Part 2

Captain Skinner saw that his "talk" was making a deep impression, but the only comment of the chief was a deep, guttural "Ugh!" and the Captain added: "Suppose you make peace. Say have fight enough. Not kill any more. Turn and whip Apache. We help."

"What about camp? Wagon? Horse? Mule? Blanket? All kind of plunder?"

"Make a divide. We'll help ourselves when we take the Apache ponies. You keep one wagon. We keep one. Same way with horses and mules--divide 'em even. You give up prisoners right away. Give 'em their rifles and pistols and knives."

"Ugh! Good! Fight Apaches. Then pale-faces take care of themselves. Give them one day after fight."

That was the sort of treaty that was made, and it saved the lives of Bill and his mates, for the present at least.

It was all Captain Skinner could have expected, but the faces of the miners were sober enough over it.

"Got to help fight Apaches, boys."

"And lose one wagon, and only have a day's start afterward."

The chief had at once ridden back to announce the result to his braves, and they too received it with a sullen approval, which was full of bitter thoughts of what they would do to those pale-faces after the Apaches should be beaten and the "one day's truce" ended.

The three captives were at once set at liberty, their arms restored to them, and they were permitted to return to the camp and pick out, saddle, and mount their own horses.

"The Captain's got us out of our scrape," said Bill. "I can't guess how he did it."

"Must ha' been by shootin' first."

"And all the boys do shoot so awful straight!"

That had a great deal to do with it, but the immediate neighborhood of the Apaches had a great deal more. To-la-go-to-de knew that Captain Skinner was exactly right, and that the Lipans would be in no condition for a battle with the band of Many Bears after one with so desperate a lot of riflemen as those miners.

The next thing was to make the proposed "division" of the property in and about the camp. The Lipan warriors withdrew from it, all but the chief and six braves. Then Captain Skinner and six of his men rode in.

"This my wagon," said Two Knives, laying his hand upon the larger and seemingly the better stored of the two.

"All right. Well take the other. This is our team of mules."

So they went on from one article to another, and it would have taken a keen judge of that kind of property to have told, when the division was complete, which side had the best of it. The Lipans felt that they were giving up a great deal, but only the miners knew how much was being restored to them. It was very certain that they would take the first opportunity which might come to "square accounts" with the miners. Indeed, Captain Skinner was not far from right when he said to his men:

"Boys, it'll be a bad thing for us if the Apaches don't show themselves to-morrow. We can't put any trust in the Lipans."

"Better tell the chief about that old man and the boy," said one of the men.

"I hadn't forgotten it. Yes, I think I'd better."

It was easy to bring old Two Knives to another conference, and he received his message with an "Ugh" which meant a good deal. He had questions to ask, of course, and the Captain gave him as large an idea as he thought safe of the strength and number of the Apaches.

"Let 'em come, though. If we stand by each other, we can beat them off."

"Not wait for Apaches to come," said To-la-go-to-de. "All ride after them to-night. Pale-faces ride with Lipans."

That was a part of the agreement, but it had not been any part of the intention of Captain Skinner.

"We're in for it, boys," he said, when he returned to his own camp. "We must throw the redskins off to-night. It's time to unload that wagon. We're close to the Mexican line. Every man must carry his own share."

"Guess we can do that."

"I don't believe we can. It'll be as much as a man's life's worth to be loaded down too much with all the riding we've got before us."

"We won't leave an ounce if we can help it."

"Well, not any more'n we can help."

It was a strange sight, a little later, the group those ragged, weather-beaten men made around their rescued wagon, while their leader sat in front of it with a pair of scales before him.

"Some of the dust is better than other some."

"So are the bars and nuggets."

"Can't help that," replied Captain Skinner. "Everything's got to go by weight. No assay-office down in this corner of Arizona."

So it was gold they were dividing in those little bags of buckskin that they stored away so carefully. Yellow gold, and very heavy.

