"The driver heard them, and reversed his engine.""The driver heard them, and reversed his engine."
"One of the fishermen prevented him from sneezing again.""One of the fishermen prevented him from sneezing again."
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(Continued from page 219.)
Much to his relief, Charlie found that the galley fire had not gone out.
'I kept it going, cook,' a grimy young trimmer declared. 'It would have gone out long ago if I hadn't looked after it. And I've filled the kettle for you. Got a bit of grub to give me?'
Charlie took out a chunk of bread, dabbed a spoonful of marmalade on top of it, and gave it to the lad.
'Any time you want anything done, I'll do it,' the trimmer declared, and departed.
As there was nothing to detain Charlie in the galley he went forward to assist in hauling. The skipper was on the bridge; the mate was working the donkey-engine, which was fast drawing in the long wire ropes attached to the net, and the deck hands stood at the starboard-side gunwale, watching for the net to appear. An electric light was hung up at the bridge, so that the men could see to do the work they had in hand. For a moment or two Charlie stood at the foot of the bridge, waiting for the skipper or the mate to tell him what to do.
'Stand here,' Ping Wang said, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.
Charlie nodded his head and took up his position about three feet away from the Chinaman. Soon the net appeared above water, and the men, bending over the gunwale, grasped it with their hands, and, tugging all together, pulled it slowly but surely upwards.
'Where are the fish?' Charlie asked, surprised at seeing none in the part of the net at which they had been tugging.
'For'ard,' Ping Wang answered, and as he spoke the donkey-engine started panting and puffing, and the part of the net to which the Chinaman had pointed was now raised high above the gunwale. It resembled a huge cooking-net which had been lifted out of a gigantic pan. It was crowded with fish, and as it was pulled in and suspended over the pound made on the deck, the very small fish, mostly dead, fell through. Others, with wide-opened mouths, were caught in the meshes. A fisherman now stepped under the dripping net, untied it at the bottom, and sprang quickly aside as the catch of fish fell with a thud into the pound.
'What a mixture!' Charlie exclaimed as he gazed at the fish jumping, wriggling, and sliding about in the pound. 'What are they?'
'Cod, plaice, haddock, and turbot,' Ping Wang replied, but he only named a few of them. The catch included also ling, sole, whiting, dab, gurnet, oysters, crabs, whelks, cat-fish, star-fish, and a large amount of ocean scrapings.
Charlie stood watching the struggling mass, deeply interested, but Ping Wang whispered to him, 'Come away, or you'll have the skipper at you. We are going to shoot now.'
Charlie bestirred himself at once, and assisted in shooting the gear. When that had been done without a hitch, the work of sorting, cleaning, and packing the fish was begun. Three men stepped into the pound, trampling on the fish until they had made a clear space for their feet.
'Give a hand there, cook!' the skipper shouted, and Charlie stepped into the pound. He had not the heart to tread on the still living fish as the others were doing, and in his anxiety to avoid hurting them, he slipped and fell against the gunwale, his sou'-wester falling overboard. The other men stopped work at once, and looked at him in a by no means friendly way. The skipper abused him loudly and fiercely.
'It was my own sou'-wester,' Charlie declared, unable to understand why the skipper should be so excited over the loss.
'Then why don't you jump overboard and save it? We will fish you up next time we haul.'
The men laughed heartily at this grim joke.
'Take the skipper's advice, mate,' one of them said. 'I want some new boots badly.'
'It is thought a bad omen if a fisherman's sou'-wester is blown overboard,' Ping Wang explained in a whisper, whereupon Charlie laughed loudly at the superstitious idea.
'Stop that row,' the skipper shouted, 'and start cleaning the fish.'
Charlie took out his clasp-knife, and seized a plaice.
'Don't cut that,' Ping Wang warned him. 'Put the plaice in the box just as they are.'
Charlie hesitated, for the fish was not yet dead, and he did not like the idea of packing it away while it was alive.
'Here, stow it away,' a fisherman growled, and snatching it out of his hand flopped it in the box and smacked a dead fish on top of it.
