CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XI.THE SURF–BOY.The bright colors of October had faded out of the landscape, and the soft shades of November followed. With November, came the festival of “All Saints’,” reminding us of another life, and of those who are with Christ. Not only are those eminent in the Church suggested to us,—“apostles,” “martyrs,” “confessors,” the constellations in the sky, recognized by all,—but how many separate stars better known to us personally, look down through the shadows of death’s night, and cheer us in our pilgrim journey! These are our own beloved dead, whose bright faces smile upon us, and assure us that we are not forgotten. May we not forget them, and may we prove our memory in our better lives. “All Saints’” passed, and the sharper days of November arrived at The Harbor.Walter’s duties at his Uncle Boardman’s had been steadily continued, varied by occasional gaps of leisure; and these he had filled up with home visits. Sunday also was a big, blessed gap of leisure, and each Sunday night had brought its service at the Hall. The attendance had been good. Mr. Raynham was earnest, while reverent in his conduct of the service; and the “choir”—how that had distinguished itself! The “Cantate Domino,” “Benedic, anima mea,” and other chants, they took up enthusiastically, and lifted them very high on their soaring wings of song.“They make nothin’ of singin’ ’em,” affirmed Aunt Lydia; which translated meant that they madesomethingof them; for promptness and heartiness are never without a result, though the melody may not be the sweetest.Sunday over, Walter went again to his usual duties in the store.One Monday morning, there was an unusual call at Uncle Boardman’s.“Jotham Barney, I do declare!” said Aunt Lydia, looking out of a kitchen window into the yard. “Here he comes up to the back door. I wonder what he wants here.”A lifting of the outside door latch was now heard, and a heavy step was planted on thefloor of the little entry. Then the inside door swung open, and the keeper of the life saving station entered Aunt Lydia’s sanctum.“Good mornin’, Mis’ Blake.”“That you, Jotham? Set down, do.”“Much obleeged, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Where’s your husband?”“He’s down in the mash field clearin’ up.”“I s’pose I could see him, and I’ll go down.”“He will be glad to see you, Jotham; but I guess you’ll have to go down, for Boardman’s that kind, he wouldn’t leave his work, for the king.”“That is all right, and that’s why he is so forehanded.”“Forehanded!” remarked Aunt Lydia, shaking her head ominously when the keeper had left the house. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I expect that Belzebub’s a–swallerin’ up Boardman’s property fast as he can gulp it down.” This reference to Baggs did not have a soothing effect on her feelings, and she wisely changed her thoughts by going to the window that faced the orchard. She watched the keeper, as he took a path that followed an old stone wall. Soon leaping this, he hurried across a narrow field that was dotted with the yellow stubs of cornstalks. Beyond this, wasthe lot which Aunt Lydia had designated as the “mash field.” It bordered the broad, flat marsh, beyond which flashed the blue, bright river. It was a variety field in its crops, yielding a little corn, more potatoes, and beans mostly. “Clearin’ up” was no small task, as it meant the removal of bean–poles, and an indefinite quantity of vines. The latter went no farther than a bonfire in one corner of the field: and up to it Boardman Blake was now venturing at intervals, thrusting into its smoke and flames immense armfuls of dead vines. At the time that the keeper of the station made his appearance, Boardman was stoutly tugging at a row of very obstinate bean–poles, and every moment he grew redder in the face, while his scanty breath issued in warm little puffs.“Glad—to see ye,—Jothum. How—dy’e—do?” ejaculated Boardman, still tugging away.“Well as usual, thank ye. Got some tough customers there?”“We—e—ll,—yes!” said Boardman.“Think—”The world lost that last precious thought. Here a provoking bean–pole that he had grasped, suddenly broke, and in a great, fat heap, over went Boardman, cutting Chauncy Aldrich’s figure when in the boat–race he “caught a crab.”“Hurt—ye?” cried the keeper, rushing forward and offering his assistance.“Oh—no!” said Boardman laughing, and rolling over as easily as Miss P. Green’s butter firkin, on the day of the fatal boat–race. “The pesky pole got the better of me.”“Let me help you,” said the keeper, his vigorous muscle quickly hoisting into an upright attitude this “fallen merchant,” as Chauncy would have called him.“There!” puffed Boardman, resolutely resuming work, and tugging at the stub of the broken pole. “Now I’m ready for business, if I can help you.”“I wanted to see you about Walter.”“Walter, my nephew?”“Yes.”“Hope he has done nothing out of the way. His folks would feel dreadful bad.”“Oh, no—no! jest the opposite. Fact is, I want him at the station.”Boardman looked up, and wiped his broad, benevolent face.“You don’t say! I thought Walter couldn’t have been up to anything out of the way, for he is as well meanin’ a boy as you often see. And you want him at the station? Indeed!”“You see, Squire”—a title the people gaveBoardman when they wished to be specially attentive, and it was always acceptable to Boardman—“you see, Silas Fay, one of my men, is not very well; but I want to hold on to him as he is a powerful feller, and a good boatman. I thought if Silas took a rest, a month say, he would be able to come back and pull through the winter. I thought for that month, I might get your Walter.”“Is he strong enough?”“He has a good deal of strength for one of his years, and every day he will be a–gainin’. Jest look at him! I have watched him a good deal. He is a good oarsman too. They say he pulled fustrate at the race. Then I thought he might like the money, and also that you might spare him, as work at the saw–mill is slack, and I knew you didn’t have to be there so much, and could be more at the store. Then that colored boy is with you, isn’t he?”“Yes, yes, and I think I could get along. We are not doing—well, you might say, we—we—are doing—not a thing at mill. Baggs has gone out West to look after some business.”Boardman looked very despondent.“Squire, look here.”The keeper here dropped his voice, though there was no occasion for it, as the only beingthat heard him was a musk–rat stealing along in the shadow of the wall of a ditch near by. In low, confidential tones, the keeper remarked,—“I think that—I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s, but I must say it—I think Baggs will bear a good deal of watchin’. Did you know the men at the station had been lettin’ him have their money?”“Why, no.”“But they have. He said he could give ’em more per cent than the bank would, and so a number of ’em, when paid off, took their cash to Baggs. He’s a sly old crittur. One time, he purtended he wasn’t particular ’bout havin’ any more, and one of ’em as good as begged him to take his money, and Baggs made a good deal of the fact that he calc’lated he was the ‘poor man’s friend,’ and on the whole, though he didn’t want it, yet he would ‘’commodate’ him; and that’s the last the feller has seen of it.”“Doesn’t Baggs pay interest?”“Oh, it was in the agreement that the int’rest should stay and ‘’cumulate,’ he called it. He’s a knowin’ one, that Baggs! Squire, I wouldn’t resk too much.”Boardman did not enjoy such advice, but he was accustomed to it, as Aunt Lydia administeredfrequent doses. There was always a dose the first thing in the morning, like the sulphur and molasses some unfortunate children are obliged to take; and other administrations during the day, might be expected.“Wall, let that go for what it is worth. To go back, Squire, as I was a–sayin’ about Walter, I thought you might spare him, this month, say.”“Oh—yes—yes. I think I can.”“Then, I’ll speak to him. You see one reason why I’d rather have him in Silas’ place a month—of course, I don’t s’pose he could be spared mebbe, any longer time than that—one reason, as I said, is that I think I can depend on him. I heard him, one mornin’ before the boat–race, say to Baggs’ nephew a thing—something or other—wasn’t right, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I liked that in him. I told the sup’rintendent of our station deestrick who was on, all ’bout Walter, and that I thought he would do as a substitute, and I mentioned that leetle circumstance. The sup’rintendent said it had the right ring. So, Squire, if you are ’greeable, I’ll speak to Walter.”“I’m willing, Jotham, and I’m obliged to you for your good opinion of my nephew.”Not only was Boardman “‘greeable,” but so was every one who was involved in the matter. Aunt Lydia assented, though she declared she should “miss him.” Don Pedro gave a solemn smile, and said he would do all he could. Walter’s parents were willing; and as for Walter—he just sprang for the chance. He met the proposition with all the enthusiasm of his nature. That yellow building near the beach fascinated him. The sea beyond was a mystery that awed, and yet ever attracted him. He had been reading about the life saving service, and he wished with his own eyes to look inside—not inside of a book, simply, but the service itself. He went home to pass “Thanksgiving,” that delightful family festival; and after his return, one brilliant but chilly November morning, he climbed up into his Uncle Boardman’s high red wagon, and took his seat by Don Pedro, who had been commissioned to take Walter, and an old blue chest, down to the station. Walter had found this chest up in the garret, packed away under the dusky eaves.