Pockets, money-belts, saddle-bags, all sorts of carrying places on men and horses were brought into use, until at last a miner exclaimed:

"It's of no use, boys. I don't care to have any more load about me. Specially if there's to be any running."

"Or any swimming," said another.

"Swimming! I've got enough about me to sink a cork man."

"And I've got all I keer to spend. Enough's as good as a feast, I say."

One after another came to the same opinion, although Captain Skinner remarked:

"We're not taking it all, boys. What'll we do with the rest?"

"Cache it. Hide it."

"For the Lipans to find the next day? No, boys; we'll leave it in the wagon, under the false bottom. That's the safest place for it, if any of us ever come back. No redskins ever took the trouble to haul a wagon across the mountains. It'll stay right here."

The "false bottom" was a simple affair, but well made, and there was room between it and the real bottom to stow a great deal more than the miners were now leaving.

They would have had no time to dig a hiding-place in the earth if they had wanted to, for messengers came from To-la-go-to-de before sunset to tell them he was nearly ready to start, and from that time forward the keen eyes of strolling Lipan horsemen were watching every step that was taken in the camp of their pale-face allies.

"If they want to know how much supper we eat," said the Captain, "we can't help it. I only hope I can blind 'em in some way before morning."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

TIGER TOM.

AN ADVENTURE ON THE WEST COAST OF AFRICA.

BY DAVID KER.

"Any sign of a breeze yet, Mr. Brown?"

"No, sir."

"Humph!"

The Captain's discontented grunt, as he ran his eyes over the lifeless sea and the hot, cloudless sky, was certainly not without reason. To be suddenly becalmed when one is in special haste to get home is at no time the most agreeable thing in the world; but to be becalmed off the pestilential coast of Western Africa, with food and water beginning to run short, and good cause to expect an attack at any moment by an overwhelming force of savages, might overtask the patience of Job himself.

"I guess we've just got to grin and bear it," muttered the Captain. "If the niggers'll only keep as still as the air does! But I'll bet my last dollar they won't. They must have seen us by this time, and a ship in distress to _them_ is like an open door to a tramp."

As he spoke, his keen eye wandered with a troubled look along the endless line of the African coast, one impenetrable mass of dark thicket as far as the eye could reach, except at one single point. Just opposite, the becalmed vessel, a long, low reef of brown rock, masking the mouth of a small river, broke the interminable perspective of clustering leaves; and it was to this point that the Captain's watchful look was most often and most anxiously directed.

His uneasiness seemed to have infected the officers and the crew likewise. Just abaft the foremast a tall, wiry Portlander was turning a grindstone, upon which another sailor was sharpening in turn five or six rusty cutlasses; while a gaunt, keen-looking fellow from Maine was hard at work cleaning the Captain's double-barrelled shot-gun--unluckily the only fire-arm on board.

But there was _one_ on board who seemed to trouble himself very little about the matter. This was the cabin-boy--a brown-faced, curly-haired, bright-eyed little fellow, active as a leopard and fearless as a lion. The way in which he was employed, amid all this bustle and anxiety, would have rather astonished a stranger. With a piece of raw meat in his hand, he dived down the fore-hatchway, ran along the low narrow passage that led between-decks, and opening the door of a small dark recess just abaft the store-room, called out, "Tom!"

A very strange sound answered him, partly like the squall of a cat, and partly like the growl of a wild beast.

"He's hungry, poor old boy," said the lad, stepping forward and holding the meat to the bars of a cage in the farther corner, through which was dimly visible the gaunt outline of a young tiger, bought cheap in Southern India by the Captain, who expected to make a profit by selling it to some menagerie when he got home. For a tiger, it was tame enough; but the only one of the crew for whom it showed any liking was the little cabin-boy, who had named it Tom, after his favorite brother, and never lost a chance of talking to it, always insisting that it understood him perfectly.

"You see, Tom," said he, as the tiger seized the meat, "there ain't much for you, 'cause _we're_ gittin' short ourselves; but you'll have plenty by-and-by, never fear."

