Part 2

The foresail was brailed up, and the head-sheets were let go, and then Charley ran aloft as quick as he could, and loosed the main-top-gallant-sail, which the boys set as well as they could with the topsail-yard down on the cap. They then set the spanker, and hoisted the maintopmast stay-sail.

"Now come with me," said Charley, "and we'll see if we can brace the head-yards up." They hauled at the port forebrace with all their might, but found they could only swing the yard a short distance. "It's perfectly hopeless, boys," said Charley. "We can't do it."

"Can't we take the rope to the gypsy or the capstan?" said Harry. "I'm sure we could get the yard round then."

"Perhaps we could," answered Charley, "but we can never tack the brig in that way. It would take us an hour every time, and then it would be of no use. We must give the _Ghost_ up, for it's an absolute impossibility for us to work this vessel two miles to windward, and we are at least two miles from the _Ghost_ now. However, we'll brace the yards up a little, and steer her a little more north. All the sails will draw then, and we'll get on a little faster."

With infinite labor the yards were braced up by taking all the lower and topsail braces to the capstan. The fore-top-gallant-yard was once more hoisted, and the foresail set. Joe was told to keep her N.N.W., and with all the sails drawing, she really made a visible wake in the water. The _Ghost_ gradually faded from sight until she completely vanished.

Harry went aloft to the maintop and brought down a cod-fish, on which the boys made what was either a late dinner or an early supper. They were so hungry that it did not taste bad, and they agreed that there might be worse things than dried cod-fish eaten raw. Charley hurried through with his meal, for he was anxious to make preparations for the night. He found that there was oil enough in the brig's lamps to burn during one night, and he trimmed them and made them ready for lighting. He went aloft to the main-royal-yard and looked for land, but he could see none, and there was not a sail in sight except two that were dimly visible on the far horizon. Then he came down, and finding that he had some matches in his pocket, he took a big knife that he found in the galley, split up a shelf, and started a fire, with which he meant to boil a piece of beef. The decks had been quite dry ever since the brig had been got before the wind, and the sea was going down every hour. There was nothing more that the young Captain could do for the safety of the vessel which had so strangely come under his command.

As he went aft to where the boys were gathered around the wheel, Tom said to him: "Charley, I know it is my fault that we lost the boat. I thought I had her fast, so that it was impossible for her to get away, but I didn't."

"I am the one that is most to blame," replied Charley. "I induced you all to stay on the brig, instead of taking the compass and going about our business. But there's no use in worrying ourselves about what can't be helped."

"Do you really think now that we can get her into port?" demanded Harry.

"I think it depends entirely on the wind. If the wind continues to be fair, and especially if it freshens a little, I believe we can't help getting her as far as Sandy Hook, or somewhere, within hail of a steam-tug. We can't be more than thirty or thirty-five miles from land, and as soon as we get a little nearer the coast, we shall be right in the track of the European steam-ships."

"Is there any danger of her sinking?" asked Tom.

"Not for a long while yet. We ought to keep a signal of distress flying, though, for I'd like to have some vessel lend us two or three men to help us work her. Look in that locker aft of the wheel, Tom, and see if there isn't an ensign in it."

Tom looked as directed, and found a French flag.

"Now I'd like to know," said Charley, in a disgusted tone of voice, "how we can set a French ensign upside down. It's a sign of distress to set our ensign union down, but this thing hasn't any union. We'll have to hoist it half way up, and I suppose that will look mournful enough to attract anybody's attention. What I'm afraid of," continued Charley, "is that the wind will change, and come out ahead. It's very light, and it keeps shifting back and forth three or four points, as if it didn't know its own mind. However, if we do have a headwind, somebody will take us off the brig, and carry us to New York."

"I'm not complaining, I want you to understand," remarked Joe. "I'm perfectly dry, and I never complain unless I'm wet. But if I'm to do all the steering, I'd like to know it beforehand."

"I beg your pardon, Joe," exclaimed Charley. "I forgot that you've been at the wheel nearly four hours. Tom, will you take the wheel, while I hoist the ensign and attend to a few other little things?"

