Chapter 21

"And now," said the woman, "you must 'ave a bite of breakfast, and then Bill shall tike you 'ome. What'll your ma and pa say when they see you? they'll be mighty pleased, I guess."

The twins had never been up so early in the morning before. They felt ill and stiff all over from sleeping on the hard floor, and they were very hungry, and cold too, for the morning air seemed chill and biting.

The women had made a fire of sticks, and a great black kettle was hanging over it. The water was boiling and bubbling.

Soon the men left their work and came to join in the meal. They all sat round the fire on the wet grass, and shared the large, thick mugs of tea and sugar, and stared at the little strangers.

All the children were up, too, and rubbed their eyes and tried hard not to look sleepy, but the little ones were cross and peevish. Each child had a large slice of bread, and a piece of cold pork, and even the little, sore-eyed baby held a crust of bread and a piece of pork in his hand, which he tried to stuff into his mouth.

The twins, because they were the guests, were given each a hard-boiled egg. Dumpty was getting over her shyness now, and tried to behave as mummie does when she is out to tea. "Eggs are very dear now," she announced gravely, during a lull in the conversation; "how much do you pay for yours?" How the men and women laughed! It seemed as if Bill would never stop chuckling, and repeating to himself, "Pay for our eggs! That's a good un"; and every time that he said "Pay for our eggs!" he gave his leg a loud slap with his hand. When breakfast was over--and you may be sure that the twins ate a good one, although they did not much like the strong tea, without any milk--the woman said it was time for them to be starting home.

"Please," begged Dumpty, summoning all her courage--"please, may the piebald pony take us?" and in a few minutes Bill drove it up, harnessed to an old rickety cart, and the two children were packed in.

Just as they were starting Dumpty said, with a sigh, to the kind gipsy woman, "Thank you very, very much, and will you, please, tell the clown how sorry I am that I have not seen him to speak to?"

"'Ere I am, young mon--'ere I am!"

It was Bill who spoke. The twins could not believe their ears.

"Are you the clown?" said Dumpty in an awestruck voice; "are you really and truly the clown?"

Bill jerked the reins, and the piebald pony set off at a weary trot. "Yes, missie, I am the clown," he said.

"Where's your nose?" asked Humpty suspiciously.

"One's on my face--t'other's in the dressing-up box," answered the man, with a shout of laughter.

"Then you're not Poor Jane's brother?" said Dumpty.

"Don't know nuffun about Poor Jine--we've got only one Jine here, and that's the monkey, and she ain't my sister, leastways it's to be hoped as she in't."

But although it was disappointing to find that the clever clown was only Bill all the time, the twins enjoyed their drive home, for Bill told them many wonderful tales of his life in the ring, and of the animals which he had trained.

Soon they came to the village, which looked so strange and quiet by the early morning light, with the cottage-doors all shut, and the windows closed and the blinds drawn. Humpty jumped down to open the gate leading up the drive, and there on the doorstep were mummie and daddy, looking so white and ill, who had come out of the house at the sound of the wheels on the gravel to greet them.

[Sidenote: Home Again]

The twins were hurried indoors and taken up to the nursery, and Nan cried when she saw them and forgot to scold. From the window they watched mum and daddy thanking Bill, and giving him some money, and they waved "goodbye" to him, and he flourished his whip in return, gave another tug at the reins, and the old piebald pony cantered bravely down the drive, and they saw them no more.

The twins were not allowed to see their mother, for Nan said that she was feeling ill with a dreadful headache, and it was all on account of their "goings-on"; and after Nan had stopped crying, she began to scold, and was very cross all day.

That evening when the twins were in bed mummie came to tuck them up. But instead of saying "Good-night," and then going out as she generally did, she stayed for a long, long time and talked.

She told them that it was very wrong to have disobeyed nurse, who had told them to stay in the seats and not to go away.

"But," cried Humpty, "we had to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother!"

"Poor Jane's brother!" repeated mummie, looking puzzled. And then the twins explained.

Mummie sat silent for a long time.

"Remember, children," she said at last, "never do evil that good may come--I can't expect you to understand that--but I can tell you a little story."