“It looks more sailor like than my trunk,” reasoned Walter, “and I will ask the folks if I can’t take it. Good! It has rope handles, sailor–fashion. Just the thing!”The “folks” were willing, and without obtaining the leave of the chest itself, this was dragged out into the light, upset, dusted, pounded on every side, and dusted again; and after this rough, unceremonious treatment, lugged down into Walters chamber. There, it was neatly packed, and then removed to the red wagon. Before it reaches the station, there will be time enough to say something about the late work of that department of Government employ, into which Walter Plympton for awhile has gone.By the report of the life saving service for 1885, there were 203 stations planted on the edge of that great kingdom of water whose violence must so often be fought. Of these stations, 38 were on the Lakes, 7 on the Pacific, 157 on the Atlantic, and 1 at the Falls of the Ohio, Louisville, Kentucky.These stations are grouped into districts: those in Maine and New Hampshire, constituting the first district; in Massachusetts, the second; on the coast of Rhode Island and Long Island, the third; and the New Jersey coast makes the fourth. There is a large number of stations in the last two districts, for they offer a dangerous coast on which to trip up the great commerce hurrying into and out of New York.As we go farther south, the coast from Cape Henlopen to Cape Charles lies in the fifth district; and that from Cape Henry to Cape Fear River in the sixth. The eastern coast of Florida, with the coast of Georgia and South Carolina, is in the seventh, the Gulf coast in the eighth. Lakes Erie and Ontario make the ninth district; Lakes Huron and Superior the tenth; Lake Michigan the eleventh; and the Pacific coast constitutes the twelfth. Each district is in the care of a superintendent, and over all is the General Superintendent, Hon. Sumner I. Kimball, whose headquarters are at Washington. The service also has its Inspector, Capt. J. H. Merryman, and there are twelve Assistant Inspectors, for the twelve districts. Let us now get up high enough in imagination to look down on our rough coast, and watch the vessels struggling with storm and surf while the surfmen gallantly push out to their relief. 371 disasters were recorded at these stations, and in the periled vessels, were 2,439 persons; and only eleven were lost. Now let us look at the property involved in these disasters. The vessels and their cargoes were estimated to be worth $4,634,380, and of this amount, there was a saving of $3,379,583. There were 56 vessels totally lost. This is the last publishedreport. The work at a life saving station is of varied nature. There are not only wrecks to be visited, but vessels coming too near shore in the night time must be warned off by the faithful patrolman’s signal light. A vessel may be stranded, and need to be “worked off.” If a fisherman’s dory, or a millionaire’s yacht, should meet with any kind of a disaster, if some unlucky traveler by the sea may tumble into the water from his little craft, if any party of mariners, disabled for any reason, may need shelter and refreshment, it is the life saving station that is expected to furnish help for all the above cases.Let us now pack into a nutshell the results of the work of these men, since this system was inaugurated in 1871. There have been 2,918 disasters that involved property worth $51,763,694, and there was a saving of $36,277,929. Out of a total of 25,693 persons involved in these disasters, 25,236 were saved; and the department claims that it was not responsible for the loss of 197. In the latter cases, the stations were not open, or service was hindered by distance. 4,829 persons were aided at stations, and the days of relief afforded these were 13,313. I would add that, the seventh district is peculiar. It takes in the eastern coast of Florida. Stations here are “provisioned houses of refuge” in the care of keepers, but without any crew. The coast is singular, and if a vessel be stranded, the escape of the crew is as a rule, comparatively easy. In the case of such a disaster as the above, to a crew, their special peril is from hunger and thirst, when they have reached a shore very scantily inhabited. Guide posts are set up for the benefit of such castaways, directing them to the station or lighthouse that may be nearest.“Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea”(p.191).The vast field of work occupied by the life saving service, let us try to grasp with our thoughts. Recall once more the stations established; the figures, too, that represent the life and property already saved; and think also of the vast interests still at stake in the ships that are sailing, and the crews that are climbing their rigging. The boy who sits in the red wagon by the side of Don Pedro, is coming to help with his young, strong muscles, and nimble wits, that force of about fifteen hundred, to–day, whose noble mission it is to fight the sea, and rescue the life and property it would destroy. The red wagon bumps and jolts over the rough little lane winding down to the station, and finally halts, as Don Pedro shouts to the horses,“Whoa, dah!” The blue chest with its clumsy rope handles is lowered to the ground, and then obediently accompanies Walter and Don Pedro into the station.CHAPTER XII.ON HIS BEAT.Keeper Barney and his family of surfmen were at breakfast as Walter entered. They were seated about a table on which were two huge steaming dishes,—one of biscuit, and the other of fried potatoes. By each surfman’s plate, was a cup of hot coffee. A ready chorus of welcome went up from these modern knights of the sea. “How are ye, Walter?” sang out the keeper. “Hullo!” “Good mornin’!” “Come in! come in!” were the various styles of greeting; while Charlie Lawson, the cook, shouted, “You look thin as a shadder! Set down, and have something to fill you out!”“I’m much obliged,” replied Walter. “I have been to breakfast, though.”“That means,” explained the keeper, “that he was out last night practicin’ on a beat, andso took anearlycup of coffee; but we will show him to–night what arealbeat is.”“That’s so!” said Tom Walker. “Them fancy beats don’t amount to nothin’, beside the real article.”Walter felt at home at once, and declared that he guessed he would try “Cook Charlie’s biscuit.”“Biscuit! Try them fried taters too. One of ’em would keep you a–goin’ a hull day,” declared the cook.“You look as if they had done a good work for you,” said Woodbury Elliott to the cook. Something had fatted up “Cook Charlie” as he was generally called. But what business has a cook to be lean? The presiding genius of the kitchen, certainly ought to give in his own body proof of his skill. A lean cook is an inconsistency; while in a fat cook there is a fitness. And then what right has a cook to be cross? A good dinner begets a good temper; and the cook ought to be sweet–natured always. A lean, cross cook, is an inconsistency. Cook Charlie, was of the kind that harmonizes with the cheerful, comforting nature of the kitchen stove. All the surfmen were at the breakfast table excepting Silas Fay, whose place Walter intended to temporarily fill. There was thesandy haired keeper, and there was Tom Walker, with his big bushy beard,—a shaggy kind of an animal. Next to Tom, sat Woodbury Elliott, his blue eyes flashing out occasional glances of welcome toward Walter. If Cook Charlie was fat, “Slim” Tarleton was lean; and his first name was bestowed upon him on account of this peculiarity. He was Capt. Barney’s bony neighbor on the left. Next to Slim, came two brothers, Seavey, and Nathan Lowd. They were quiet, inoffensive young men, whose peculiarity was a grin on every possible occasion, excepting a funeral. They were twins, resembling one another closely; but showed this difference, that Nathan grinned more than Seavey. There was one more at the table,—Joe Cardridge, a black–haired, black–eyed man, on whose face was a cynical expression, as if he was continually out of humor with the world, and wished to show it by a sneer. Nobody liked his discontented, jealous disposition, and it was the keeper’s purpose to get rid of him at the first opportunity. He was an excellent boatman, and this merit had secured him the position of surfman. It was true indeed of all the crew; their knowledge of boating, gained in many trips after cod and pollock, halibut and haddock, constitutedtheir special fitness for the life saving service. They were strong, hardy, muscular fellows, and Slim Tarleton—bony, but tough—was no exception.After breakfast, the keeper led Walter upstairs.“I want to tell you where you will bunk, Walter, and I guess you had better take Silas’ bed. Here it is.”“Who sleeps next?”“Woodbury Elliott there, and Tom Walker on this side. Each man of the crew is numbered, and you will take Silas’ number, six. You are Surfman Six.”“That’s good. Now, I’ve been round over the station, and know it pretty well. Could you just give me an insight into the boat–room, more of an idea of it?”“Sartin. Let’s come down now.”From the kitchen or living–room, on the first floor, one passed directly into the large boat–room; and that immediately proclaimed the nature of the building, and also the work of its occupants. In the center, was the surf–boat, twenty–six feet long. At the stern and bows, were air–chambers.“That long steering–oar is twenty–two feet long, isn’t it? Somebody said so.”“This was worn about the body under the arms”(p.197).“Yes. Walter. It gives me a tremendous purchase when I set in the starn to steer.”“Of course you have six oars, and then there are two spare ones.”“Jest so.”Each oar was stamped, “U. S. L. S. S.,” whose translation is United States Life Saving Service. On each seat was a cork jacket, consisting of two rows of cork blocks secured to a belt of canvas. This was worn about the body under the arms.“That means,” said Walter, “all ready for use, any moment.”“Yes, we may be wanted any hour, and we can’t go out, service–time, unless we put those jackets on.”“So Tom Walker told me. Let me see—Oh, there’s the axe Tom said you kept in the boat; and there’s a hatchet, and you have got ‘Uncle Sam’s’ mark on them.”