The beast rubbed its huge yellow head caressingly against the hand which Jack thrust into the cage as unconcernedly as if he were only petting a kitten, and lifted, in obedience to the familiar call of "Shake hands, Tom," the mighty fore-paw, one stroke of which would have crushed the boy like an egg-shell.

But just as the two strangely assorted playmates were in the height of their sport, a sudden clamor of voices from above startled them both.

"Can't stop now, Tom," said the boy, as gravely as if he were excusing himself to one of his messmates. "There's something up, and the Captain'll want me to help him manage the ship, you know. By-by."

And up he went like a rocket.

When he reached the deck, the cause of the tumult at once became apparent. From behind the low reef five rudely built native boats, each with ten or twelve men on board, were creeping out toward the doomed vessel.

"They're coming now, sure enough," muttered the Captain through his set teeth; "but I guess they won't be here for another twenty minutes yet, for them boats o' their'n are too heavy and lubberly built to go fast. Say, boys, we must fight for it now, for them black sarpints won't leave a man of us livin' if they git the best of it. You that hain't got cutlasses, take boat-hooks or capstan bars, and jist break a few bottles, and scatter the glass around the deck: it'll astonish their bare feet some, I reckon. Hickman, lay that grindstone on the gunnel, and be ready to tip it over on to the first boat that comes alongside. If these black-muzzled monkeys want our scalps, they've got to pay for 'em."

The men obeyed his orders; but they did so with a subdued air which showed how little hope they had of anything beyond selling their lives as dearly as possible.

In truth, the bravest man might have been pardoned for despairing in such a situation. Even including the officers, the ship's company (already thinned by storm and sickness) could muster only sixteen men, while the savages numbered nearly sixty, all big and powerful fellows, whose huge muscles stood out like coils of rope on their bare black limbs. In weapons, again, the advantage, if there was any, was on the side of the assailants; for although the latter appeared at first sight to be unarmed, the Captain's spy-glass soon showed him clubs and spears and bows, with one or two muskets as well.

On came the human tigers over the smooth bright water, with the cloudless blue of the tropical sky overhead, and the dark green mass of clustering leaves, surmounted here and there by the tall slender column of a palm-tree in the background. They had evidently chosen the heat of noon for their hour of attack in the expectation of finding the white men asleep; and there was a visible start among them as the Captain's tall figure appeared from behind the main-mast, gun in hand.

"Keep off!" roared he, as they made signs of wishing to trade. "Keep off! you ain't wanted here."

But seeing that they swept on unheeding, he let fly both barrels into them, the double report being followed by a sharp howl from the foremost boat as the buckshot rattled among its crew. Four out of the twelve oarsmen were struck down, overthrowing several others in their fall, and the clumsy craft, turning half round, lay completely helpless for several minutes. But on came the other four boats, and ran alongside, two to port and two to starboard. The carpenter launched his grindstone, but the ponderous missile splashed harmlessly into the water within a foot of the nearest boat, and in another moment the whole deck was flooded with yelling savages, thirsting for blood.

All that followed was like the confusion of a hideous dream--blows raining, blood flowing, men falling, and death coming blindly, no one knew whence or how. Despite the fearful odds against them, the American sailors, fighting like men who fight for their lives, were still holding their ground, when an exulting yell from behind made them turn just in time to see the eight surviving rowers of the fifth boat (which had crept up unperceived in the heat of the fray) clambering over the stern.

Another moment and all would have been over, but just then a tremendous roar shook the air, and a huge gaunt, yellow body shot up through the after-hatchway, right among the startled assailants. Little Jack had crept aft and let loose the tiger, which fell like a thunder-bolt upon the blacks, four or five of whom lay mangled on the deck almost before they could look round.