"A story!" cried the twins. "Hooray!"

"Once upon a time a town was besieged. It was night, and only the sentinels on the walls were left on guard, and told to give the alarm by clanging a large bell, should the enemy force an attack. There was one sentinel who had never done this work before, and he was given the least important tower to guard. During the night a loud bell clanged out, and a soldier came running along the wall to speak to the new sentinel. 'Do come,' he said, 'we want as many helpers as we can get at once, and there will be plenty of fighting.' The young sentinel longed to go with him, and join the fight, but he remembered his duty in time.

"'I cannot leave this tower,' he said; 'I have had orders to stay and give the alarm should the enemy appear, and the town trusts me to do so.'

"'I believe that you are afraid,' said the soldier as he hurried away.

"And this was the hardest of all, and the sentinel longed to join in the fighting to show that he, too, was no coward, but could fight like a man.

"He stood there, listening to the noise in the distance, to the shouts of the enemy, and the screams of those who were struck down. And as he looked below the walls into the valley beyond he thought that he could distinguish men moving, and while he watched he saw a number of soldiers creeping up to the walls, and one man had even placed his foot on the steps that led up to his tower. Quick as thought, the sentinel seized the rope of the large bell that hung over his head and clanged it again and again.

"In a few minutes the troops were assembled, and, making their way down the steep steps, they charged at the enemy, and followed them into the valley.

"Late on the following evening the soldiers returned, but not all, for many were killed--and they brought back news of a great victory. The enemy was routed and the town saved. So you see, children," said mother gravely, "how much better it is to do what is right. If that young sentinel had left his post, even though it were to help the men in the other tower, the enemy would have climbed up those steps and got into the town. You must try to remember this always. You should have obeyed nurse, and remembered that she was trusting you to do what she had said. It was a kind thought of yours to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother, but obedience to nurse should have come first."

[Sidenote: Jane's Delusion]

"But we forgot, mummie," said Humpty.

"What would have happened if the sentinel had forgotten that he was trusted to do his duty, and stay in the tower?"

Humpty was silent.

"And now," said mummie cheerfully, "we will forget all about the terrible fright you have given us, and you must try to remember what I have said. I want to know all about Poor Jane's brother," she continued, smiling; "is it some one you have been imagining about?"

"Oh, no!" cried the twins at once. And then they told her of the conversation which they had had with Poor Jane, and of what she had said about her brother.

"But Poor Jane has no brother," said mummie; "he died long ago. Jane's mind has never grown up. One day, when she was a girl, her mother took her to a circus at Woodstead, and when they came home, after it was over, they were told the sad news that Jane's brother had fallen from the top of a wagon of hay on to his head. He died a few hours later. But Jane could not understand death--she only knew that Harry had gone away from them, and she believed that the circus people had stolen him from the village and made him a clown. Ever since that sad day Jane has gone up and down the village to look for him, hoping that he will come back."

"And will Poor Jane never see him again?" asked Dumpty.

"Yes," answered mummie, with her sweetest smile--"yes, darlings, one day she may!"

[Sidenote: An Englishwoman's adventure in Arkansas, issuing in a great surprise to all concerned.]

The Sugar Creek Highwayman

BY

ADELA E. ORPEN

When Mrs. Boyd returned from Arkansas, I, having myself spent a very uneventful summer at home, with only the slight excitement of a month at Margate, was most anxious to hear an account of her adventures. That she had had adventures out there on those wild plains of course I felt certain. It would be manifestly preposterous to go to Arkansas for three months, and come back without an adventure.

So, on the first day when Mrs. Boyd was to be "at home" after her return, I went to see her; and I found, already assembled in her cosy drawing-room, several other friends, impelled there, like myself, by curiosity to hear what she had to say, as well as by a desire to welcome her back.

"I was just asking Mrs. Boyd what she thought the most singular thing in America," said Miss Bascombe, by way of putting me _au courant_ with the conversation after my greeting was over with our hostess.