“Yes. There’s a rudder too, which we can use in smooth water. This is a surf–boat, but there are in the service some life–boat stations. On the Lakes, and Pacific coast, you find ’em. Life–boats are better for a shore that is bold, where the water runs deep.”Along the right hand wall of the boat–room, extended a miscellaneous collection of apparatus.There was a mortar for shooting a line to a wreck, the ball used being a twenty–four pound round shot. There were shovels and a Merriman rubber suit. Wound ingeniously and carefully on pins, were long coils of shot–line, that could be slipped off any moment, and sent whizzing and flying behind an iron ball. There were also long coils of rope, to be used in completing the connection between a wreck and the shore. Of the three sizes, the largest, a four–inch cable, was employed with the life–car, and a three–inch cable with the breeches buoy.“There it is!” exclaimed Walter enthusiastically, as he crossed to the left of the surf–boat and looked up at the life–car. This was suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a boat, but it was covered. In the center of the cover or roof, was an opening. At each end of the car, were air–chambers.“Woodbury Elliott says four small persons, or three large ones, can get in there.”“Yes, we calc’late to stow that number away.”“And that opening is the manhole.”“Yes, and when you are in, you can fasten the cover from the inside, and be tight as a fly inside a drum.”“I used to wonder how they could breathe, till I found out there were little air–holes in the top.”“Sartin.”“And this is the cart,” said Walter, nodding toward a stout hand–cart.“Yes, and you see she is all packed for sarvice any moment.”Here the keeper laid his broad, hard hand on the apparatus in the cart. There was the breeches buoy, consisting of a large cork ring, from which drooped very stout, but very short legs, or “breeches.” A Lyle gun, lighter than a mortar, and used for shooting a line to a wreck, projected its nozzle from the heap in the cart.“There is the cartridge–box,” said Walter. “And I suppose of course the cartridges are there.”“Yes, all ready, and two dozen primers are in there.”“Pickaxe and shovel, and tackle and fall,” murmured Walter.Yes, these were carried by the cart, and Walter saw little tally–boards, inscribed with directions to a shipwrecked crew, for the proper fastening of ropes to the vessel.“Could I look into the closet where theCoston signals and rockets are?” inquired Walter.“Round this way,” replied the keeper, who was pleased to notice that Walter knew so much about the apparatus at the station. He threw open a door, and a drawer also. In this closet, were various pyrotechnic treasures, serviceable with their brilliantly flashing fires for the work of the surfmen.The store of curiosities in the boat–room had not been exhausted yet. Near the door of the living–room, was a row of shots that were adapted to the Lyle gun, one end to rest on the powder, and in the other end was a shank with an eye to which the line was fastened. On the left side of the room, was a four–wheeled carriage for the hauling of the boat. Hanging from the walls were ropes and oil suits. There was also another closet of supplies. There were patrol lanterns, colored signal lanterns, speaking trumpets, twenty–four pound shot for the mortars; and what serviceable piece of apparatus wasnotthere?“Glad to see you know so much about this ’ere room, Walter,” said the keeper.“Oh, yes, I’ve found out what I could,” replied “Surfman Six.”During any visit at the station, Walter hadgone about with two observant eyes, and a tongue that was not ashamed to ask questions. What he learned, he packed away for use in his retentive memory.“You remember your beat when your father let you go one night with Tom Walker?” said the keeper.“Oh, yes.”“All right. At the same time this evening, I’ll get you ready, and you can patrol that same side of the station.”At eight o’clock, Walter stood before the keeper like a knight that some king was equipping and sending out for special service.“I am all ready,” said the young surfman, his bright, hazel eyes flashing like two of “Uncle Sam’s” patrol lanterns on a dark night. He wore a cap that Aunt Lydia had lined with soft, warm flannel for this particular duty. His feet were encased in rough, but strong boots; and his clothes, though rough like the boots, were thick, with extra linings, furnished by the same feminine skill as that which lined his cap. He had buttoned up his stout fishing–jacket and now awaited the keeper’s orders.“There,” said the keeper. “Here is your time–detector, and here’s your Coston signal. You know where the key to the detector iskept, I guess I’ve given you directions enough ’bout lettin’ off your Coston signal ef you see a vessel too near shore, or ef you want to signal to a craft in any trouble. Wall, good luck!”Out into the quiet, cool November night, Walter promptly stepped. He halted one moment at the outside door. There was a moon somewhere in the sky, and somewhere behind the station; and it threw its light on that part of the shore and the sea which Walter fronted.“How low the tide runs!” thought Walter. Beyond that rocky rim against which the surf daily fretted, turning over and over like a wheel trying to grind out of the way an obstacle, now stretched the uncovered sands. He could easily mark off with his eye the dry sand, and then the wet sand glistening in the moonlight. Then came the surf, a tumble of silver. Beyond were dark, swelling, threatening folds, forever coming up out of the sea as if to drown the earth; and yet forever breaking down into white surf that rolled away in an impotent wrath. Beyond all, was an untroubled surface of light and peace; this in turn ending in a dark, hazy belt that encircled the horizon. There were two lighthouses whose red fires flashed through this belt of haze, and jeweled it. Above, were the stars, soft and peaceful.“I will walk down on the sands,” thought the young patrol, and his light was soon flashing above the floor of wet, glistening sand. With keen eyes, he searched the surface of the sea for some sign of danger; but the sea was innocent of all disturbance save the tumbling, roaring surf at his feet. He saw a light up the beach that shifted its place—a kind of firebug crawling away; but he knew it was only the lantern of the other patrolman as he slowly walked his beat. What a sense of responsibility came down on Walter’s shoulders! It seemed as if he would be held accountable for any disaster to the world’s shipping on his side of the station; while Slim Tarleton must look out for all harm that threatened navigation on his, the westerly side of the globe. After a while, this sense of responsibility lightened. He was not accountable forallthe disasters on this, the easterly side of the globe, but only on the ocean between Walter Plympton, surfman, and Old England. This stretch of jurisdiction gradually narrowed. It became only the ocean that he could see. This, though, was so quiet, lamb–like, lustrous, that it dulled all sense of alarm; and Walter began to think of something else, as he plodded along. There were the stars. How quiet it was up in their sphere!“There’s Orion!” he exclaimed, tracing the outlines of that celestial hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in the academy.“Where’s the Great Bear?” he said. And there it was; its fires mild as dove’s eyes, that night. Then he hunted up the North Star, the Pleiades, and other worthies. Having finished his astronomy, and as no vessel out at sea sent up any rockets, and no vessel near the shore needed his warning lantern, since the moon hung out a better one, he began to watch the shadows of rocky bluffs, thrown down on the sands. These were huge masses of blackness projected across the shining sands, into which ran little rivulets of gold, where the water, left in pools, tried to make its way down to the sea again. These golden streams, though, could not wash away the great, ebony shadows.“There’s the Crescent!” exclaimed Walter. He could make out its dark ledges, and he located also the probable neighborhood of the Chair. He plodded along in his uneventful walk. He reached the houses at the end of his beat, and turned aside to hunt up the particular building where he might expect to find the key of his detector.“When I patrolled this beat that night with Tom Walker, I had no idea I would ever becoming after that key to–night. Ah, there she is now!” he exclaimed.The key was in its accustomed place. Walter seized it, thrust it into the hole in the detector, turned it, and proudly made his first record as a surfman. Then he retraced his way to the sands, still glistening in the moonlight, and slowly trudged back to the station. When at the close of his long watch, he wearily passed upstairs, and dropped into his warm bed, he went readily to sleep, but not into oblivion. He was busily dreaming, dreaming that he was a knight, and King Barney was dressing him in armor. Then he thought that armed with shield and spear and sword, he went out upon the beach to fight the perils of the sea. These took the form of a monster wriggling out of the surf; and as in the old Grecian fable, Perseus was moved to rescue the maiden Andromeda from a sea–horror, so he was striving to save May Elliott, bound like Andromeda to the rocks on the shore. The battle was a long one and it did not come off till toward morning. He was suddenly aroused by—was it an angry stroke from a claw of the sea–dragon? It seemed so to Walter; and looking up in a shivering horror, expecting to see the most diabolical face ever invented, wasn’the delighted to see—Tom Walker’s shaggy head:“Oh—h—Tom! That you! Well, if I ain’t glad to see you!”Tom roared.“Well, if I don’t call that a cordial greetin’! Ha—ha! Folks are apt to feel t’other way, when waked up. Glad to see me! Ha—ha! Well, I’m glad to see you. Come, breakfast’s ready. Cook Charlie’s taters will soon be cold as the heart of a mermaid, if you ever dream of sich things.”Walter did not say whether he had been dreaming of such a character.CHAPTER XIII.UNDER FIRE.Boardman Blake sat in his store, patiently holding his hands in his lap, and waiting for a customer. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing else that he could very well do. He was not needed in the barn, for Don Pedro was there, looking faithfully after oxen and cows; after “Old Jennie,” the mare, also. Boardman had just brought from the well all that Aunt Lydia needed in her department—“two heapin’ pails of water.” He was tired of looking at the few books on the shelves in the store, and he had gone through theCounty Buglefrom its first note to its last one. As no customer arrived, his only occupation was to nurse his hands in his lap, and wait in hope. If Boardman had waited until an actual customer had arrived, there would have been a good deal of nursing. He supposed at first it was a customer,when he heard a footstep at the door, and then caught the tinkle of the watchful bell.“Ho, Walter, that you? I am glad to see you,” and as Uncle Boardman welcomed the young man, he expressed his pleasure in a very beaming smile and a very firm hand–grip. Walter explained the errand about certain goods which Keeper Barney wanted Uncle Boardman to send to the station, and the conversation then became a personal one.“Well, Walter, how do you like the surf business?”“Oh, I have enjoyed it so far. It’s not all play, though.”“No, no! It’s a rough–and–tumble life when the winter sets in. However, I would make the best of it.“Oh, I mean to do that, uncle.”Here Uncle Boardman looked out of the window, and twirling his hands in his lap, talked away on this subject of making the best of things.“Now, at the station you won’t find everything to your mind. You won’t like all the men; but then you can make a good deal of what you do like; and what you don’t like, you can just look over it, and try not to mind it, Walter.”“I know it. There’s Joe Cardridge. I don’t take to him a bit; but I try not to mind him. And as for Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott, I could do anything for them. There’s Cook Charlie—he’s a jolly team, and the Lowds, they’re great grinners, and the men make a deal of fun of them; but they’re good–hearted as the days are long. I like Slim Tarleton.”“Pretty hard trampin’ backwards and forwards, some nights, ain’t it?”“Yes, that’s so; but then I say, ‘Well, there will be a warm bed when I get through,’ and then in the morning, I can’t say I enjoy getting up, turning out into a cold room; but I say, ‘There’s a lovely hot breakfast downstairs,’ and I pop up quicker.”“That’s it, Walter. I guess you’re getting the hang of the house. How—how do you come on since—” Uncle Boardman hesitated. He felt the pressure of a certain amount of responsibility, as he stood in the place of Walter’s father and mother, and he wished to ask about his religious life.“Since—since you were confirmed, Walter?”“I—I try to do right, uncle, and—”“You stick to your prayers and your Bible?”“Oh, yes. I miss my church, Sundays.”“Well, Walter, do the best you can, your duty toward God and toward man; but do it naturally.”“What, sir?”“Why, I mean by that—let me see how I shall put it? It seems to me that I might—of course I don’t intend it—be too—too conscious of my religion. Seems to me a man may be painfully so, going round with a kind of holier–than–thou way. Do you understand me?”“I think I do.”“Just be natural. Let your religion just take possession of you, and then come out just—just as song comes out of a bird. I don’t see why it shouldn’t, for religion is the happiest thing in the world. Sometimes, I find a man, and he makes me feel that he is so dreadful good, why it would be taking a liberty, to laugh in his presence. Now that man is sort of painfully conscious of his religion, all the time a–worrying about it and a–fussing over it; and makes the people uneasy all round him. Just be natural, Walter, and without your fussing over it, it will come out easy and smooth as a bird’s singing. I tell you, Walter, a good kind of religion is one that says when you weigh a thing, ‘Sixteen ounces make a pound;’ and when you talk, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness againstthy neighbor;’ and when it comes to our no licensing, that says, ‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.’ Do you understand, Walter? Be thorough in your religion. Pray, but act as you pray.”“I want to do that way.”This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, andmade extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly, and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him almost due, and whose payment he would press!“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was doing his best to struggle out of them.“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and amid the storm clouds,steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful, patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! Shewasgingery at first, peppery even, and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife, and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo, surf–boy!”“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.“Surf–boy” was a title, which, spoken in Joe’ssneering way, Walter did not fancy. If Tom Walker had roared it out, Tom would have put into it a tone of hearty good–will; and Walter would have worn the name gladly. Joe added a sneer to it, and the title galled Walter. However, he kept his temper under, and always addressed Joe courteously. The other surfmen noticed Joe’s manner, and silently criticised it by treating Walter’s youth with all the greater considerateness.On one occasion when Joe contemptuously and with the spirit of a bully had flung this title at him, Slim Tarleton remarked, “Hullo, Walter! You’ve got a lot of strength, I know. You have got master arms. We’ve got an old stump in our cow pasture, and I mean to tell father to let you try on it when we are takin’ up stumps.”There was no Slim standing at the station door to offset Joe’s present sneer with the tender of another stump.“Ben movin’ the world, boy?” continued Joe.“I have been up to Uncle Boardman’s,” replied Walter.“How is his mill gettin’ on? ‘A fool and his money is soon parted,’ they say.”“He is not a fool,” said Walter resolutely.“I believe if he had an honest man to deal with, he would get along.”“Indeed!” remarked Joe sneeringly.Several of the surfmen now came to the door, tempted by the mild air, whose softness seemed to be on sea and land, softening all glaring color and over all roughness throwing a veil of purplish haze. It was one of the fine effects of that scenic painter, Nature.Who of those present understood that Joe Cardridge was not only an ally of the great Baggs, but also his hired—I can hardly say paid—agent? It was he that had induced a number of the men to intrust their money with Baggs; and on every man’s money he had been promised a commission.“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of TomWalker, Cook Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give “pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs, as he thought.“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into firm outline his splendid frame.“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let me beat.”This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly followed by another from Joe.“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”“Oh, I’m willing,” said Walter pleasantly “Any time.”Joe was the older and the taller of the two, but Walter was as heavy, and his frame was more compact. Joe’s bones had been put together loosely. If Walter could have looked down to the bottom of Joe’s dark, evil eyes, he would have read this determination there: “I’ll punish this boy smartly ’fore I git through with him to–day.” Walter however saw no such sinister spirit, and he only said, “Ready!” The two gripped, and quickly Joe came to the ground in a heap. Joe looked angry when he rose. “Let’s try that agin!” he said.Woodbury noticed the anger in Joe’s face, and called out, “Fair play, fair!”Joe made no answer, but renewed his effort, only to make a worse heap on the ground than before. When he rose the second time, he was furious with wrath and immediately struck at Walter. The “surf–boy” though, quietly pinioned his arms and laid him on the ground a third time. Rising again, his fury was his master, and he would have thrown himself on Walter, but Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott planted themselves before Joe, and called out to him to stop.“I challenge—him!” said the almost breathless Joe. “I want—to—try—it—in fightin’ fashion.”“I shan’t fight,” said Walter. “But I can take care of myself if I am attacked.”“You are afeared!”“Quiet, Joe!” said Tom. “He has come off fust best, and he is not afraid; and he could use you all up, and I ’vise you to keep quiet. You ought to be ashamed of yourself that you can’t play fair. Here comes the keeper, too.”Hearing this, Joe stumbled off into the station, looking like a disgraced animal, which he really was. He muttered vengeance however, as he stole away.“Didn’t that boy carry himself well?” said Tom to Woodbury, as they strolled back of the station. “I’ve been a–watchin’ him and he has stood Joe’s mean fire like a hero. I think he means to do the right thing.”“No doubt about that; but I guess he felt pretty well stirred up.”“That’s so. I imagine he jest felt like bilin’ over; but he didn’t show it more than the outside of an iron pot, where the bilin’ is. I think he did well. He jest conquered that Joe, and he conquered himself; and I think I could more easily give ten lickin’s of the fust sort, to one of the second.”As for Walter, he had entered the station, gone upstairs, and was looking out of a windowthat faced the west, where the sun was frescoing the misty walls of the sky with daintiest shades. He was in no quiet mood. He was sorry that he had consented to any trial of strength ending so unpleasantly. He was sorry to find out that under the roof with him, was an avowed enemy. The world looks friendly to the young, and it is a bitter discovery to hear lions roaring about our path. Walter resolved, though, he would try the harder to do only the thing that was right; and as he stood with his face to the flaming sky, he asked God to help him.

