with me."

Cynthia thrust her hands into imaginary pockets, leaned languidly against the bedpost, and rolled her eyes.

"Er--Miss Franklin--carn't I persuade you to go out on the rivah?" she said, with an exaggerated manner and accent, and a throaty voice.

Edith laughed. Cynthia was a capital mimic.

"I like a broad A, and, of course, I never would use anything else myself, but his is broader than the Mississippi. It just shows it isn't natural to him. To hear him talk about 'darmp grarss,' and he'd just come from 'South_armp_ton.' He is a regular _sharm_ himself. I dare say he was brought up to say 'ca'm' and 'pa'm' and 'hain't' and 'ain't.'"

"Cynthia, what a goose you are!"

"Well, I can't bear him, and neither can Neal. Jack doesn't like him either."

"There, that is just it. You are so influenced by Neal and Jack. Tony Bronson spoke very nicely of Neal, as if he were a true friend of his."

"Pooh! Much friend he!"

"Well, he did, Cynthia, and that is just what I want to talk over with you. Neal must be in some terrible scrape."

"Has that Bronson been telling you about that?" cried Cynthia, indignantly.

"Oh, then it is really true! I thought it must be."

"No, it isn't--at least, not what Bronson told you. I am just certain that whatever he told you wasn't true," said Cynthia, who felt that she had said more than she should. "I shouldn't think you would have discussed Neal with him. Neal is one of our family."

"I didn't," said Edith, somewhat curtly, "though I don't exactly see why you should speak of Neal Gordon as one of our family. I told Mr. Bronson I preferred not to talk about him. But he spoke so nicely of Neal, and said he wanted to help him, and he was afraid the faculty would write about him, and he wanted to get him out of the scrape if he could."

"Oh, the hypocrite! But what is the scrape? Did he say?"

"No, I wouldn't let him. But it is absurd to call him a hypocrite, Cynthia. I shall never believe it unless you tell me why you think so."

"I can't do that, but I _know_ he is," said Cynthia, stoutly. "You have just got to take my word for it, for I can't explain."

The girls talked far into the night, but Edith was not convinced. She felt that there was something at the bottom of it all, for Cynthia could not deny it. After all, she was sorry. Edith liked Neal, a Gordon though he was. But she did not doubt that he was in a difficulty of some kind.

The summer was over and the glorious autumn leaves dropped from the trees, leaving the branches bare and ready for the coming of snow. One could see the course of the river plainly now from Oakleigh windows. Beautiful October was swallowed up by chill November, and the wind grew biting. One was glad of the long evenings, when the curtains could be drawn and the lamps lighted early to shut out the gray skies and dreary landscape.

Neal was back at St. Asaph's, and the winter work had begun. Cynthia and Jack went every day to Boston, and Edith also went in three times a week for lessons. She objected to this on the plea of expense, much as she desired a thorough education. She greatly feared her step-mother had brought it about. But her father reprimanded her sharply when she said something of this, and insisted that she should do as he desired.

The poultry had already begun to bring in a little money, for Jack sold a few "broilers" to his mother at market prices, though she usually added a few cents more a pound.

"They are so delicious, Jack," said she; "better than I could get anywhere else, and worth the money."

He kept his accounts most carefully, and it was pleasant to write down a few figures on the page for receipts, which thus far had presented an appalling blank.

In due time came a present to Edith from Aunt Betsey: a package containing an old-fashioned camel's-hair scarf that had belonged to "Grandmother Trinkett," and, scattered among its folds, five ten-dollar gold pieces.

Government had proved worthy of the old lady's trust, for the money had come safely; but then she had actually addressed the package clearly and correctly.

Edith, of course, was much pleased, and notwithstanding her aunt's suggestion that she should place it in the savings-bank, she determined to expend the money in a handsome winter suit and hat. She dearly loved nice clothes.

Cynthia looked somewhat scornfully at the new garments.

"If Aunt Betsey sends me fifty dollars, you won't catch me spending it on finery," she informed her family. "I have other things to do with _my_ money."

She did not know how truly she spoke, nor what would be the result of her manner of spending Aunt Betsey's present.

The fall slipped quickly by, and the Christmas holidays drew near. Neal was coming to Oakleigh, and many things were planned for the entertainment of the young people.

Cynthia went about fairly bursting with excitement and secrets. This was her best-loved time of the whole year, and she was making the most of it.

The 25th of December fell on a Wednesday this year, and Neal came down from St. Asaph's on Monday, to be in good season for the festivities of Christmas Eve. Plenty of snow had fallen, and all kinds of jolly times were looked for.