The plaice were the only ones which had not to be cut open. As each fish was cleaned it was tossed into another pound, and when the whole of the catch, with the exception of the plaice, oysters, whelks, and the useless fish, were in this, the hose was turned on to the silvery mass.
When the fish had been thoroughly cleansed with water, they were packed away in boxes, which were at once stowed away in the hold between layers of ice.
Charlie was not required to assist in the work in the hold, and therefore he hurried to the bucket, on which was painted 'All hands,' and indulged in a wash. He was fortunate in being first, for fresh water is not plentiful on a trawler, and one bucketful has to suffice for the whole crew.
From the bucket, Charlie went to the galley and made the tea. Every one, from the skipper to the ship's boy, had a mugful; some had two. The North Sea fishermen are inveterate tea-drinkers.
Having drunk their tea, the men threw off their oilies and turned in again with all their clothes on.
'It isn't worth while undressing,' Ping Wang said to Charlie. 'In about three hours' time we shall have to turn out again. If you don't undress you will have a little longer time to sleep.'
Charlie did not undress, and consequently he was ready to start work at once when the time came. He put on a peaked cap in place of his lost sou'-wester.
'Don't forget the tea, cook,' one of them said to Charlie as he climbed up on deck. 'Let's have it before we start hauling.'
Thanks to the trimmer the kettle was boiling, and Charlie was therefore able to bring the men mugs of hot tea in less than five minutes from turning out.
'Cook is one of the right sort, after all,' one of the fishermen declared as he returned his empty mug to Charlie, and the others assented by nods and grunts. But before long Charlie was again in hot water. As he was assisting to haul in the net he sneezed loudly. In a moment one of the fishermen placed his big, dirty hand over his mouth and effectually prevented him from sneezing on the net again.
The skipper, looking down from the bridge, broke into loud abuse.
'What harm is there in sneezing?' Charlie answered, angrily.
'None of your back answers, or I'll clap you in irons.'
'If you do, you'll have to pay for it dearly when we get back to Grimsby. I insist upon knowing what harm I have done.'
'It is thought very unlucky to sneeze on a trawl,' the mate explained quietly, anxious to save Charlie from any further bullying. 'It is supposed to bring bad luck to the trawler. Now, grab hold of the net.'
Charlie again tugged at the net, and, when the catch was emptied into the pound, it was found that it was an exceedingly small one.
'That comes of having you aboard!' the skipper declared, pointing at Charlie.
'I don't see how my sneezing could have affected this catch,' Charlie answered, 'considering that it was almost on board when I sneezed.'
'But how about your sou'-wester last night? That was what ruined this catch, and your sneezing will spoil the next one.'
Charlie laughed openly at this prediction, but it was rather unfortunate for him that, when the next haul was made, it was found that the catch was still smaller than the previous one.
'I told you so!' the skipper declared, white with rage.
'It is a coincidence,' Charlie replied, calmly. 'If I sneeze on the net now you will probably have a fine catch next time.'
'No back answers. Don't you try to teach me anything. Get away to the galley at once, and be careful what you do.'
Charlie returned to the galley, hardly knowing whether to be angry or amused. It was very galling to have to submit to the abuse of an ignorant, blustering fellow like the skipper, but, at the same time, he could not take the man's superstition seriously.
'I would not have believed, unless I had seen the skipper, that it was possible for there to be such a superstitious Briton living at the end of the nineteenth century,' Charlie said to the mate, about half an hour later.
'Oh, there are many like him in the North Sea,' the mate answered, 'and all the arguing in the world won't convince them of their foolishness. After a time you will not find his ignorance and superstition amusing. However, what I want to say to you is this: the men in the foc's'le declare that the grub isn't well cooked, and that you haven't given them plum duff yet. You must let them have it to-morrow.'
'I will,' Charlie declared, as if plum duff were the easiest thing in the world to make.
When the mate left him, Charlie took out the bow-legged cook's written instructions to see what ingredients were necessary. His idea was to make and boil the pudding that evening, so that, if it turned out a failure, he would have time to make another one. If it proved to be a success, he would be able to warm it up on the following morning. But, just as he began to read the recipe, he noticed that the fire had burnt low and needed instant attention. In his anxiety to prevent it from going out, he put down the flimsy little book and began shovelling coals on the fire. While he was doing that a gust of wind swept through the galley, and carried the recipe-book out through the porthole and into the sea.
