Part 2

"I don't care, provided there are no mosquitoes," said Joe. "Ghosts don't bite, and don't sing in a fellow's ears."

Any one who has camped near a rapid knows how strangely the running water sounds in the stillness of the night. Joe, who, although there were no mosquitoes to trouble him, could not fall asleep, was sure that he heard men's voices talking in a low tone, and two or three times raised himself up in his canoe to see if there were any persons in sight. He became convinced after a while that the sounds which disturbed him were made by the water, but, nevertheless, they had made him rather nervous. Though he had professed not to be afraid of ghosts, he did not like to think about them, but he could not keep them out of his mind. Once, when he looked out of his canoe toward the castle, he was startled to find it brilliantly lighted up. The light was streaming from the case-mates, loop-holes, and windows, and it was some moments before he comprehended that it was nothing more ghostly than moonlight.

Toward midnight Joe fell asleep, but he slept uneasily. He woke up suddenly to find a dark object with two fiery eyes seated on the deck of his canoe, and apparently watching him. He sprang up, with a cry of terror, which awakened his comrades. The strange object rushed away from the canoe, and stopping near the gate of the castle, seemed to be waiting to see what the boys would do.

By this time Joe had recovered his senses, and knew that his strange visitor was a wild animal. The boys took their pistols. Tom, who was the best shot, fired at the animal. He did not hit it, but as Tom advanced slowly toward it the creature went into the castle.

"It's a wild-cat," cried Charley. "I saw it as it crossed that patch of moonlight. Come on, boys, and we'll have a hunt."

With their pistols ready for instant service, the canoeists rushed into the castle. The wild-cat was seated on a pile of stones in what was once the court-yard, and did not show any signs of fear. Three or four pistol-shots, however, induced it to spring down from its perch and run across the court-yard. The boys followed it eagerly, plunging into a thick growth of tall weeds, and shouting at the top of their lungs. Suddenly the animal vanished; and though Tom fancied that he saw it crouching in the shadow of the wall, and fired at it, as he supposed, he soon found that he was firing at a piece of old stove-pipe that had probably been brought to the place by a picnic party.

Giving up the hunt with reluctance, the canoeists returned to their canoes; at least three of them did, but Joe was not with them. They called to him, but received no answer, and becoming anxious about him, went back to the castle and shouted his name loudly, but without success.

"It's very strange," exclaimed Charley. "He was close behind me when we chased the wild-cat into those weeds."

"Has anybody seen him since?" asked Harry.

Nobody had seen him.

"Then," said Harry, "the wild-cat has carried him off or killed him."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Charley; "a wild-cat isn't a tiger, and couldn't carry off a small baby. Joe must be trying to play a trick on us."

"Let's go back, and pay no attention to him," suggested Tom. "I don't like such tricks."

"There's no trick about it," said Harry. "Joe isn't that kind of fellow. Something has happened to him, and we've got to look for him until we find him."

"Harry's right," said Charley. "Go and get the lantern out of my canoe, won't you, Tom? I've got matches in my pocket."

When the lantern was lit a careful search was made all over the court-yard. Harry was greatly frightened, for he was afraid that Joe might have been accidentally shot while the boys were shooting at the wild-cat, and he remembered that in his excitement he had fired his pistol in a very reckless way. It was horrible to think that he might have shot poor Joe; worse even than thinking that the wild-cat might have seized him.

The court-yard had been thoroughly searched without finding the least trace of Joe, and the boys were becoming more and more alarmed, when Charley, whose ears were particularly sharp, cried, "Hush! I hear something." They all listened intently, and heard a voice faintly calling "Help!" They knew at once that it was Joe's voice, but they could not imagine where he was. They shouted in reply to him, and Charley, seizing the lantern, carefully pushed aside the tall weeds, and presently found himself at the mouth of a well.

"Are you there, Joe?" he cried, lying down on the ground, with his head over the mouth of the well.

"I believe I am," replied Joe. "I'm ready to come out, though, if you fellows will help me."

The boys gave a great shout of triumph.