Outside the scene was wintry indeed, and the white walls of Oakleigh looked cold and dreary in the sitting of snow which lay so thickly over river, meadow, and hill, but in the house there was plenty of life and cheery warmth. Great fires burned briskly in all the chimneys, and the rooms were bright and cozy with warm-looking carpets and curtains and comfortable furniture. There had been a good deal done to the house, both outside and in, since the coming of Mrs. Franklin. Edith still maintained to herself that she did not like it, but every one else thought matters vastly improved.

"Hurray! hurray!" cried Jack, rushing into the house on Tuesday and slamming down his books; "good-by to school for ten days! It was a mean shame that we had to have school at all this week. Neal, you were in luck. St. Asaph's must be mighty good fun, anyhow. By-the-way," continued he, holding his chilled hands to the fire, "I saw that Bronson fellow in town to-day--the one that smashed your canoe."

"You did?" said Neal, glancing up from his book, while Cynthia gave an exclamation of disgust.

"Yes," said Jack, "and he said the Morgans had asked him out here for the holidays, so I guess we are in for another dose. It strikes me they must be pretty hard up for company to want him."

Neal said nothing. Edith looked up from her work and watched him sharply, but his face told little.

"Hateful thing!" exclaimed Cynthia. "I would like to pack my trunk and take a train out of Brenton as he comes in on another."

"I can't see why you all dislike him so," observed Edith. "You detest him, don't you, Neal?"

"Oh, Edith, do hush!" cried Cynthia. "Yes, of course he does; he's hateful." But Neal still said nothing, and Edith got no satisfaction.

Christmas Eve closed in early. At about four o'clock it began to snow, and the wind blew great drifts against the side of the house. Every one said it was going to be an old-fashioned Christmas.

It was the custom in the Franklin household to look at the presents that night. As Cynthia said, when arguing the point with some one who thought it a shocking idea to see one's gifts before Christmas morning, it made it so much more exciting to open their own packages, and to look at their treasures by lamplight. Then in the morning they had the pleasure of seeing them a second time, and of investigating their stockings, which, of course, were hung ready for the coming of Santa Claus.

After supper Jack and Neal carried in the great clothes-basket which for days had been the receptacle for packages of all sizes and kinds, those that had come by post and those which the family themselves had carefully tied up, until now it looked like Santa Claus's own pack.

Mrs. Franklin presided at the basket and read the names, and when the colored ribbons were untied and the tempting-looking white parcels were opened, there were shrieks and exclamations of delight, for every one declared that this particular gift was just what he or she most desired.

Each one had a table covered with a white cloth, upon which to place his treasures, and when all was done the "long parlor" at Oakleigh looked like a fancy bazar, so many and varied were the articles displayed.

There was an odd-looking package addressed to Jack and Cynthia. It was heavy and covered with postage-stamps in consequence, and proved to be a large box stuffed with straw.

"What under the sun is it? Of course it's from Aunt Betsey," said Jack, as he rooted down into the hay, scattering it in all directions. Out came what appeared to be an egg tied up with old-fashioned plaid ribbon, and an ancient-looking beaded purse. The purse was marked "Cynthia," so Jack appropriated the egg, but with an exclamation of chagrin.

"She is sending coals to Newcastle," said he. "Aunt Betsey must have thought it was Easter. But it is the queerest-feeling egg I ever came across. It's as heavy as lead."

He shook it and held it up to the light.

"Ha, ha!" said he; "a good egg! I'd like to have the machine packed with just such eggs."

Inside were ten five-dollar gold pieces, and Cynthia found the same in her purse.

"I will put mine away for a 'safety' in the spring," said Jack, clinking his gold with the air of a miser, and examining the empty egg-shells. "Isn't Aunt Betsey a daisy and no mistake? Just see the way she's fixed up this egg-shell; she cut it in half as neat as a pin. I don't see how she ever did it."

"I wish I had an Aunt Betsey," remarked Neal; "those gold pieces would come in pretty handy just now."

"Aunt Betsey is so fond of giving gold," said Cynthia. "She always says it is real money, and bills are nothing but paper. I shall put mine away for the present, until I think of something I want terribly much, and then I will go grandly to Boston and buy it like a duchess. Goody Two-shoes, but I feel rich!"

And she danced gayly up and down the room, waving her purse in the air.

Neal had very nice presents, but he was disappointed to find that there was no money among them. He suspected, and correctly, that his sister and her husband had thought it wiser not to give him any more at present.

"Then I'm in for it," thought he. "I'll have to ask Hessie, and there'll be no end of a row. Of course she will give it to me in the end, but it would have been nicer all round if she had come out handsomely with a Christmas check. Of course these skates are dandy, and so is the dress-suit case and the nobby umbrella and the sleeve-buttons; but just at present I would rather have the cash they all cost."

He said something of this afterwards to Cynthia.