Charlie, gazing out at it, saw it float for a moment or two, and then lost sight of it.
'Well,' he muttered, ruefully, 'I don't know how I am going to make plum duff now!'
(Continued on page 238.)
Said the Trumpet to the Drum:'Less noise, good fellow! come!For nobody can hearMy voice, when you are near.''Boom! boom!' the Drum replied,'The fault is onyourside;You blow with such a soundThatmypoor voice is drowned.'And after that, all dayThey blew and boomed away,In contest so absurdThatneithercould be heard.Now, when you want to speak,O children, never seekTo drown in noisy toneAll voices but your own;But learn to shun in lifeThe Drum and Trumpet's strife.
Said the Trumpet to the Drum:'Less noise, good fellow! come!For nobody can hearMy voice, when you are near.'
'Boom! boom!' the Drum replied,'The fault is onyourside;You blow with such a soundThatmypoor voice is drowned.'
And after that, all dayThey blew and boomed away,In contest so absurdThatneithercould be heard.
Now, when you want to speak,O children, never seekTo drown in noisy toneAll voices but your own;But learn to shun in lifeThe Drum and Trumpet's strife.
The kitchen was very hot, and Aunt Christy, the old black cook, was very busy. With her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her cap all awry, she bustled about, hurrying the slow movements of the girls who were her helpers, and scolding the four little dusky children whenever they got in her way. She declared that they were all as full of mischief as they could be, and that there was not a pin to choose between them. But if one of the fourdidhappen to be worse than the others, that one was certainly Jim.
Jim was nearly seven; his young mind was fullof eager questions; he wanted to know the reason of everything, and it was really because he was so curious and prying that Aunt Christy thought him worse than the rest.
"Jim got a terrible drenching.""Jim got a terrible drenching."
On that morning he poked about the kitchen, opening baskets and peering into dishes, until his eyes fell upon a large bright pail, which was set upon a stand too high for him to reach.
'That's a new pail. Why's Aunt Christy got a new pail? Wonder what's in it? I will see.'
So said Jim to himself; and when he found that, even by standing on tiptoe, he could not reach, the little rascal trotted off for his three-legged stool, mounted on that, put his chubby arms as far as they would stretch round the pail. A three-legged stool, however, is but a treacherous support, and this Jim found to his cost. As he stood there, it slipped from under his bare feet, and the pail, which was full of warm water and vegetables, suddenly overturned.
Poor Jim got a terrible drenching; it was lucky for him that the water was not very hot, or he would have been sadly scalded. As it was, a big turnip hit him on the head, and the handle of the pail hurt him. Wet and bruised he crept away, a sadder and a wiser boy, inwardly resolved to have nothing more to do with things which did not concern him.
C. J. Blake.
A Cliff-dwelling of North America.A Cliff-dwelling of North America.
If you take a map of North America, and trace the line of the Rocky Mountains downwards, you come to the State of Colorado, with New Mexico and Arizona lying below; and if you tried to explore this country you would find yourself in a perfect network of mountains. In Colorado there are magnificent snow-peaks, with richly wooded valleys lying between them, whilst in New Mexico and Arizona the land is much more bare, mountain ridges,often covered with stones and pebbles, dividing flat table-lands of great extent.
Common to all three States are wonderful gorges, or splits in the cliffs, of immense depth. Sometimes from below one can hardly see the sky between the precipices; at other times the gorge may open out into quite a broad valley; but, whether narrow or wide, we may be quite sure that wherever there is a canyon (as these rock-splits are called in Western America) there will be a river running down it.
One of these rivers, named the Colorado, travels for more than three hundred miles along a channel of its own cutting, never less than a mile below the level of the surrounding country. If we remember that we take from fifteen to twenty minutes to walk a mile, and then fancy that mile standing on end like a pole, we may get some idea of what the cliffs are like in these canyons.