"And I," replied Mrs. Boyd, "was just going to say I really did not know what was the one most curious thing in America, where most things seem curious, being different from here, you know. I suppose it is their strange whining speech which most strikes one at the outset. It is strong in New York, certainly, but when you get out West it is simply amazing. But then they thought my speech as curious as I did theirs. A good woman in Arkansas said I talked 'mighty crabbed like.' But a man who travelled in the next seat to me, across Southern Illinois, after talking with me for a long time, said, 'Wal, now, you dew talk purty tol'eble square for an Englishwoman. You h'aint said 'Hingland' nor 'Hameriky' onst since you sot there as I knows on!'"

Mrs. Boyd put on so droll a twang, and gave her words such a curious, downward jerk in speaking, that we all laughed, and felt we had a pretty fair idea of how the Illinois people talk at all events.

"Everybody is very friendly," continued Mrs. Boyd, "no matter what may be their station in life, nor what you may suppose to be yours. I remember in Cincinnati, where I stopped for a couple of days, the porter who got out my box for me saw it had some London and Liverpool labels on it, whereupon he said, with a pleasant smile, 'Wal, how's Eurôpe gettin' on, anyhow?' Fancy a Cannon Street porter making such a remark to a passenger! But it was quite simply said, without the faintest idea of impertinence. In fact, it is almost impossible to say that anybody is impertinent where you are all so absolutely on an equality."

Now all this was interesting enough, no doubt, but what I wanted to hear about was something more startling. I could not really give up all at once the idea of an adventure in the West, so I said, "But didn't anything wonderful happen to you, Mrs. Boyd?"

"No, I can't say there did," replied the lady, slightly surprised, I could see, by my question.

Then, rallying my geography with an effort, I asked, "Weren't you carried off by the Indians, or swept away by a flood?"

"No, I was many hundred miles away from the Indian Reservation, and did not see a single Red man," replied Mrs. Boyd; "and as for floods--well, my dear, I could tell you the ridiculous straits we were put to for want of water, but I can't even imagine a flood on those parched and dried-up plains."

[Sidenote: An Adventure]

"Well," said I, in an aggrieved voice, "I think you might have come back with at least one adventure after being away for three months."

"An adventure!" exclaimed Mrs. Boyd, in astonishment, and then a flash of recollection passed over her countenance, and she continued, "Oh, yes, I did have one; I had an adventure with an highwayman."

"Oh!" cried all the ladies, in a delighted chorus.

"See there, now!" said Miss Bascombe, as if appropriating to herself the credit of the impending narrative.

"I knew it!" said I, with triumph, conscious that to me was due the glory of unearthing the tale.

"I'll tell it to you, if you like," said Mrs. Boyd.

"Oh, pray do; we are dying to hear about it!" said Miss Bascombe. "A highwayman above all! How delicious!"

"Was he handsome?" asked one of the ladies, foolishly, as if that had anything to say to it.

"Wait," said Mrs. Boyd, who assumed a grave expression of countenance, which we felt to be due to the recollection of the danger she had run. We also looked serious, as in politeness bound, and sat in eager expectation of her story.

"One day we were all invited to spend the whole afternoon at a neighbour's house. We were to go early for dinner at half-past twelve, stay until tea at five, and then drive home in the evening. The neighbour lived twelve miles away, but as there was to be a moon we anticipated no difficulty in driving home over the prairie. You see, as a rule, people are not out after dark in those wild regions; they get up very early, work hard all day, and are quite ready to go to bed soon after sunset. Anyway, there is no twilight; the sun sets, and it is dark almost immediately. When the day came, Emily (my sister, you know, with whom I was staying) wasn't able to go because the baby was not at all well, and she could not leave him for so long a time. So my brother-in-law and I set off alone, promising to come home early. I enjoyed the drive over the prairie very much, and we got to our destination about midday. Then we had dinner, a regular out-West dinner, all on the table together, everything very good and very plentiful. We dined in the kitchen, of course, and after dinner I helped Mrs. Hewstead to wash up the dishes, and then we went out and sat on the north side of the house in the shade and gossiped, while the men went and inspected some steam-ploughs and corn-planters, and what not. Then at five o'clock we had supper. Dear me! when I think of that square meal, and then look at this table, I certainly realise there is a world of difference between England and Arkansas."