"Are you hurt?" asked Charley, eagerly.

"I don't think I am; but I think somebody will be if I have to stay here much longer."

It was evident that Joe was not seriously hurt, although he had fallen into the well while rushing recklessly after the wild-cat. Tom and Harry ran to the canoes, and returned with all four of the canoe painters. Tying one of them to the lantern, Charley lowered it down, and was able to get a glimpse of Joe. The well was about twenty feet deep, and perfectly dry, and Joe was standing, with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the side of the well, and apparently entirely unhurt, in spite of his fall.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

"THEIR GIRL."

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," "MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER," ETC.

I.

"She had on a dress that was silk all over it, an' it was almost as much as you could do to see her hands for the lace an' fringe an' ribbons. She was a good deal handsomer than them wax images in Smith & Jones's store, an' when she bought a paper of pins of me she give five cents, without waitin' for the change."

"Wot's five cents when jest as likely as not she had as much as five dollars in her pocket?" said Johnny Davis, the newsboy, who was sometimes spoken of, and to, by his proper name, but more often as "Water-melon Davis," because of his enormous appetite for the watery fruit.

Johnny spoke almost contemptuously of that which Katy Morrison, the "black-pin girl," considered a piece of good fortune, and if he did not actually turn his nose up in disdain, it was because nature had already so elevated that rather prominent feature of his face that it was impossible for him to get it any higher.

"Well"--and Jimmy Green, Johnny's partner in business, as well as particular friend of Katy's, spoke very slowly, as was customary with him--"five cents ain't to be sneezed at when a feller's only expectin' to get one, an' if Katy could get enough of 'em she'd make three, four dollars a day."

"How I wish I could!" said Katy, enviously, as with her stock of pins in her lap she sat on the door-step of an unoccupied store, her chin resting on one hand as she rattled the pennies in her pocket with the other. "If I could make that much, I'd buy me a whole dress, an' real shoes without any holes in 'em, an'--an'--an' I'd buy a pair of bracelets, that's what I'd do."

"Bracelets!" sneered Johnny, as he folded the paper that was undoubtedly fated to remain on his hands as stale goods from his morning's stock. "It makes me feel almost like gettin' mad, Katy, to hear you talk about buyin' bracelets, when you can get a pair of boxin'-gloves down to Levy's for as much as you'd pay for bracelets."

"Well, I don't know 'bout that," said Jimmy, as he rubbed his chin reflectively. "P'r'aps they'd do her more good than the gloves would, 'cause, you see, Katy don't know nothin' 'bout boxin'."

"Then she oughter learn," was the very decided response from Master Davis. "Girls could box as well as fellers if they'd get somebody to show 'em how."

"But I don't want to learn, an' I do want the bracelets," said Katy, thinking that possibly she had the right to say how this prospective money of hers should be spent. "That's all you boys think about, how you can hurt each other, an' you don't care what you wear nor how you look. I'd like to wear dresses that wasn't all torn, an' I'd like to look the way girls do what have mothers, an' don't have to live in such a old house as we do, an' pay 'most all our money for what Mother Brown calls board an' lodgin'. Then when I want bracelets, you tell me to get boxin'-gloves."

"Well, if you don't want 'em, don't get 'em," said Johnny, philosophically, and looking much as if he fully understood how difficult it is to persuade girls as to just what they really need. "Buy the bracelets, an' then you'll look fine, won't you? sellin' pins fur a cent a paper with a big pair of gold bracelets slippin' down over yer hands every time you try to shy a stick at a dog."

"I never throwed a stick at a dog in my life," said Katy, indignantly; and then she added, quickly, "'cept once, when Dutch Pete cheated me outer two herrin's, an' I hit his dog to get even with him."

"I tell you what it is, fellers," said Jimmy, who had been making mental calculations based upon this argument he had unwittingly started, until he believed he understood it better than either of his companions did: "neither one of you hain't got the money to buy either the bracelets or the gloves, so wot's the use of makin' a fuss over it? When I get a paper stand of my own, I'm goin' to buy Katy everything she wants, an' I ain't goin' to let her sell pins, neither."