Tom took the wheel, and Joe explained to him the difference between steering with a wheel and steering with a tiller. After setting the ensign, Charley went forward and lighted the side lights. Then he put a piece of beef in the kettle to boil, and split up the cook's bench with which to replenish the fire. Finally he coiled all the halyards down on deck, so that there would be no trouble in letting them go in a hurry, and then he rejoined his companions.

"We have had no regular watches to-day," he remarked, "for we had to have all hands on deck to make sail. It's now nearly eight o'clock, and as everything seems all right, Joe and I will turn in till twelve o'clock. You will steer, Tom, while Harry will go forward, and keep a look-out. Do you know how to strike the hours on the bell?"

"I learned that long ago," replied Tom.

"Then take my watch, and strike the bell every half-hour. Harry, when you hear four bells, come aft and take the wheel, and let Tom go on the look-out. By-the-bye, I forgot about the binnacle lamp."

There proved to be plenty of oil in it, and it was soon trimmed and lighted. Charley noticed that the brig was heading nearly west.

"The wind is getting round," he said, rather gloomily, "and I'm afraid we shall have it back in the northwest again. Boys, we've got to brace the yards up before anybody turns in."

This time the yards were braced up as sharp as the boys could brace them, and a full hour was consumed in this hard labor. It was now possible to keep the brig nearly on her course; but knowing that the wind would probably go still further around, Charley told Tom not to trouble himself about the compass, but to keep her as close to the wind as possible, and to call him in case the wind should get into the northwest. At nine o'clock Charley and Joe went into the galley, and lying down near the fire, went to sleep.

At twelve o'clock the starboard watch was called. The wind was now unmistakably ahead, and the brig was heading nearly southwest. Tom explained that he had been able to keep her heading nearly west until about half past eleven, and that he had not thought it worth while to deprive Charley of half an hour of sleep by calling him before twelve. Charley thanked him, but gently reminded him that he had been ordered to call the Captain the moment the wind got into the northwest, and that it was his duty to obey orders strictly.

"I shall want you and Harry to help brail up the top-gallant-sails," said Charley. "As long as we can't keep our course, we don't want to carry any more sail than is necessary. We'll haul down the flying-jib, and haul up the top-gallant-sails, but we won't try to furl them till day-light."

The top-gallant yards were dropped and squared, and the sails brailed up. Charley went out and furled the flying-jib, and then Tom and Harry went into the galley to sleep. Joe took his station on the forecastle, where he walked up and down to keep himself awake, and Charley was left alone at the wheel.

The more he thought the matter over, the more he was convinced that he had not been rash in undertaking to navigate the brig. Had the wind continued fair, the boys could almost certainly have brought her near enough to Sandy Hook to meet a steam-tug. Could they have succeeded in this, they would have made a large sum of money, perhaps as much as eight or ten thousand dollars, and Charley himself would have gained a great deal of credit in the eyes of his naval superiors. The brig, water-logged as she was, seemed to be about as safe as the leaky _Ghost_, and there was much more chance that the brig would be seen by some passing vessel, and her crew taken off, than there was that so small a boat as the _Ghost_ would meet with help. Unfortunately the change in the wind had made it apparently impossible for the boys to bring the brig into port; but Charley felt sure that in the course of the next day they would be taken off in case they wanted to abandon her. So finding that his conscience acquitted him of having rashly led his companions into danger, he felt peaceful and happy, and steered the brig as cheerfully as if he were steering the _Ghost_ in the Great South Bay.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

HOW FAR CAN YOU SWIM?

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"Look here, Sime, old Purdy might have told us he'd taken away his oars."

"Well, yes; but there was a kind of a grin on his face when he told us we might have it. Not another loose boat!"

It was a solemn fact. Every skiff along the beach but "old Purdy's" was fastened by chain and padlock and stake, to express the objections of its owner against its use by stray boys.

"No fun going in for a swim in this shallow water. Only a wading place."

"Barry, there's a board. That'll do for us. We can paddle her out far enough."