"Bronson is screwing me for all he's worth," said he. "I'll have to get the money somehow, and fifty dollars is no joke. Of course, I'm not going to take off the ten he so kindly offered for the canoe; I'd like to see myself! If Hessie doesn't see matters in the same light I'll have to do something desperate. But, of course, she will give it to me."

"Neal," said Cynthia, impulsively, "if mamma doesn't give you the money you must borrow it of me. There is that fifty dollars Aunt Betsey has given me. You can have it just as well as not."

"Cynthia, you're a brick, and no mistake," said Neal, looking at her affectionately, "but you know I wouldn't take your money for the world. You must think me a low-down sort of fellow if you think I would."

"How absurd! It is a great deal better to owe it to me instead of to a stranger like Bronson, or any one else. I'm sure I think of you just as if you were my brother, and Jack wouldn't mind taking it. You can pay it back when you get your own money."

"Yes, nine years from now," said Neal. "No, indeed, Cynth, I'll have to be pretty hard up before I borrow of a girl."

"I think you are too bad," said Cynthia, almost crying. "I don't see the difference between a girl and anybody else. I don't need the money; I don't know what to buy with it. I would just love to have you take it. It would be lovely to think my money had paid your debts, and then you could start all fresh. Please, Neal, say you will if mamma does not give it to you."

But Neal would not promise.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A MILITARY BICYCLE CORPS' OUTING.

The bicycle corps of a military academy near Chicago recently made a journey on wheels from that city to Springfield and back again, camping at night wherever darkness overtook them, foraging among the neighboring farm-houses for their subsistence, and conducting themselves on the whole as if they were actually in the field on active service. A guard was posted as soon as camp was pitched in the evening, and sentries kept watch throughout the night, keeping away all intruders, and seeing to it that none of the cadets ran the lines to visit a near-by village, or to milk some unprotected cow in a neighboring farm-yard. The boys did their own cooking, which at times was marvellous to look upon, and fearful to digest; but they all lived through the experience, and got back to the school in the best of health and condition. A week was occupied in making the trip, and the experience and general knowledge of bicycling which the cadets acquired in that time was such as they doubtless could never have obtained in any other way. There were seventeen in the party, including the Major commanding, who was one of the instructors at the academy, and each wheelman carried about thirty pounds of baggage, consisting of a change of under-clothing, a blanket, a shelter tent, arms, and cooking utensils. The incidents of the journey were many, and the element of adventure was not lacking.

Of course there were a number of accidents to the machines, one of the most serious occurring about the fourth or fifth day out when about eighty miles from Springfield. It was a creeping tire, and no amount of cement or tire-tape could be made to stop it. A total of eight valves was torn off in that one day, which, with the delay caused by punctures from thorn-hedges, cost a great loss of time. When within ten miles of Springfield, with a heavy thunder-storm coming up behind them, the tires of two wheels got badly punctured, and a halt had to be called. It was thought that repairs could be quickly effected, but this proved not to be the case, and the main body was thereupon ordered to push on, while the disabled riders were left to complete their patching, with orders to catch up as soon as possible. But night and the storm came on rapidly, and under these unfavorable circumstances the cadets were unable to locate the punctures. They therefore determined to camp for the night, and having found shelter behind a hay-stack, they put up their shelter tents over their wheels and slept comfortably in the storm all night. The next morning repairs were effected, and by fast riding the stragglers overtook their companions.

The foraging was a source of about as much fun to the boys as the cooking. The first evening of the trip the foragers brought back to camp among other things a bag of oatmeal. A special order was given to the guard that night to notify the three-o'clock detail to put the oatmeal on the fire to cook slowly at 3.30 A.M. The guard obeyed his instructions as far as they went, but, not being a cook, and having received no further orders, he did not look at the oatmeal again, with the result that this particular breakfast dish was not much of a success. But sleeping in the open air sharpens the appetite, and burnt as it was, the oatmeal was entirely consumed. On another occasion--this time it was for luncheon--foragers were, as usual, detailed to supply the commissariat. All who had been sent out returned to camp within a reasonable time, except two, and it was soon deemed expedient by the Major to send a corporal's guard in search of these. The guard remaining absent very much longer than seemed necessary, the Major himself mounted his wheel and started to gather in the delinquents. He found them, corporal's guard and all, comfortably seated behind a hay-stack eating pork and beans and cold chicken, and drinking fragrant hot coffee from a generous earthen pot. The farmers all along the route were most generous to the bicyclists. In a number of cases they absolutely refused to accept any pay for provisions furnished. At a place near Bloomington the country people were notably hospitable. One man brought to the camp seven dozen eggs, another six spring chickens, and another a pail of milk, while one thoughtful mother sent all the pies she had in the house. Then the good natives sat around on the grass and watched the boys cook and eat.