The currents of the mountain rivers, like those of all waters flowing from high lands, are very strong and swift; and when the snows are melting, or after heavy rainfalls, the force of the stream is enormous. The result is that the channel is worn deeper and deeper, whilst the cliffs at the side are eaten away in places. The hardest rocks remain in jagged points and ledges, and the softer parts are in time washed away, leaving caverns of all shapes and sizes.
The kind of people who lived in this country of highlands and canyons were tribes of American Indians, whose food was chiefly found in hunting, and whose main interests lay in making war upon their neighbours. Some tribes were strong, and others weak, so that by degrees the powerful folk drove away the less warlike people from the rich hunting-grounds and wooded country into the barren rocks. Now, if these hunted tribes were to exist at all, it was clear they must find some means of protecting themselves; thus it may have happened that scrambling up the cliffs one day to avoid their foes, some fugitive Indian came into one of the dwelling-places hollowed out in bygone ages by the river which roared below. What joyful news he would carry home to his friends when he ventured to go back to them! Shelter from rain, and snow, and wind! Homes easily defended from marauding foes! What a new life of ease for the persecuted people! One by one families would climb the cliffs, until at last a great population looked down from their eyries in certain gorges of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, where only eagles or mountain-goats might be supposed to dwell.
The table-lands above the ravines were, as a rule, fairly fertile, and the Indians were able to grow maize, or Indian corn. When they were obliged to give up the roving life of hunters, animal food must have become a scarce luxury.
Being an industrious race, they were not long content to live in the rugged caverns as nature made them, but with wonderful labour built walls, floors, and roofs, to make their homes more comfortable, and to keep out the icy winds which howled up the canyons. The marvel is how they reached their homes, which are often at great heights; and one shudders to think of how many stray babies, clambering children, and nervous folk of all ages, must have stumbled and fallen over the rocky platforms to certain death. Every drop of water, every bit of fuel, and all food of every kind, must have been carried up those awful precipices, usually on ladders placed from ledge to ledge, and drawn up after the climber. That any people should choose such dwelling-places shows how unsafe life down in the plains must have been, and later on we will try to see how far the Cave Indians contrived to secure peace and comfort in their cliff houses.
Helena Heath.
Each word is one letter shorter than the one before. The initials, read downwards, give the name of a South American city.
C. J. B.
My first is thick and dark; my second is connected with the sea; my whole is an acid concrete salt, or some one keen and irritable.
C. J. B.
[Answers on page 263.]
9.—
Dun-dee.
An omnibus, in the course of its journey, had to be taken up a long and toilsome hill. Frequently passengers, out of pity for the poor horse, would get out at the bottom and walk up a part of the way, so as to lighten its load. In time, the sagacious beast got to expect this, and would sometimes stop of its own accord, as if to let them descend from the vehicle.
One day, a gentleman, travelling up the hill for the first time in this conveyance, was much annoyed by the conductor frequently opening the door, even when no one wanted to get out, and banging it close again.
He inquired of the man what he meant by such conduct, when it was explained that it was done to deceive the horse, which, each time the door was banged, thought another passenger had alighted, and pulled away with more will in consequence.
H. B. S.
Hyenas have stronger jaws than any other animals in the world. They have a large tooth at each side of the upper jaw, which bites against the keen edge of a tooth like it on the lower jaw, thus forming a pair of shears sharp enough to cut paper and strong enough to crack the thigh-bone of an ox.
Hyenas live entirely on meat. A lion, on the contrary, eats a large quantity of fresh grass when it can get it, and in captivity will lap milk from a pan with as much greediness as an ordinary pussy.
It is difficult for Englishmen to realise the intense devotion which Napoleon the First inspired in the hearts of his French soldiers. Ambitious and utterly careless of human life as he undoubtedly was, these men overlooked all this in their admiration for the victorious General.
As a rule, Napoleon certainly behaved as the Father of his soldiers, and seemed to feel both with them and for them. Here is an account of the way he cheered an old 'Sapeur' whom he find lying in the ward of a military hospital.
'How now, my friend?' said the Emperor, halting at the soldier's bedside. 'You are one of my Sapeurs, I see! I thought that regiment prided itself on never being ill?'