It was a lost fragment of clapboard about four feet long, and with no house to it. Nobody could guess how it got there; but in three minutes more the clumsy flat-bottomed skiff was being slowly propelled away from the beach, out toward the deeper water of the lake.

Sime Hopkins and Barry Gilmore had reached, to judge from the remarks they made, that precise point in their aquatic practice when your common small boy 'long-shore swimming is a thing to be looked down upon, and a lake of some size, or a section of the Atlantic, was required for any fun of theirs.

The day was warm, the water as smooth as a pane of glass, and there was a faint haze over the sky. The very model of a day for a perfect swim.

The boat, too, had evidently been built for it. She was broad enough not to tip too easily if you were climbing in, and the wide seat at each end was just the arrangement for diving.

"This'll do, Sime. Pity we didn't bring an anchor."

"Water's a hundred feet deep out here. How far are we from shore?"

"Don't know. Maybe it's half a mile. Maybe it's more. Could you swim it?"

"Guess not, Barry. Perhaps I could. But I don't care to try. Not unless the boat came along. A fellow's legs might give out, or he might take a cramp."

"My legs would peg out, sure, long before I got there."

They were a very good pair for a boy of fifteen, and in a moment more they were in the air, as he sprang from the stern of the boat, and went in, capitally well, head first.

"That was a good header," shouted Sime. "I'm coming."

Come he did, and they found the water just about right for them. Not a trace of a chill in it, in spite of the fact that the lake was largely supplied by springs from the bottom. Out there, of course, there could be no weeds to catch their feet in, and there was very little to be suggested by way of improvement.

"'Fore we get too tired, Barry, let's try a longer swim."

"Come on. Only don't let's go too far."

They were headed toward the shore, and they were not looking back, when Barry exclaimed: "There's a ripple, Sime. The wind's rising."

"Barry, look at the boat!"

"She's drifting out. The wind's off shore."

The boys looked at each other for a moment with very serious faces; but they were brave fellows, and there was no time for hesitation.

"She isn't so very far, Sime."

"But she's drifting. No telling how far she'll go. We mustn't risk it."

"Shore's too far. Can't do it. We can catch the boat."

"The wind's rising, Barry."

"Choose, Sime--shore or boat."

"Shore for me. Choose for yourself. See how she drifts!"

"You can't reach the shore, Sime. Besides, I want my clothes. I'm going for the boat."

"No time to talk. Good-by, Barry."

Sime Hopkins felt a great sob rising as he struck out for the shore, and it was every bit as much on Barry's account as on his own, but he had to choke it down.

"Straight swimming now, and no nonsense. How plainly I can see the city!"

That is, he could see the steeples of it, some two miles from the shore he hoped to reach; and below them, he knew, were the roofs of houses, and under the roofs of two of those houses were Barry Gilmore's mother and his own.

Steadily, regularly, without a motion too much or a pull too hard--for he was thinking very closely what it was best to do in such a case--Sime swam on, until a dull feeling in his arms warned him of coming weariness.

"On my back now for a few rods. It'll change the work, and rest me. I can see the boat, but I can't see Barry. The wind is blowing harder."

All that time, however, Barry had been doing precisely what his friend had done, only that he had watched more anxiously the increasing ripple on the water.

"She isn't so very far," he had said to himself at first. "I do wish Sime had come with me. He can't reach that shore, swim his best. It'll be an awful thing to tell."

A couple of minutes later he was muttering: "That was a harder puff. How she does drift! Seems to me I don't get an inch nearer. If it blows much worse, I'll have to follow her to the upper end of the lake."

That was nearly six miles away, and the thought of it made the warm water he was swimming in seem several degrees colder. Barry's lips closed hard, and his teeth set against each other, and he measured his every stroke to make it tell.

Then his turn came to try a "back swim and a rest," and he too said: "I can see the shore and the city, but I can't get a glimpse of Sime. There! isn't that his head?--that black thing? Guess it is; it's moving. Yes, it's him!"