Wherever it was possible to do so, camp was pitched near water. One of the prettiest spots found was on the shore of the Kankakee River, near Wilmington, where the corps brought up late one afternoon after a hot and dusty ride. Tents were never before so quickly raised, and a minute later the quiet stream was being churned into foam by the swimmers. At Lincoln the camp was on State property, and the boys had the use of the National Guard's swimming pool. But this was not the only courtesy they received at the hands of the militia. At this same Camp Lincoln the Adjutant-General's department had provided good-sized tents for the bicyclists, with extra blankets, and a cooking-stove, on which hot coffee was steaming when the corps arrived. Further on in the run the same hospitality was shown. At Streator a good-natured merchant distributed free soda-water checks to all, and as many as each wanted. One lady invited the cadets into her house and gave them cake and lemonade, and had all the girls of the neighborhood in to serve it. The notes of the "Assembly Call" were mighty unwelcome sounds that afternoon.

But besides the fun and the exercise and healthfulness of the journey, a good deal of useful information was absorbed. On the run out from Chicago the road followed the line of the new drainage canal, giving all a good opportunity to witness the blasting and the working of the giant machine shovels. At Springfield the corps visited the Legislature, then in session, and the home of President Lincoln. They were also received by the Governor. At Joliet they were taken through the penitentiary, and among other souvenirs of the place, each one carried away a piece of striped cloth from the tailor shops. These pieces did important duty later in the journey, most of them returning to Chicago in the form of patches to the well worn uniforms.

On the whole the trip proved most successful, and there is not much those boys don't know to-day about the handling of bicycles.

A PILOT'S STORY.

For a number of years I have been a traveller on the North River ferry-boats running between New York and Jersey City. One of the pleasures of these short trips has been in my interest and admiration for the skilful way in which such huge, unwieldy boats are handled by their pilots. The tides in the river are at times very strong, and especially so near the ferry slips. To prevent mishaps it requires the most careful manoeuvring, as a small error of judgment might send the heavily laden boat crashing into the bulkheads. Such an accident would endanger the lives of the people on board.

When the heavy gong sounds, and the rumble of the paddle-wheels stops, and the boat glides silently over the water, it is then that the pilot and his engineer are on the alert--one with his hand on the wheel, moving it this way and that, and the other with his hand on the lever bar, ready to back water or go ahead, according to his signals.

I remember a story that a pilot told me, of which he was the hero. He did not tell it boastingly, but in a simple, quiet way, and not before a great deal of persuasion was brought to bear upon him. We were standing at the time on the lower deck of a ferry-boat belonging to the line upon which he was then employed. Pointing to a grimy young bootblack who was industriously polishing away, he said: "At one time I polished boots the same as that youngster is doing there. I loved the boats and the crowds, but more especially I loved to watch the pilot and the engineer at work. To see the latter polishing and oiling his machinery as carefully as a mother would dress a baby was my chief enjoyment. I dare say I knew every part of the engine as well as he did, or at least I thought so, and many a shine I let pass simply to see him work the boat in and out of the slip. This curiosity, or rather interest, on my part stood me in good stead at one time, as you will see. We were unusually crowded on the trip when my stroke of good luck took place, both gangways running past the engine-room being choked up with horses and wagons.

"Most of the drivers had gone forward, and I sat in my usual place on the ledge at the engine-room door alone. Bang! the first bell sounded to reduce her to half speed, and I glanced around to watch the engineer shut off steam. He was sitting facing the engine in his arm-chair, his chin in his hand, and his arm resting on the side of the chair. I was surprised to see that he made no move, and, thinking he was asleep, I ran in to shake him. By this time the pilot evidently thought something was wrong, and the big bell sounded twice, meaning, as you probably know, to stop the engine. I could not make the engineer move, and, without hesitating, I stepped across to the engine, and grasping the wheel, I shut off the steam and disconnected the eccentrics.

"Of course the engine stopped, and the pilot, thinking everything was all right, commenced to send down his signals. I was a little frightened--more at the idea of my working the big engine than at making any mistakes, for I knew exactly what to do. Well, we had some trouble making the slip, and I had to back her out. I can tell you, working that lever bar was no easy job. Then came the sharp tinkle for full speed, and shortly I had her well out into the river. Then came the bells to stop her, and again to reverse and go ahead under half speed.

"By that time I was very tired, but no longer nervous, and when we again neared the slip and the welcome bell to stop the engine sounded, I was very glad. The double signal to back water came, and I pushed the lever bar up and down twice before I got my last signal to stop. When I heard the rattle of the chains as they tied her in the slip I was worn out, and it seems to me I must have fainted, for when I came to it was in the presence of the pilot and some of the officers of the line. They told me the engineer had died of heart-disease; and in recognition of my services they placed me at school and gratified my ambition to become a pilot, as you see."

Hubert Earl.

CORPORAL FRED.[1]

A Story of the Riots.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.