This unexpected re-enforcement ended the battle at one blow. The superstitious savages, taking the beast for an evil spirit raised against them by the white men's magic, leaped panic-stricken into their boats (some even tumbling into the sea in their hurry), and made off with all possible speed. A light breeze, springing up from the eastward, soon bore the vessel far beyond their reach.

"Well done, Jack, my hearty!" cried the Captain, grasping the little hero's slim brown hand with a force that made every joint crackle. "That was a mighty cute trick of yours, and no mistake. I guess you'll make a smarter sailor than any of us before you've done; and it sha'n't be my fault if you don't git something good for this when we see New York again."

And the Captain kept his word.

THE GAME OF CURLING.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

Curling is a Scotch game. For centuries past everybody who has been anybody in the Land o' Cakes has played golf in the spring, summer, and autumn, and curling in the winter; and wherever Scotchmen have gone to live they have introduced their national games.

For a good game of curling a sheet of clear ice and a number of curling-stones are necessary. But what is a curling stone, or "channel stane," as it is sometimes called, from the fact that stones found in the channels of rivers were formerly used in the game? It is a large stone, of such a shape as an orange would be if it were crushed down so that its sides bulged out without breaking. The stone is generally about twelve inches in diameter, and four or five inches high. It is polished until it is perfectly smooth, and on the upper side it has a handle, something like that of a smoothing-iron, so that it may be thrown with greater ease and accuracy. Its weight is from thirty to fifty pounds, but in days gone by heavier weights were used. One well-known curler played with a stone weighing seventy pounds, and his uncle used one that was even heavier. What a remarkable family that must have been!

A match at curling is called a "bonspiel," and many a tale of hard-fought bonspiels in the "auld countree" can an old Scot tell. But we have bonspiels even here. On January 30 the great bonspiel of the year in this country was played on one of the lakes in Central Park, New York, and our artist has depicted the scene on this page. Americans were matched against Scotchmen, and were not ashamed to suffer defeat at their hands, for of late years American curlers have enjoyed more than their share of victory. In this match eight rinks were prepared, and four players of each side played at each rink. And now let us describe the rink.

It is a stretch of ice swept perfectly clean, and measuring forty-two yards by eight or nine. A few feet from each end is a mark, called the "tee," and around this a circle is drawn measuring fourteen feet in diameter. This circle is called the "hoose." Each player has two stones, and they take turns to throw their stones along the rink, and try to let them stop as near the "tee" as they can.

It may seem easy to throw the stone along the glassy surface of the ice to that distance, and so it is. There are instances on record of a curling-stone having been thrown across a pond a mile in width; but it is not so easy to make the stone stop just where the player wants it to. There are all sorts and varieties of play in this game. See, nearly all the men have played their stones. The rink is thick with them at the far end. Some are right up close to the "tee," most of them have reached the "hoose," but some have fallen short.

There is only one opening left by which a stone can reach the "tee." The next player is unsteady. Can he get through, or had he better send a slow one to close the "port" against the next player, his adversary? He is a young player, and old heads are better than young ones in curling. His "skip" (Captain) advises the latter course. But, alas! he throws too gently. The stone seems tired out almost before it has reached the middle of the rink. Then there arise shouts of "Soop! soop!" (sweep, sweep), and his comrades fall to with a will, and sweep the ice in front of the lagging stone as if life depended on it.

What is the meaning of this? Well, it means that when a stone is travelling very slowly, the least bit of snow is liable to bring it to a stand-still, and so the players are armed with brooms to clear away whatever snow may have been blown on the rink.

Perhaps next to skill in throwing the stone, judgment in sweeping is the most valuable accomplishment for a curler. It is very like working the brake on a horse-car. If you do it too much, you stop the car too soon, and the ladies have to get off in the mud instead of at the clean crossing. So, in curling, if you do not sweep enough, the stone will stop before it reaches the hoose; but if, on the other hand, you sweep too much, the stone reaches the hoose, and perhaps passes the tee, and then your opponents begin to "soop," and make the ice so smooth that your stone passes clear out of the hoose, and so is lost, amid cries of "Weel soopit!" (well swept).