It was indeed the back of Sime's head, but the boy under it was saying to himself: "The shore's as far away as it ever was: I'd no idea we had paddled out such a distance. Reach it? I _will_ reach it. Never swam so far in my life, but I _must_ reach it."

Still, it was getting to be weary work, and before him lay what seemed an interminable reach of glittering ripples. He was breathing hard, his arms and legs were moving with less force than at first, and his progress through the water was slower and slower.

"Can I do it? It's got to be done. I'll tread water a moment for a change. I can't see Barry. Hurrah! it's the shallows!"

As he dropped his feet they came down upon smooth sand, for all that end of the lake was a very gentle slope from the beach. The water was up to his neck, but the bottom was there, and Sime's heart bounded with a great throb of relief.

"Barry? I must wade in fast now. No boat when I get there; no help."

It was a forlorn outlook, and Sime even thought for a moment of all his clothing away out there in the skiff. Then he thought of Barry Gilmore, and hardly anything else, until the increasing shallowness of the water enabled him to wade faster, and then to break into what was almost a run. It was a great splash at all events, and Sime was quickly shouting to some one on the beach a half-breathless account of Barry's danger.

"Why didn't ye wait for the oars? I was a-comin' down with 'em. Wanted a swim myself, and thought I'd fool ye a little. What! Barry a-swimmin' after the skiff? There's Jim Burr's boat. Quick! jump in!"

"It's locked."

"Locked? Well, I'll jest unlock it."

The key Purdy used was of limestone, and it may have weighed twenty pounds. It "opened Jim Burr's padlock for good and all," while Sime was getting in; and then how Purdy did row!

"We'll be too late."

"Shut up, Sime. Don't talk to me. It's jest awful."

It came very near it, for Barry Gilmore's brave, earnest face was getting white when he at last discovered that he was really drawing nearer the runaway boat.

"The wind is rising. I'm almost gone. Couldn't swim two rods further."

Yes, the wind was indeed blowing harder, but the direction of it had been for some time changing, as it is apt to do before a summer storm. The first "surface current" of air had lost its breath, and the stronger blast which was really to bring the cloud and rain was coming from the other way. So was the skiff it caught and carried along, and Barry hardly understood it.

"I'm swimming pretty fast yet, in spite of everything. Wish I knew about Sime. Just a little further."

Oh, how difficult were those last few strokes! When Barry faintly rested one hand upon the gunwale of the skiff, it required a great effort to lift the other beside it.

"I can't climb in, now I've got here. What shall I do?"

Of course he could not have climbed in, if he had been obliged to lift himself all the way up, but every ounce of weight he put upon the side of the boat brought it down further and further, until it was hardly two inches above the roughening water.

"Now for it!" All the strength he had left went into that last effort, and then Barry was lying on the bottom of the boat, with his wet head on the shining front of Sime Hopkins's shirt bosom.

He did not try to guess how long he lay there. Even after he could have moved, he had no heart to lift his head and look toward the shore.

At last, just after he had covered his eyes with both hands, there came upon his ears the sound of oars, as if some very zealous rower were pulling for a prize in some regatta, and behind that sound was another, as if some fellow had suddenly burst out crying.

A heavy "bump" against the side of the skiff.

"Here he is! Oh, Barry!"

"Sime, is that you? Don't say a word, Sime--I can't."

It was some little time before either of them could say much, but they had both learned just about how far they could swim; and old Purdy sat there in his stolen boat, his rough face all one redness and radiance. All even he could find to say was,

"Ain't I glad! Jim Burr won't mind my bustin' of his lock a mite; but I'll git him another."

PINK'S PROPERTY.

BY ELLA M. BAKER.