"Why," said Miss Bascombe, "don't they have tea in America?"

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Boyd, "we had tea and coffee, any number of cakes and pies, and the coloured man brought up a wheelbarrowful of water-melons and piled them on the floor, and we ate them all!"

"Dear me," I remarked, "what a very extraordinary repast! I think you must have felt rather uncomfortable after such a gorge."

"Oh dear, no," returned Mrs. Boyd, smiling; "one can eat simply an unlimited quantity of water-melons on those thirsty plains. The water is always sickeningly warm in the summer-time, so that any substitute for it is eagerly welcomed."

Mrs. Boyd, lost in the recollections of the appetising water-melons, was clearly forgetting the great point of her story, so I ventured to suggest it by remarking: "And the highwayman?"

"I am coming to that directly," said Mrs. Boyd.

"Well, we started home just before sundown; and as it was very hot, we could not drive fast. Indeed, the horses were in a sheet of lather almost immediately, and the air seemed fairly thick with the heat-rays, and absolutely breathless. Just as we got to the bluff overlooking the Big Sugar Creek, the sun set.

[Sidenote: A Dangerous District]

"'I wish we were on the other side of the creek, I know,' said my brother-in-law.

"'Why so?' said I; 'this part of the country is perfectly safe, is it not?'

"'Yes,' he replied, 'it is pretty safe now, but there are always some rough customers about the bush, and there have been one or two shootings on the Big Sugar. Orlando Morse saw a man on horseback one night just after he had crossed the ford, waiting for him by the side of the road under the trees. But Orlando is an old frontier-man, so he is pretty quick with his trigger. He fired twice at the man, after challenging; whereupon the scoundrel vanished rapidly, and Orlando got safe home.'

"I felt very uncomfortable at this, as you may imagine; still, as I knew my brother-in-law had a very poor opinion of the nerves of Englishwomen, I made an effort to say, as lightly as I could: 'What a very extraordinary country, to be sure! And do you always shoot anybody you may happen to see standing by the roadside of a summer's evening?'

"'Oh no,' laughed Louis; 'we're not quite so savage as that. But you may fire at any suspicious body or thing, after due challenge, if the answer is not satisfactory. That's the rule of the road.'

"After that I began to peer about in the gloom, rather anxiously trying to see if I could discover any suspicious body or thing, but I could make out nothing on account of the gloom, made more complete by the surrounding trees. Besides, we were going down hill very fast; we were, in fact, descending the steep bank of the first creek; then there was a bit of level in the wooded valley, then another stream, the South Fork it was called, then another steep climb, and we would once more be on the high and open prairie.

"'Now, then, hold on tight!' said my brother-in-law, as he clutched the reins in both hands, braced his feet against the dashboard, and leaned far back in his seat. The horses seemed literally to disappear beneath our feet; the wagon went down head foremost with a lunge, there was a sudden jerk and great splashing and snorting, followed by a complete cessation of noise from the wheels, and a gentle swaying to and fro of the wagon. We were crossing the ford with the water breast high on the horses.

"'I'm always glad when that ford is behind me,' said Louis to me, when we were again driving on quietly through the valley.

"'Why?' said I; 'for there's another ford in front of us still.'

"'Oh, the South Fork is nothing, but the Big Sugar is treacherous. I've known it rise twenty feet in two hours, and once I was water-bound on the other side for eleven days, unable to ford it. Emily would have gone out of her mind with anxiety, for the country was very disturbed at the time, only one of our neighbours, who saw me camping there, rode down to the house, and told her where I was, but, all the same----Hold! what's that?'

"I didn't scream; I couldn't, for my heart almost stopped beating with terror.

"'Take the reins,' said Louis, in a quick whisper.

"I took hold of them as firmly as I could, but a pair of kittens could have run away with us, my hands trembled so. Louis got out his revolver; I heard click, click, click, in his hand, and then in the faint light I saw the gleam of steel.