'I am not ill, your Majesty!' said the soldier, proudly, as he saluted his chief; 'but the doctor wants me to have my leg cut off, and I do not wish it.'
'Why not?' asked Napoleon. 'Are you, who have faced death so often, afraid of an operation of a few minutes?'
'Afraid, Sire!' said the man, with a quiet smile. 'Fear is not a disease that attacks Sapeurs, as your Majesty knows; but if I change my leg of flesh for a wooden stump, I shall never be able to return to the regiment, and I would rather be buried entire than bit by bit.'
'Where were you wounded?' asked the Emperor.
'At Wagram, Sire.'
'Have you received your medal?'
'No, Sire,' said the soldier, eagerly. 'I was in the ambulance when you distributed the medals.'
'Suppose I were to give you the medal now?' said Napoleon, looking fixedly at the soldier.
'Oh, Sire!' said the man, almost leaping up in his delight. 'I should be quite well then, I know.'
'Well, then, I give it you,' said the Emperor: 'but on one condition: you must let the surgeon cut off that leg.'
'Just as you order me, Sire; if you wish my head cut off I am ready! Only I can never serve you again, if I have a leg off.'
'How do you know that, you foolish fellow?' replied the Emperor, smiling. 'Make haste and get well, and I appoint you gate-keeper of my castle of Rambouillet.'
The soldier said no more. His heart was too full of joy and gratitude, for that was indeed a post of honour.
Some months later the Castle of Rambouillet had a new gate-keeper, an old wooden-legged sergeant of Sapeurs, wearing the coveted medal on his well-brushed uniform!
X.
India is rich in animals of the deer kind. To name only a few, there are the Sambur, the beautiful Axis Deer, the small, but fierce, Hog Deer, the Rusa Deer, the Bahrainga Deer, and the noble Cashmere Deer. The habits of these animals are exceedingly varied. Some live upon the hills, while others frequent the low lands and the jungles, and are never seen upon the higher ground. Several of the species are nocturnal, and are so rarely seen in the daytime that any one might think they were scarce animals, although they are really very common.
The Cashmere Stag or Deer is one of those which live on the high lands, upon the slopes of the mountains of Cashmere, Nepal, and the countries to the north-west of India. It prefers forests and well-wooded country, in which it finds shelter and seclusion. It rarely descends to the lower and more open country, and it is in fact so retiring and alert that it is seldom met with. By day it hides itself in the woods, but in the early morning it is tempted forth to drink at the lakes and pools which lie upon the skirts of the forest. It changes its pasture-grounds with the seasons, climbing the mountains in summer, probably to enjoy the cool, fresh air of the upper regions, and returning to lower ground in winter in search of food.
The male is a fine animal, with large branching horns, somewhat like those of our own stag or red deer, but not quite so large. In a fine and well-developed specimen the horns will often display sixteen branching points. The general colour of the stag is a rather dark grey or brown, with patches of yellowish white upon the haunches, and for some little distance along the back. The neck of the male is covered with longer hair somewhat resembling a mane. The female is very similar in colour to the male, but she is smaller, and has neither horns nor mane.
The Cashmere stag is sometimes called the Nepal stag, and it has also other names, mostly derived from the localities where it is found. Many of these are native names conferred upon it by the inhabitants of various parts of the north of India, and when they are taken up and repeated by sportsmen and travellers they prove very confusing to naturalists, who cannot always be sure that they all refer to one animal.
All stags are very attentive to their mates, and the least cry of the female will draw her companion to her side. A hunter once saw a fine male come running up at the cry of his mate, which had just been shot. The poor thing was dead, but the stag stayed by her body, and would not be frightened away until he was quite sure there was no life left in it.
"The stag stayed by his mate's body.""The stag stayed by his mate's body."
The Black Leopard.The Black Leopard.
There are few animals more beautiful than the leopard, which inhabits India and Africa. Looking at its handsome fur, we cannot fail to be struck with the regular way in which the black spots or rings are arranged upon the reddish-yellow ground, and how regularly they vary in shape and size in different parts of the body.