Miles from any church, and miles from any railway station, stood, one summer afternoon, shut up and empty, an old gray house. It had been a handsome house, and there was something comely about it yet, with its fan-light over the broad door, its many windows, its quaint roof, and its fretted cornices. But it looked like a house fast asleep. All the year it had stood just so. Last summer the rose-tree had reached out far enough to tap with prickly fingers on the panes, as if to say, "Wake up and admire me: am I to bloom unseen?" Last autumn, the grape-vine had held waiting, until it was tired, the ripened bunches on its unpruned branches. Last winter the winds had shaken rudely the doors, and casements, and the storms had beat loudly enough to rouse any dreamer, one would think. But still the old house did not stir. A hornet's nest hung undisturbed over the front door. The lilacs and syringas, the wax-ball and snow-ball bushes, cowered closer and closer to the walls, and birds built in them fearlessly. All day the oriole, which, it is said, never sings except in beautiful places, spent there his gift of melody in songs half sad, half tender. At night the whip-poor-will took the oriole's place. Little wild things from the woods went fearlessly about at twilight. They seemed all to have agreed together: "Yes, there is no make-believe about it; the place is really sound asleep. We may do what we please."

It was a great surprise, then, when on that same summer afternoon the long slumber of the house broke up. Horses' feet stamped at the gate, voices laughing and exclaiming frightened the squirrels away, windows flew up, doors were forced noisily and unwillingly open. At night-fall lamps moved flickering past the windows up stairs and down, while a broad swath of golden light swept from the open hall door.

A group of people sitting just within the door chattered merrily. They were laughing at mamma about "her property." For this place had been left to mamma as a legacy by her granduncle, who died a year ago, and mamma had chosen for this summer to let the sea-side cottage, shut up the house in town, and spend the season here before deciding about selling the place or letting it.

"So here we all are," the tall son was saying, "settling down to enjoy mamma's property like lords. This tumble-down old house--"

"Be careful how you speak of my property," smiled his mother, shaking her finger at him, "or you may run some risk of being warned off it."

"Like the hornets," said the oldest daughter, archly.

"Oh dear! I think it would have been so much nicer at the sea-side!" sighed a child's voice, discontentedly, as a bat flew by her head, and each of the party was betrayed into a shriek more or less shrill, while her brother made wild passes in the air with his hat.

"Oh, well, mamma," spoke the father's genial voice, when they had settled back in their seats, "it will be only bats and hornets that will dispute your property with you, at all events. Humanity is too scarce hereabouts to trouble you. No house in sight except those distant chimneys, is there?"

"Yes, there is one, papa," replied the youngest, quickly; "it is behind the trees, under that hill; but I shouldn't have noticed it only that I saw a little girl in a pink dress moving about there."

"Come, now, Pussy; maybe you'll find a nice friend in little Pink--'a companion of my solitude,' eh?" suggested her father, carelessly. But Laura rather sniffed, and made a mournful remark about "Florence, Ethel, and the rest of the girls at the beach."

At that moment "little Pink" was sitting on the door-step of that same house "behind the trees, under the hill," and gazing up, full of excitement, toward the newly opened house on the knoll above her.

It was a great event, and great events happened very rarely to Pink. Once since she could remember she had been with her father and mother to pay a visit in the family of an aunt. They had taken the old horse and the green-bodied wagon, and had been a whole day in reaching their destination. Two or three times during every summer, also, they made a similar pilgrimage to attend the church where Pink's mother used to go when she was a girl and lived at "the village." Another great event was the shopping excursion that had to be made every season. While the father bought on one side of the store his seeds, or his new plough, or his axe-helve, the mother, on the other side, selected her calico, groceries, and even the ribbon that was to retrim last year's bonnet.

Pink's calico, chosen by herself this time, had been bought on the last of these expeditions. "I wouldn't say a word," she had pleaded, "if it cost any more than the brown, but they don't charge for the color, so mayn't I have the pink, please?"

And the pink calico had been bought, made, and worn to grace that other great event, the "examination day." For Pink, with a handful more of scholars, who lived about as far from the scorched-up little school-house as she did, walked her mile and a half every day during term-time, and wrestled with Webster's spelling-book, and Colburn's arithmetic, compositions, and "pieces," until the final grand display of the closing half-day. That was brass band and military procession to Pink. She held her head high, and went through her part with beating heart but machine-like precision. To have missed would have been unendurable mortification and misery.