"Ain't you kinder tired talkin' 'bout that stand, Jimmy? We've heard 'bout it ever since you an' I was pardners, an' you hain't got no nearer to it now than to owe Mother Brown five cents on last week's board."

Johnny said this in a reproving tone, but it is very probable that he did it more to hide his confusion, caused by his partner's first remark, than for any other purpose, for he was usually careful not to hurt Jimmy's feelings.

"I'll have it jest the same," was the calm reply, and then Jimmy relapsed into another fit of chin rubbing, from which he did not arouse himself until one of his friends in the same line of business rushed up with the startling intelligence that there had been "a big accident on the railroad, an' papers are jest goin' to fly to-night."

* * * * *

It was not until quite a late hour in the afternoon that the three friends, who boarded in the same house, met again after their interview was broken in upon by the news of a probable activity in the newspaper business, and when they did meet both the boys were in the highest possible state of excitement.

The prediction that papers would "fly" had been verified, and more than one of Mother Brown's boarders had been made happy. Particularly was this happiness apparent in Jimmy's case. Even while the rush of trade was at its height he had been thinking of what Katy had said about wearing a dress that was not torn, and as his profits accumulated he conceived a plan so brilliant that he could hardly wait to meet Katy before he explained it.

The stores had been closed, and Katy, finding no customers for her pins, was walking slowly toward the not very cheerful place where Mrs. Brown kept a boarding-house for those children of the streets who have no idea of what home is, save as they see it from the outside, peering curiously in at those more fortunate ones who have a father, mother, home, and everything which goes to make up happiness and content.

She had walked nearly down town--for, as may be imagined, Mrs. Brown's house was not in the most pleasant portion of New York--and she was just beginning to wonder where her friends were, when she saw them coming toward her, looking quite as important and a great deal more satisfied than the most prosperous merchant on the street.

"Say, Katy," shouted Jimmy, while he was yet some distance away, his secret having grown so overpowering in the last few moments that he could hardly keep it until he saw the girl, "I've made a dollar 'n' forty-one cents, an' what d'yer s'pose I'm goin' to do with it?"

"Goin' to start your stand?" and Katy seemed quite as much pleased by the good fortune as Jimmy was.

"No, sir! I'm goin' to buy you a new dress, after I pay Mother Brown, an' give Tom Brady the cent I owe him. That'll leave me a dollar 'n' thirty-five cents, an' you shall have the best one we can find in the city. I shouldn't wonder if we'd have money enough to get the bracelets too," he added, in the tone of one who is certain, but prefers to let the matter remain in pleasing doubt for a time.

"Oh, Jimmy," cried Katy, in delight, for the thoughts of what she might have if she only had the money had made her very nearly unhappy during the remainder of that afternoon, when trade had been dull, "_are_ you goin' to spend that money for me?"

"Every cent," was the decided reply, as the money was rattled to give greater emphasis to the words.

"But you mustn't, Jimmy," said Katy, as she began to understand that her friend needed it quite as much as she did. "You can get your stand with that, an' I can wear this dress as well as not."

"But I'm goin' to buy the dress, an' the bracelets, an' a lot of things," was the reply, in a tone that admitted of no argument.

"An' ef he hain't got enough, I can put out the balance," said Johnny, speaking thus tardily because there had been a great struggle in his mind as to whether or no he would not be doing Katy a greater favor by buying the boxing-gloves for her.

Never since Katy Morrison could remember had she worn a dress that was made of new material. Even before her mother had died, leaving her to the anything but tender care of Mrs. Brown, her dresses had been made of old ones, and now the mere idea of having one without a hole in it seemed almost too good to be true.

She did make another protest against her friends spending their money for her, though she admitted that if the pin market remained in its present overstocked condition she could never hope to buy one from her earnings; but Jimmy had made up his mind, after much rubbing of his chin, and nothing she could have said would have caused him to change it. He and Johnny discussed the question of what color the dress should be--that it was to be of silk was understood, and Katy hardly knew how to contain her joy, so impossible had such a thing seemed a few hours before.