CHAPTER XI.THE SURF–BOY.The bright colors of October had faded out of the landscape, and the soft shades of November followed. With November, came the festival of “All Saints’,” reminding us of another life, and of those who are with Christ. Not only are those eminent in the Church suggested to us,—“apostles,” “martyrs,” “confessors,” the constellations in the sky, recognized by all,—but how many separate stars better known to us personally, look down through the shadows of death’s night, and cheer us in our pilgrim journey! These are our own beloved dead, whose bright faces smile upon us, and assure us that we are not forgotten. May we not forget them, and may we prove our memory in our better lives. “All Saints’” passed, and the sharper days of November arrived at The Harbor.Walter’s duties at his Uncle Boardman’s had been steadily continued, varied by occasional gaps of leisure; and these he had filled up with home visits. Sunday also was a big, blessed gap of leisure, and each Sunday night had brought its service at the Hall. The attendance had been good. Mr. Raynham was earnest, while reverent in his conduct of the service; and the “choir”—how that had distinguished itself! The “Cantate Domino,” “Benedic, anima mea,” and other chants, they took up enthusiastically, and lifted them very high on their soaring wings of song.“They make nothin’ of singin’ ’em,” affirmed Aunt Lydia; which translated meant that they madesomethingof them; for promptness and heartiness are never without a result, though the melody may not be the sweetest.Sunday over, Walter went again to his usual duties in the store.One Monday morning, there was an unusual call at Uncle Boardman’s.“Jotham Barney, I do declare!” said Aunt Lydia, looking out of a kitchen window into the yard. “Here he comes up to the back door. I wonder what he wants here.”A lifting of the outside door latch was now heard, and a heavy step was planted on thefloor of the little entry. Then the inside door swung open, and the keeper of the life saving station entered Aunt Lydia’s sanctum.“Good mornin’, Mis’ Blake.”“That you, Jotham? Set down, do.”“Much obleeged, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Where’s your husband?”“He’s down in the mash field clearin’ up.”“I s’pose I could see him, and I’ll go down.”“He will be glad to see you, Jotham; but I guess you’ll have to go down, for Boardman’s that kind, he wouldn’t leave his work, for the king.”“That is all right, and that’s why he is so forehanded.”“Forehanded!” remarked Aunt Lydia, shaking her head ominously when the keeper had left the house. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I expect that Belzebub’s a–swallerin’ up Boardman’s property fast as he can gulp it down.” This reference to Baggs did not have a soothing effect on her feelings, and she wisely changed her thoughts by going to the window that faced the orchard. She watched the keeper, as he took a path that followed an old stone wall. Soon leaping this, he hurried across a narrow field that was dotted with the yellow stubs of cornstalks. Beyond this, wasthe lot which Aunt Lydia had designated as the “mash field.” It bordered the broad, flat marsh, beyond which flashed the blue, bright river. It was a variety field in its crops, yielding a little corn, more potatoes, and beans mostly. “Clearin’ up” was no small task, as it meant the removal of bean–poles, and an indefinite quantity of vines. The latter went no farther than a bonfire in one corner of the field: and up to it Boardman Blake was now venturing at intervals, thrusting into its smoke and flames immense armfuls of dead vines. At the time that the keeper of the station made his appearance, Boardman was stoutly tugging at a row of very obstinate bean–poles, and every moment he grew redder in the face, while his scanty breath issued in warm little puffs.“Glad—to see ye,—Jothum. How—dy’e—do?” ejaculated Boardman, still tugging away.“Well as usual, thank ye. Got some tough customers there?”“We—e—ll,—yes!” said Boardman.“Think—”The world lost that last precious thought. Here a provoking bean–pole that he had grasped, suddenly broke, and in a great, fat heap, over went Boardman, cutting Chauncy Aldrich’s figure when in the boat–race he “caught a crab.”“Hurt—ye?” cried the keeper, rushing forward and offering his assistance.“Oh—no!” said Boardman laughing, and rolling over as easily as Miss P. Green’s butter firkin, on the day of the fatal boat–race. “The pesky pole got the better of me.”“Let me help you,” said the keeper, his vigorous muscle quickly hoisting into an upright attitude this “fallen merchant,” as Chauncy would have called him.“There!” puffed Boardman, resolutely resuming work, and tugging at the stub of the broken pole. “Now I’m ready for business, if I can help you.”“I wanted to see you about Walter.”“Walter, my nephew?”“Yes.”“Hope he has done nothing out of the way. His folks would feel dreadful bad.”“Oh, no—no! jest the opposite. Fact is, I want him at the station.”Boardman looked up, and wiped his broad, benevolent face.“You don’t say! I thought Walter couldn’t have been up to anything out of the way, for he is as well meanin’ a boy as you often see. And you want him at the station? Indeed!”“You see, Squire”—a title the people gaveBoardman when they wished to be specially attentive, and it was always acceptable to Boardman—“you see, Silas Fay, one of my men, is not very well; but I want to hold on to him as he is a powerful feller, and a good boatman. I thought if Silas took a rest, a month say, he would be able to come back and pull through the winter. I thought for that month, I might get your Walter.”“Is he strong enough?”“He has a good deal of strength for one of his years, and every day he will be a–gainin’. Jest look at him! I have watched him a good deal. He is a good oarsman too. They say he pulled fustrate at the race. Then I thought he might like the money, and also that you might spare him, as work at the saw–mill is slack, and I knew you didn’t have to be there so much, and could be more at the store. Then that colored boy is with you, isn’t he?”“Yes, yes, and I think I could get along. We are not doing—well, you might say, we—we—are doing—not a thing at mill. Baggs has gone out West to look after some business.”Boardman looked very despondent.“Squire, look here.”The keeper here dropped his voice, though there was no occasion for it, as the only beingthat heard him was a musk–rat stealing along in the shadow of the wall of a ditch near by. In low, confidential tones, the keeper remarked,—“I think that—I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s, but I must say it—I think Baggs will bear a good deal of watchin’. Did you know the men at the station had been lettin’ him have their money?”“Why, no.”“But they have. He said he could give ’em more per cent than the bank would, and so a number of ’em, when paid off, took their cash to Baggs. He’s a sly old crittur. One time, he purtended he wasn’t particular ’bout havin’ any more, and one of ’em as good as begged him to take his money, and Baggs made a good deal of the fact that he calc’lated he was the ‘poor man’s friend,’ and on the whole, though he didn’t want it, yet he would ‘’commodate’ him; and that’s the last the feller has seen of it.”“Doesn’t Baggs pay interest?”“Oh, it was in the agreement that the int’rest should stay and ‘’cumulate,’ he called it. He’s a knowin’ one, that Baggs! Squire, I wouldn’t resk too much.”Boardman did not enjoy such advice, but he was accustomed to it, as Aunt Lydia administeredfrequent doses. There was always a dose the first thing in the morning, like the sulphur and molasses some unfortunate children are obliged to take; and other administrations during the day, might be expected.“Wall, let that go for what it is worth. To go back, Squire, as I was a–sayin’ about Walter, I thought you might spare him, this month, say.”“Oh—yes—yes. I think I can.”“Then, I’ll speak to him. You see one reason why I’d rather have him in Silas’ place a month—of course, I don’t s’pose he could be spared mebbe, any longer time than that—one reason, as I said, is that I think I can depend on him. I heard him, one mornin’ before the boat–race, say to Baggs’ nephew a thing—something or other—wasn’t right, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I liked that in him. I told the sup’rintendent of our station deestrick who was on, all ’bout Walter, and that I thought he would do as a substitute, and I mentioned that leetle circumstance. The sup’rintendent said it had the right ring. So, Squire, if you are ’greeable, I’ll speak to Walter.”“I’m willing, Jotham, and I’m obliged to you for your good opinion of my nephew.”Not only was Boardman “‘greeable,” but so was every one who was involved in the matter. Aunt Lydia assented, though she declared she should “miss him.” Don Pedro gave a solemn smile, and said he would do all he could. Walter’s parents were willing; and as for Walter—he just sprang for the chance. He met the proposition with all the enthusiasm of his nature. That yellow building near the beach fascinated him. The sea beyond was a mystery that awed, and yet ever attracted him. He had been reading about the life saving service, and he wished with his own eyes to look inside—not inside of a book, simply, but the service itself. He went home to pass “Thanksgiving,” that delightful family festival; and after his return, one brilliant but chilly November morning, he climbed up into his Uncle Boardman’s high red wagon, and took his seat by Don Pedro, who had been commissioned to take Walter, and an old blue chest, down to the station. Walter had found this chest up in the garret, packed away under the dusky eaves.“It looks more sailor like than my trunk,” reasoned Walter, “and I will ask the folks if I can’t take it. Good! It has rope handles, sailor–fashion. Just the thing!”The “folks” were willing, and without obtaining the leave of the chest itself, this was dragged out into the light, upset, dusted, pounded on every side, and dusted again; and after this rough, unceremonious treatment, lugged down into Walters chamber. There, it was neatly packed, and then removed to the red wagon. Before it reaches the station, there will be time enough to say something about the late work of that department of Government employ, into which Walter Plympton for awhile has gone.By the report of the life saving service for 1885, there were 203 stations planted on the edge of that great kingdom of water whose violence must so often be fought. Of these stations, 38 were on the Lakes, 7 on the Pacific, 157 on the Atlantic, and 1 at the Falls of the Ohio, Louisville, Kentucky.These stations are grouped into districts: those in Maine and New Hampshire, constituting the first district; in Massachusetts, the second; on the coast of Rhode Island and Long Island, the third; and the New Jersey coast makes the fourth. There is a large number of stations in the last two districts, for they offer a dangerous coast on which to trip up the great commerce hurrying into and out of New York.As we go farther south, the coast from Cape Henlopen to Cape Charles lies in the fifth district; and that from Cape Henry to Cape Fear River in the sixth. The eastern coast of Florida, with the coast of Georgia and South Carolina, is in the seventh, the Gulf coast in the eighth. Lakes Erie and Ontario make the ninth district; Lakes Huron and Superior the tenth; Lake Michigan the eleventh; and the Pacific coast constitutes the twelfth. Each district is in the care of a superintendent, and over all is the General Superintendent, Hon. Sumner I. Kimball, whose headquarters are at Washington. The service also has its Inspector, Capt. J. H. Merryman, and there are twelve Assistant Inspectors, for the twelve districts. Let us now get up high enough in imagination to look down on our rough coast, and watch the vessels struggling with storm and surf while the surfmen gallantly push out to their relief. 371 disasters were recorded at these stations, and in the periled vessels, were 2,439 persons; and only eleven were lost. Now let us look at the property involved in these disasters. The vessels and their cargoes were estimated to be worth $4,634,380, and of this amount, there was a saving of $3,379,583. There were 56 vessels totally lost. This is the last publishedreport. The work at a life saving station is of varied nature. There are not only wrecks to be visited, but vessels coming too near shore in the night time must be warned off by the faithful patrolman’s signal light. A vessel may be stranded, and need to be “worked off.” If a fisherman’s dory, or a millionaire’s yacht, should meet with any kind of a disaster, if some unlucky traveler by the sea may tumble into the water from his little craft, if any party of mariners, disabled for any reason, may need shelter and refreshment, it is the life saving station that is expected to furnish help for all the above cases.Let us now pack into a nutshell the results of the work of these men, since this system was inaugurated in 1871. There have been 2,918 disasters that involved property worth $51,763,694, and there was a saving of $36,277,929. Out of a total of 25,693 persons involved in these disasters, 25,236 were saved; and the department claims that it was not responsible for the loss of 197. In the latter cases, the stations were not open, or service was hindered by distance. 4,829 persons were aided at stations, and the days of relief afforded these were 13,313. I would add that, the seventh district is peculiar. It takes in the eastern coast of Florida. Stations here are “provisioned houses of refuge” in the care of keepers, but without any crew. The coast is singular, and if a vessel be stranded, the escape of the crew is as a rule, comparatively easy. In the case of such a disaster as the above, to a crew, their special peril is from hunger and thirst, when they have reached a shore very scantily inhabited. Guide posts are set up for the benefit of such castaways, directing them to the station or lighthouse that may be nearest.“Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea”(p.191).The vast field of work occupied by the life saving service, let us try to grasp with our thoughts. Recall once more the stations established; the figures, too, that represent the life and property already saved; and think also of the vast interests still at stake in the ships that are sailing, and the crews that are climbing their rigging. The boy who sits in the red wagon by the side of Don Pedro, is coming to help with his young, strong muscles, and nimble wits, that force of about fifteen hundred, to–day, whose noble mission it is to fight the sea, and rescue the life and property it would destroy. The red wagon bumps and jolts over the rough little lane winding down to the station, and finally halts, as Don Pedro shouts to the horses,“Whoa, dah!” The blue chest with its clumsy rope handles is lowered to the ground, and then obediently accompanies Walter and Don Pedro into the station.