The last play of the "head," or end, is reserved by the "skips" of the two sides, for they are always the best players, being chosen skips on that account. The excitement grows intense. The way is blocked, but the experienced eye of the skip sees how the stones lie. "Wick, and curl in," cries an eager comrade, by which he means carom off an outlying stone, and curl in so as to avoid the stones that lie in front. This the skip does. By a peculiar turn of the wrist he gives a twist to his stone, so that when it touches another stone it glances sharply off, and avoiding the block, makes straight for the tee.

When the last stone of the head has been played, the excitement of counting begins. Only one side can count at one time, and that side can only count as many as it has stones nearer to the tee than the nearest stone belonging to the other side. Thus the nearest stone may belong to the Scotchmen, and the next to the Americans, and after that the Scotchmen may have three or four nearer than the next American stone; but the Scotchmen can only count one. It often happens that the distance is so nearly equal that it is impossible to decide between two stones, and then the measuring string is produced to settle the claims of the rival players. A bonspiel generally consists of twenty-one ends at each rink, and as many rinks are used as are necessary to accommodate the players, eight playing at each.

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

PRESENCE OF MIND.

Presence of mind is that quality which leads a person to do the right thing at the right moment. There are times of sudden peril, times of accident, and times of illness when the person who has presence of mind becomes the leader, and helps everybody else.

If a fire break out in a building where a crowd is assembled, there is often a panic, and people trample upon and kill each other in their fright. Some months ago an alarm of fire was caused by the appearance of smoke in a New York public school. Fortunately the lady principal was a person who had presence of mind. She controlled herself and her pupils, and they all marched safely into the street, without hurry or riot. She knew what ought to be done, and she did it promptly.

People who know what ought to be done do not always do it at once, however, or they are flustered, lose their wits, and do something dreadful. A very loving mother once scalded her baby so that it will bear the marks of the burn for its life, because she lost her presence of mind. She knew that a child in a convulsion should be put into a warm bath, and in her terror she immersed her little one in a _boiling_ bath, the hot water running from a faucet at that point of heat.

A person whose clothing catches fire should be rolled at once in a rug, or quilt, or large shawl, to stifle the flame. When a fire breaks out anywhere the doors and windows should be shut as quickly as possible, to prevent a draught. But most people rush out-of-doors, screaming, in their terror, and others rush after them, throwing pails of water, or doing anything but the right thing. If a person is wounded or cut, the way to stop the flow of blood is to bandage tightly above the wound, between that and the heart; but instances are not rare where people bleed to death because nobody at hand has enough knowledge or presence of mind to attend to this simple thing at once. Like other desirable qualities, this one can be cultivated, and you may possess it as well as another.

MISS HOLSOVER'S "TREASURE."

A Story of St. Valentine's Day.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

"Mr. North!--please, Mr. North!"

The voice, a delicate, childish one, seemed to be almost caught up and whirled away in the snow-flakes. The speaker--a little boy of about twelve years, scantily clad, and carrying a heavy basket--was running as well as he could along the dreary country road, while he tried to make himself heard by the invisible occupant of a wagon lumbering ahead of him.

It was a covered wagon, and to the boy's eyes it seemed to be the embodiment of comfort and warmth. He was chilled to the bone, thoroughly tired, and disheartened. What could he do if Mr. North failed to hear him?

But he did not. Suddenly he pulled up his horses, and peered around him in the gloomy twilight.

"Be some one a-calling?" he said, loudly.

"Yes, sir, please." The boy's voice was just audible.

"Why," said Mr. North to himself, "derned if that bean't Miss Holsover's boy!"

It _was_ Miss Holsover's nephew, Jesse Grey, and he was soon at the side of the wagon, looking up into the driver's kindly weather-beaten face.

"Oh, please, Mr. North," the little fellow said, trying to get his breath, "I'm so tired! and I thought, perhaps, you'd give me a lift."