While they were talking they had passed through City Hall Park, and as they started to cross the street they were still eagerly discussing the question of color, Johnny being decidedly in favor of red, while Jimmy believed a bright green would be more suitable. Katy was just behind them, taking no part in the conversation, because one color would please her as well as another; the "whole" dress, whatever its shade, was sufficient for her.

So heated had the argument become that neither of the boys noticed, amid the general bustle of the square, the clatter and rush of a horse attached to a light express wagon, nor did they hear the warning cries of the driver until it was close upon them.

Then they had only time to escape being knocked down by the horse. As they jumped suddenly they heard a cry from Katy, another from those on the sidewalk, and they turned just in time to see the poor girl, whose thoughts of a new dress had rendered her careless to everything around her, lying on the pavement, with a great crimson stain, that grew larger and larger, upon her hair.

Before they could reach her a policeman had carried her to the sidewalk, and they were obliged to stand on the outside of a large crowd of curious ones, who always gather at anything unusual as if by magic, while the only being in the world who loved them and whom they loved, was perhaps dying, perhaps dead.

Clutching each other's hands tightly, while the great tears of a sorrow that had almost stupefied them rolled down their cheeks, the two stood there, near the curb-stone, not knowing what to do or say. They did not even know how long they remained there; but when the ambulance came, and they saw the still, lifeless form of "their girl," as they called her, lifted into the black, ominous-looking wagon, there was such a lump in the throat of each that it seemed as if he could not breathe.

The ambulance started off at full speed, its bell clanging the warning to drivers of other vehicles to clear the way, and without knowing where it was going, or anything save the fact that "their girl" was in it, the two boys ran after it regardless of fatigue or danger.

On and on the precious load was carried, until finally, when it seemed to Jimmy a physical impossibility that he could run any further, the ambulance was stopped before a huge building, which both the boys knew was the hospital.

One more glimpse they had of Katy as she was carried through the gate, and then they waited in painful suspense, as if they expected some word would be sent to them.

It was late in the evening when one of the attendants came out of the building, and found the boys crouching close by the gate. Before he had time to ask them what they were doing there, they overwhelmed him with questions as to the fate of Katy, and when he finally understood who they were inquiring about, he told them that it was impossible to say whether she could recover or not, as her injuries were believed to be very severe.

For several moments the boys stood looking at each other in mute fear, after the man had passed on, and then Johnny said, solemnly,

"Jimmy, did you ever pray the same as the rich folks do?"

"No."

"Let's do it now, an' p'r'aps Katy'll get well."

"Well, let's," replied Jimmy, earnestly, and there, upon the dusty street, two boys whose ragged coats covered true, kindly hearts, prayed, after their fashion, to the God of whom they had but seldom heard, for the life of "their girl."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

AN UNKNOWN HERO.

Deep down in a mine in Wardley Colliery, Newcastle, England, there is a brave boy who deserves to be called a hero. In a situation of sudden peril he used precautions which prevented a dreadful explosion, simply by behaving with courage and presence of mind.

He noticed that his lamp flared up, a sure sign of the presence of dangerous gas. Had he hastily rushed away, his light might have burst through the wire gauze which surrounds a miner's lamp, and setting fire to the gas, caused a heart-rending accident.

The lad did nothing so silly. When questioned by the Superintendent as to how he had found out that there was gas in the neighborhood where he was at work, he replied, "Because my lamp flared."

"And what did you do then?" asked the gentleman.

"I took my pricker, and pulled down the wick, but the lamp still flared."

"Well, my boy, and how did you manage then?"

"Why, I put the lamp inside my jacket, and covered it up tight, and the light went out."

Of course, the lamp could not burn without air.

To think of the right thing to do, and then promptly to do it, boys, that is what makes the difference between a common man and a hero.

This little fellow, whose name is not mentioned--Mick, or Ted, or Jack--has in him the making of a grand man, cool, resolute, and clever.