THE SURF–BOY.

The bright colors of October had faded out of the landscape, and the soft shades of November followed. With November, came the festival of “All Saints’,” reminding us of another life, and of those who are with Christ. Not only are those eminent in the Church suggested to us,—“apostles,” “martyrs,” “confessors,” the constellations in the sky, recognized by all,—but how many separate stars better known to us personally, look down through the shadows of death’s night, and cheer us in our pilgrim journey! These are our own beloved dead, whose bright faces smile upon us, and assure us that we are not forgotten. May we not forget them, and may we prove our memory in our better lives. “All Saints’” passed, and the sharper days of November arrived at The Harbor.

Walter’s duties at his Uncle Boardman’s had been steadily continued, varied by occasional gaps of leisure; and these he had filled up with home visits. Sunday also was a big, blessed gap of leisure, and each Sunday night had brought its service at the Hall. The attendance had been good. Mr. Raynham was earnest, while reverent in his conduct of the service; and the “choir”—how that had distinguished itself! The “Cantate Domino,” “Benedic, anima mea,” and other chants, they took up enthusiastically, and lifted them very high on their soaring wings of song.

“They make nothin’ of singin’ ’em,” affirmed Aunt Lydia; which translated meant that they madesomethingof them; for promptness and heartiness are never without a result, though the melody may not be the sweetest.