"'Halt! Who goes there?' called Louis, in a voice of thunder. I never heard his soldier-voice before, for ordinarily he speaks in a melodious baritone; and I then quite understood what Emily meant when she told me how his voice was heard above the din of battle, cheering his men on for the last charge at Gettysburg. I strained my eyes to see what it was, and there in front of us, not fifteen yards away, on the side of the road, I saw a man seated on horseback standing motionless, his right arm stretching forward, aiming straight towards us.

[Sidenote: Two Pistol-shots]

"Two livid tongues of flame darted from beside me--two quick reports of pistol-shots rang on the night air, then all was still. I felt the horses quiver, for the motion was communicated to me by the reins I held in my hands, but they were admirably trained animals, and did not move to the right or the left, only the younger one, a bay filly, snorted loudly. Louis sat silent and motionless, his revolver still pointing at the highwayman.

"I scarcely breathed, but in all my life I never thought with such lightning rapidity. My whole household over here was distinct before me, with my husband and the children, and what they would do on getting the cablegram saying 'waylaid and murdered.'

"I thought of a myriad things. I remember, amongst others, that it worried me to think that an over-charge of five shillings from Perkins for fowl, which my husband had just written to ask about, would now be paid because I could never explain that the pair of chickens had been returned. All this time--only a moment or two, you know--I was expecting instant death, while Louis and the horses remained motionless.

"The smoke from the revolver slowly cleared away; a bat, startled by the noise, flapped against my face, and we saw the highwayman seated on his horse, standing immovable where he was, his right arm stretching out towards us with the same deadly aim.

"'If that man is mortal, he should have dropped,' said Louis softly. 'Both bullets struck him.'

"We waited a moment longer. The figure remained as before.

"'I must reconnoitre,' said Louis; 'I don't understand his tactics.' And, to my dismay, he prepared to get out of the wagon.

"'Are you going away?' I asked breathlessly.

"'Yes; sit still--the horses won't stir. I'm going to open fire at close quarters.'

"I thought Louis's attempt at jocularity most ill-timed, but I said nothing. It seemed to me an immense time that he was gone, but he declares that it was not more than a minute and a quarter. Then I heard him laugh quietly to himself.

"'All right, come on,' he said to me. 'Gee, whoa, haw, get up, girlies,' he said to the horses, and those sagacious beasts immediately walked straight towards the spot whence his voice came, without paying the least attention to me, who was holding the reins so tight, as I thought.

"'Well, Milly, I suppose you'll never stop laughing,' was the first thing he said to me when the horses came to a standstill, with their noses almost in his beard.

"'I never felt less like laughing,' I replied, hardly daring to believe that the peril was past and that I was still alive.

"'Our highwayman is an old stump, don't you see?' exclaimed Louis. I looked again and saw that what he said was true; a gnarled tree stump, some twisted branches, a deceiving white vapour, and perhaps, too, our own vivid imaginations, these were the elements which had given birth to our highwayman.

"'I never was more taken in,' said Louis, as he resumed his seat beside me. 'It was the dead image of a man on horseback holding out a pistol. I'll come down here to-morrow and examine the place, to find out how I could have been so silly, but in the daylight, of course, it will look quite different. I shan't ever dare to tell the story, however, for they'll laugh at me from the Red River to the Mississippi, and say I'm getting to be an old fool, and ought to have somebody to look after me!'

"I saw that Louis was ashamed of the mistake he had made, but I was so thankful to be safe that I paid little heed to what he said. The next day he rode down to the Big Sugar Creek, sure enough, to identify the slain, as he said. When he came back, a couple of hours later, he was in high good-humour.

"'I shall not be afraid to tell the story against myself now,' he said. 'What do you think I found in the stump?'

"'What did you find?' asked I, full of interest in this, the only highwayman I ever met.

[Sidenote: The Last Laugh]

"'_Sixteen bullet-holes!_ You see, there have been other fools as great as myself, but they were ashamed of their folly and kept it dark. I shall tell mine abroad and have the last laugh at all events.'"

[Sidenote: Dorothy played a highly important part at a critical period in the life of her father. She begins in disgrace and ends in triumph.]

Dorothy's Day

BY

M. E. LONGMORE

"My costume!" said Dorothy Graham, jumping up from the breakfast-table.