Besides the ordinary spotted leopard there is, however, a black leopard. It is found in India and some other countries of southern Asia where the ordinary leopard lives, and seems most common upon the high lands. It is very much scarcer than the ordinary leopard, and is, indeed, very rare. The natives of India have a great dread of it, for they think it is more cunning, more ferocious and stronger than the spotted leopard, which is one of the fiercest and most active of the flesh-eating animals. It climbs trees and sports among the branches with all the agility of a cat. It is as ferocious as the tiger, and though not so large, its activity and strength make it a very dangerous foe.
Though the black leopard is different in colour from the ordinary leopard, it is in other respects very similar, and naturalists now regard it as only a variety of the spotted leopard. After getting together all the information which they can about the colours of the leopard and similar animals, they have come to the conclusion that the leopard family has a tendency to turn to black. This does not mean that full-grown spotted leopards sometimes turn black quickly, but that the cubs are occasionally born black, or grow dark soon after they are born.
The leopard is also known to show other variations of colour, but examples of these are very much rarer than black ones. All animals are liable to occasional variations of colour, which cannot be satisfactorily explained. In the leopard these variations occur more frequently than in most other animals, and the colour is nearly always black.
Crabbe, the poet, whoseVillage Taleswere the delight of a past generation, was sent to a boarding school whilst still so young that he had not even learnt to dress himself.
When he awoke in the morning after his first night away from home, he saw the other boys dressing, and was much disturbed. He whispered to his bedfellow (for all schoolboys slept at least two in a bed in those days), 'Master George, can you put on your shirt? for—for I'm afraid I cannot!'
This school, though only for small boys, seems to have been a very severe one, for Crabbe and his friends were punished for simply 'playing at soldiers.' He was condemned, with his friends, to be shut in a large dog-kennel, known by the terrible name of 'the Black Hole.' Little Crabbe was the first to be pushed in, and the rest were crowded in on top of him, till at last the kennel was so full of boys that they were all but suffocated. Crabbe in vain cried out that he could not breathe, but no notice was taken of him until, in despair, he bit the lad next to him violently in the hand.
'Crabbe is dying! Crabbe is dying!' roared the sufferer, and the sentinel outside at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush into the air.
Crabbe, when telling this story to his children in after years, always added, 'A minute more and I must have died!'
X.
Oh, what a pretty scene is this,Of meadow, hill, and brook,I wish that I was small enoughTo get inside the book.Upon this stream I'd launch my boat;I'd pluck this willow wand;Then round that reedy curve I'd float,And past the mill beyond—If I were only small enough.Then where the meadows are so greenI'd moor my boat again,And overtake that little boyWho's trotting down the lane.I'd ask him to be friends with me,I'd take him by the hand,And through my pretty picture weWould go to fairy-land—If I were only small enough.
Oh, what a pretty scene is this,Of meadow, hill, and brook,I wish that I was small enoughTo get inside the book.Upon this stream I'd launch my boat;I'd pluck this willow wand;Then round that reedy curve I'd float,And past the mill beyond—If I were only small enough.
Then where the meadows are so greenI'd moor my boat again,And overtake that little boyWho's trotting down the lane.I'd ask him to be friends with me,I'd take him by the hand,And through my pretty picture weWould go to fairy-land—If I were only small enough.
The Thirty Years' War was raging, and Europe was torn by bitter party strife. All over the country men ranged themselves under their respective leaders and fought grimly to the death.
At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony. The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week longer help would come.
A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.
His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.
Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take theirplaces in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral, and the Town Hall was not much further away.
'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'
He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment, and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying, 'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we wait quietly for it.'
Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful business, and lately he had fancied the children laughed to themselves when he passed.
He was roused from these sad thoughts by something coming sharply against the window. He listened, and the sound was repeated again. Someone was throwing stones at the glass. Who could it be? and what could they want at that hour?
Stretching out his hand for his crutch, he moved softly across the room and peered out. There was just enough light to enable him to see a boat moored to the steps which ran up to the gate. He opened the window gently, and was about to speak when he heard the clockmaker's voice saying cautiously, 'Is that you, Captain?'