Fortunately there was an overseer near him, who, when, he heard from the lad about his lamp, went bravely through the gas, in total darkness, and set open a door, the closing of which had forced the gas into the main-ways of the mine.

All honor to them both.

DEACON DODD'S CALF.

BY SYDNEY DAYRE.

Three of us boys--Will Harald, his cousin from the nearest city, who was visiting him, and myself--went down to Deacon Dodd's farm one Friday afternoon, after tea. We found the old gentleman mowing the grass in the front yard.

"Come in, boys; set down on the steps there. Hot, isn't it?" He wiped his forehead vigorously with his red silk handkerchief.

"Deacon," said Will, "we came to ask you for a peck or so of your pound sweets, for our fishing excursion to-morrow."

"Have a drink of cold water? Pound sweets, eh? Well, now, I'm sorry. Won't anything else do you? Fact is, every pound sweet I've got's promised; there wa'n't many this year, and they're a skurse kind, you see. But you can have anything else you can find on the farm, and welcome. The bell-flowers are tiptop--help yourselves."

We thanked him, but didn't care for anything else. We had plenty of other apples ourselves, and had set our minds on having some of the Deacon's great yellow pound sweets. We wandered discontentedly into the orchard without finding anything we wanted, peeped at the big snapping-turtle by the spring, patted the pretty gentle Jersey cow and her half-grown calf, both of which were the pride and delight of the Deacon's heart, and then sat down in the open doorway of the great barn.

"He's a mean old skinflint, I say," said George, the boy from town. Will and I knew he wasn't any such thing, but we were out of humor at having our walk for nothing, and did not take the trouble to argue the matter.

"I don't think he would have missed a peck," I said.

"Wants to sell 'em, I s'pose. Seems to me I'd oblige a few boys even if it was a few cents out of my pocket."

"Let's play a trick on the old codger," said George. "Last summer our teacher wouldn't give us a holiday when we wanted it, so we shut him up in the school till late at night."

"And what came of it?" we inquired, in great interest.

"Oh, well, one or two of us got expelled for awhile, but that just suited us."

This did not sound to me like a very successful issue of the trick, but George went on:

"Let's run off his calf."

"How do you mean?" asked Will.

"Why, lead it clear off, and tie it up somewhere, so he'll think it's lost."

"He thinks about as much of that cow and calf as he does of his children," I said, with some misgivings.

"All the better--he'll be in a jolly sputter over it. We won't hurt anything; just have a little fun on the old fellow. Nobody'll know. Come on."

Somehow I couldn't help feeling that I hated to do anything like playing a trick on the Deacon, for as a general thing he was very good to us boys. But then, on the other hand, it did seem perfectly unreasonable for him to refuse to give us just a few of those apples when we knew he had three times as many as he and all his family put together could eat. Still, I don't think I would have given in if George hadn't urged the matter so. He is one of those fellows who always takes the lead, and the rest of us just follow on. He started off, and Will and I went after him.

We quietly stole round the back of the barn to the lot in which we had seen the cow and calf. No one happened to be about just then. We found a rope, tied it to the calf, and led her into a lane. Soon she got tired of being handled by so many strangers, and I tell you she gave us a lively time. She was a stout, skittish little creature, and we boys had no end of exercise getting her along. She would walk quietly enough for a few steps, and then make a jump forward, which would nearly jerk us off our feet; or she would stop suddenly and turn back, tipping over a boy or two, like enough. At last we put our apple-bag over her head, and she travelled a little easier, but you'd better believe all our hands were sore hanging on to that rope. At last we tied her in a bushy grove about half a mile from the far end of the Deacon's farm.

We had thought it great fun as long as we were all together, but when I was at home alone it didn't seem half so smart to be putting a joke on an old man, and a good kindly old man at that. I woke up several times in the night with the stinging and burning in my hands, and thought what if anything should happen to the calf. Not a word had been said between us as to how it was to be got back again--I don't believe any of us had thought so far ahead as that.