Sunday over, Walter went again to his usual duties in the store.

One Monday morning, there was an unusual call at Uncle Boardman’s.

“Jotham Barney, I do declare!” said Aunt Lydia, looking out of a kitchen window into the yard. “Here he comes up to the back door. I wonder what he wants here.”

A lifting of the outside door latch was now heard, and a heavy step was planted on thefloor of the little entry. Then the inside door swung open, and the keeper of the life saving station entered Aunt Lydia’s sanctum.

“Good mornin’, Mis’ Blake.”

“That you, Jotham? Set down, do.”

“Much obleeged, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s down in the mash field clearin’ up.”

“I s’pose I could see him, and I’ll go down.”

“He will be glad to see you, Jotham; but I guess you’ll have to go down, for Boardman’s that kind, he wouldn’t leave his work, for the king.”

“That is all right, and that’s why he is so forehanded.”

“Forehanded!” remarked Aunt Lydia, shaking her head ominously when the keeper had left the house. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I expect that Belzebub’s a–swallerin’ up Boardman’s property fast as he can gulp it down.” This reference to Baggs did not have a soothing effect on her feelings, and she wisely changed her thoughts by going to the window that faced the orchard. She watched the keeper, as he took a path that followed an old stone wall. Soon leaping this, he hurried across a narrow field that was dotted with the yellow stubs of cornstalks. Beyond this, wasthe lot which Aunt Lydia had designated as the “mash field.” It bordered the broad, flat marsh, beyond which flashed the blue, bright river. It was a variety field in its crops, yielding a little corn, more potatoes, and beans mostly. “Clearin’ up” was no small task, as it meant the removal of bean–poles, and an indefinite quantity of vines. The latter went no farther than a bonfire in one corner of the field: and up to it Boardman Blake was now venturing at intervals, thrusting into its smoke and flames immense armfuls of dead vines. At the time that the keeper of the station made his appearance, Boardman was stoutly tugging at a row of very obstinate bean–poles, and every moment he grew redder in the face, while his scanty breath issued in warm little puffs.

“Glad—to see ye,—Jothum. How—dy’e—do?” ejaculated Boardman, still tugging away.

“Well as usual, thank ye. Got some tough customers there?”

“We—e—ll,—yes!” said Boardman.

“Think—”

The world lost that last precious thought. Here a provoking bean–pole that he had grasped, suddenly broke, and in a great, fat heap, over went Boardman, cutting Chauncy Aldrich’s figure when in the boat–race he “caught a crab.”

“Hurt—ye?” cried the keeper, rushing forward and offering his assistance.

“Oh—no!” said Boardman laughing, and rolling over as easily as Miss P. Green’s butter firkin, on the day of the fatal boat–race. “The pesky pole got the better of me.”

“Let me help you,” said the keeper, his vigorous muscle quickly hoisting into an upright attitude this “fallen merchant,” as Chauncy would have called him.

“There!” puffed Boardman, resolutely resuming work, and tugging at the stub of the broken pole. “Now I’m ready for business, if I can help you.”

“I wanted to see you about Walter.”

“Walter, my nephew?”

“Yes.”

“Hope he has done nothing out of the way. His folks would feel dreadful bad.”

“Oh, no—no! jest the opposite. Fact is, I want him at the station.”

Boardman looked up, and wiped his broad, benevolent face.

“You don’t say! I thought Walter couldn’t have been up to anything out of the way, for he is as well meanin’ a boy as you often see. And you want him at the station? Indeed!”

“You see, Squire”—a title the people gaveBoardman when they wished to be specially attentive, and it was always acceptable to Boardman—“you see, Silas Fay, one of my men, is not very well; but I want to hold on to him as he is a powerful feller, and a good boatman. I thought if Silas took a rest, a month say, he would be able to come back and pull through the winter. I thought for that month, I might get your Walter.”

“Is he strong enough?”

“He has a good deal of strength for one of his years, and every day he will be a–gainin’. Jest look at him! I have watched him a good deal. He is a good oarsman too. They say he pulled fustrate at the race. Then I thought he might like the money, and also that you might spare him, as work at the saw–mill is slack, and I knew you didn’t have to be there so much, and could be more at the store. Then that colored boy is with you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes, and I think I could get along. We are not doing—well, you might say, we—we—are doing—not a thing at mill. Baggs has gone out West to look after some business.”

Boardman looked very despondent.

“Squire, look here.”

The keeper here dropped his voice, though there was no occasion for it, as the only beingthat heard him was a musk–rat stealing along in the shadow of the wall of a ditch near by. In low, confidential tones, the keeper remarked,—

“I think that—I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s, but I must say it—I think Baggs will bear a good deal of watchin’. Did you know the men at the station had been lettin’ him have their money?”

“Why, no.”

“But they have. He said he could give ’em more per cent than the bank would, and so a number of ’em, when paid off, took their cash to Baggs. He’s a sly old crittur. One time, he purtended he wasn’t particular ’bout havin’ any more, and one of ’em as good as begged him to take his money, and Baggs made a good deal of the fact that he calc’lated he was the ‘poor man’s friend,’ and on the whole, though he didn’t want it, yet he would ‘’commodate’ him; and that’s the last the feller has seen of it.”

“Doesn’t Baggs pay interest?”

“Oh, it was in the agreement that the int’rest should stay and ‘’cumulate,’ he called it. He’s a knowin’ one, that Baggs! Squire, I wouldn’t resk too much.”

Boardman did not enjoy such advice, but he was accustomed to it, as Aunt Lydia administeredfrequent doses. There was always a dose the first thing in the morning, like the sulphur and molasses some unfortunate children are obliged to take; and other administrations during the day, might be expected.

“Wall, let that go for what it is worth. To go back, Squire, as I was a–sayin’ about Walter, I thought you might spare him, this month, say.”

“Oh—yes—yes. I think I can.”

“Then, I’ll speak to him. You see one reason why I’d rather have him in Silas’ place a month—of course, I don’t s’pose he could be spared mebbe, any longer time than that—one reason, as I said, is that I think I can depend on him. I heard him, one mornin’ before the boat–race, say to Baggs’ nephew a thing—something or other—wasn’t right, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I liked that in him. I told the sup’rintendent of our station deestrick who was on, all ’bout Walter, and that I thought he would do as a substitute, and I mentioned that leetle circumstance. The sup’rintendent said it had the right ring. So, Squire, if you are ’greeable, I’ll speak to Walter.”