Ulrich knew then that the stranger had struck his window by mistake; clearly it was the guard-room window he had aimed at, and if that were so, why had the stranger chosen the very night that his father was away, and how did Oscar know him? As quickly as he could he put out his lamp and listened breathlessly. Oscar was speaking again.
'All is going well—better than I dared to hope. The fools think I am as loyal as themselves, and they have left me to guard the gate. The council will not be over till near midnight, and in half an hour the moon will be gone. I will open the gate when it is quite dark and admit your men, and the game will then be in our own hands.'
'You are a good fellow, Oscar, and shall be remembered,' replied the stranger. 'To-morrow, when the town is ours, your name shall be on every one's lips, and your pockets shall be filled with gold.'
He then turned back to his boat, and Ulrich leant back in his chair sick with horror. To think that here, in his father's house, sat a traitor, and that unless help came soon the town would be lost!
What could he do? It was useless for him to crawl downstairs and confront Oscar. He had only to carry him back to his room and lock the door to ensure safety. It was no less useless to cry for help, for a long row of warehouses separated the guard-room from any other dwelling. Oh! if he had only been like other boys, how easily he could have stolen downstairs, and rushed to the Town Hall and given the alarm! It seemed absolutely impossible for him to do it as he was. He had never gone downstairs alone in his life; his father had always been there to help him; even if he managed to crawl down he could not take his crutch with him, and he could not walk without it. No, clearly it was impossible.
And yet, as the slow minutes dragged away, and as he thought of the shame it would be if the town were lost, he decided to make the attempt. Slowly he crawled across the room and down the narrow, twisted staircase. He was trembling from head to foot, and his breath seemed to come in great gasps. What if Oscar heard him? His door was ajar, and the lamp threw a ray of light on the landing outside; but Oscar was deep in his plans, and did not notice the black shadow that moved slowly across the lamp-lit space.
At last Ulrich was outside, and he breathed more freely in the open air. If he had only had his crutch now, things might all have gone well, but how was he to crawl along the long Breite Strasse, and round the corner and up the still longer Gast Strasse to the Town Hall? His heart failed. Still, he could only try his best. Perhaps he might meet some one....
Alas! all who were not at the council were safely in their houses, and there was no one to notice the bent figure slowly dragging itself along, or to hear the feeble knocks as he tried to reach the great brass knockers, which were just too high for him to reach.
At last he came to the Cathedral, where he sometimes attended service, but he had his father's strong arm to lean on then, while now he was alone and quite exhausted. He could never reach the Town Hall in time; but the church door was open, perhaps some one was inside who could take the message. But the church was closed; it was only the porch which was open.
With a sob of despair the boy entered and sank down on a low bench by the door. After all it was no use; he could go no further, and even now the traitor might be opening the gates.
As Ulrich raised his hand to wipe away the big tears that would fall, he struck something soft hanging above his head; in the darkness he felt it. It was a rope.
Instantly his strength came back with a rush. There was hope yet! Was not the bell of the Cathedral the loudest in the town, and was it not used as an alarm in cases of fire? He grasped the rope and pulled with all his might. It was hard work, but soon the sound came—crash! crash! crash!
That would surely rouse the town. And so it did. Soon hasty footsteps were heard, and a watchman ran in, frantically waving his lantern.
'Where is it? What is it?—a fire? Speak, boy!' but Ulrich seemed to have lost his tongue. It was not until several others had gathered round him that he managed to gasp out, 'The water-gate—quick! Oscar is letting in the soldiers!'
The words flew like wild-fire, and off the crowd rushed—men, boys, burgomaster, and watchmen, just in time to capture the traitor and to drive back the enemy.
"'What is it?—a fire? Speak, boy!'""'What is it?—a fire? Speak, boy!'"
So his father had been right after all, and Ulrich's bit of work had been ready for him, and nearer than he thought. And he did his best, and doing his best saved the town. For help did come, and Ulrich was thanked by the Emperor himself, who put him under the care of his own doctor. The doctor, although he was not able quite to cure him, did him so much good that he was able in the course of time to walk without a crutch.
E. W. Grierson.