“I’m willing, Jotham, and I’m obliged to you for your good opinion of my nephew.”

Not only was Boardman “‘greeable,” but so was every one who was involved in the matter. Aunt Lydia assented, though she declared she should “miss him.” Don Pedro gave a solemn smile, and said he would do all he could. Walter’s parents were willing; and as for Walter—he just sprang for the chance. He met the proposition with all the enthusiasm of his nature. That yellow building near the beach fascinated him. The sea beyond was a mystery that awed, and yet ever attracted him. He had been reading about the life saving service, and he wished with his own eyes to look inside—not inside of a book, simply, but the service itself. He went home to pass “Thanksgiving,” that delightful family festival; and after his return, one brilliant but chilly November morning, he climbed up into his Uncle Boardman’s high red wagon, and took his seat by Don Pedro, who had been commissioned to take Walter, and an old blue chest, down to the station. Walter had found this chest up in the garret, packed away under the dusky eaves.

“It looks more sailor like than my trunk,” reasoned Walter, “and I will ask the folks if I can’t take it. Good! It has rope handles, sailor–fashion. Just the thing!”

The “folks” were willing, and without obtaining the leave of the chest itself, this was dragged out into the light, upset, dusted, pounded on every side, and dusted again; and after this rough, unceremonious treatment, lugged down into Walters chamber. There, it was neatly packed, and then removed to the red wagon. Before it reaches the station, there will be time enough to say something about the late work of that department of Government employ, into which Walter Plympton for awhile has gone.

By the report of the life saving service for 1885, there were 203 stations planted on the edge of that great kingdom of water whose violence must so often be fought. Of these stations, 38 were on the Lakes, 7 on the Pacific, 157 on the Atlantic, and 1 at the Falls of the Ohio, Louisville, Kentucky.

These stations are grouped into districts: those in Maine and New Hampshire, constituting the first district; in Massachusetts, the second; on the coast of Rhode Island and Long Island, the third; and the New Jersey coast makes the fourth. There is a large number of stations in the last two districts, for they offer a dangerous coast on which to trip up the great commerce hurrying into and out of New York.As we go farther south, the coast from Cape Henlopen to Cape Charles lies in the fifth district; and that from Cape Henry to Cape Fear River in the sixth. The eastern coast of Florida, with the coast of Georgia and South Carolina, is in the seventh, the Gulf coast in the eighth. Lakes Erie and Ontario make the ninth district; Lakes Huron and Superior the tenth; Lake Michigan the eleventh; and the Pacific coast constitutes the twelfth. Each district is in the care of a superintendent, and over all is the General Superintendent, Hon. Sumner I. Kimball, whose headquarters are at Washington. The service also has its Inspector, Capt. J. H. Merryman, and there are twelve Assistant Inspectors, for the twelve districts. Let us now get up high enough in imagination to look down on our rough coast, and watch the vessels struggling with storm and surf while the surfmen gallantly push out to their relief. 371 disasters were recorded at these stations, and in the periled vessels, were 2,439 persons; and only eleven were lost. Now let us look at the property involved in these disasters. The vessels and their cargoes were estimated to be worth $4,634,380, and of this amount, there was a saving of $3,379,583. There were 56 vessels totally lost. This is the last publishedreport. The work at a life saving station is of varied nature. There are not only wrecks to be visited, but vessels coming too near shore in the night time must be warned off by the faithful patrolman’s signal light. A vessel may be stranded, and need to be “worked off.” If a fisherman’s dory, or a millionaire’s yacht, should meet with any kind of a disaster, if some unlucky traveler by the sea may tumble into the water from his little craft, if any party of mariners, disabled for any reason, may need shelter and refreshment, it is the life saving station that is expected to furnish help for all the above cases.

Let us now pack into a nutshell the results of the work of these men, since this system was inaugurated in 1871. There have been 2,918 disasters that involved property worth $51,763,694, and there was a saving of $36,277,929. Out of a total of 25,693 persons involved in these disasters, 25,236 were saved; and the department claims that it was not responsible for the loss of 197. In the latter cases, the stations were not open, or service was hindered by distance. 4,829 persons were aided at stations, and the days of relief afforded these were 13,313. I would add that, the seventh district is peculiar. It takes in the eastern coast of Florida. Stations here are “provisioned houses of refuge” in the care of keepers, but without any crew. The coast is singular, and if a vessel be stranded, the escape of the crew is as a rule, comparatively easy. In the case of such a disaster as the above, to a crew, their special peril is from hunger and thirst, when they have reached a shore very scantily inhabited. Guide posts are set up for the benefit of such castaways, directing them to the station or lighthouse that may be nearest.

“Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea”(p.191).

“Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea”(p.191).

“Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea”(p.191).

The vast field of work occupied by the life saving service, let us try to grasp with our thoughts. Recall once more the stations established; the figures, too, that represent the life and property already saved; and think also of the vast interests still at stake in the ships that are sailing, and the crews that are climbing their rigging. The boy who sits in the red wagon by the side of Don Pedro, is coming to help with his young, strong muscles, and nimble wits, that force of about fifteen hundred, to–day, whose noble mission it is to fight the sea, and rescue the life and property it would destroy. The red wagon bumps and jolts over the rough little lane winding down to the station, and finally halts, as Don Pedro shouts to the horses,“Whoa, dah!” The blue chest with its clumsy rope handles is lowered to the ground, and then obediently accompanies Walter and Don Pedro into the station.

CHAPTER XII.ON HIS BEAT.Keeper Barney and his family of surfmen were at breakfast as Walter entered. They were seated about a table on which were two huge steaming dishes,—one of biscuit, and the other of fried potatoes. By each surfman’s plate, was a cup of hot coffee. A ready chorus of welcome went up from these modern knights of the sea. “How are ye, Walter?” sang out the keeper. “Hullo!” “Good mornin’!” “Come in! come in!” were the various styles of greeting; while Charlie Lawson, the cook, shouted, “You look thin as a shadder! Set down, and have something to fill you out!”“I’m much obliged,” replied Walter. “I have been to breakfast, though.”“That means,” explained the keeper, “that he was out last night practicin’ on a beat, andso took anearlycup of coffee; but we will show him to–night what arealbeat is.”“That’s so!” said Tom Walker. “Them fancy beats don’t amount to nothin’, beside the real article.”Walter felt at home at once, and declared that he guessed he would try “Cook Charlie’s biscuit.”“Biscuit! Try them fried taters too. One of ’em would keep you a–goin’ a hull day,” declared the cook.“You look as if they had done a good work for you,” said Woodbury Elliott to the cook. Something had fatted up “Cook Charlie” as he was generally called. But what business has a cook to be lean? The presiding genius of the kitchen, certainly ought to give in his own body proof of his skill. A lean cook is an inconsistency; while in a fat cook there is a fitness. And then what right has a cook to be cross? A good dinner begets a good temper; and the cook ought to be sweet–natured always. A lean, cross cook, is an inconsistency. Cook Charlie, was of the kind that harmonizes with the cheerful, comforting nature of the kitchen stove. All the surfmen were at the breakfast table excepting Silas Fay, whose place Walter intended to temporarily fill. There was thesandy haired keeper, and there was Tom Walker, with his big bushy beard,—a shaggy kind of an animal. Next to Tom, sat Woodbury Elliott, his blue eyes flashing out occasional glances of welcome toward Walter. If Cook Charlie was fat, “Slim” Tarleton was lean; and his first name was bestowed upon him on account of this peculiarity. He was Capt. Barney’s bony neighbor on the left. Next to Slim, came two brothers, Seavey, and Nathan Lowd. They were quiet, inoffensive young men, whose peculiarity was a grin on every possible occasion, excepting a funeral. They were twins, resembling one another closely; but showed this difference, that Nathan grinned more than Seavey. There was one more at the table,—Joe Cardridge, a black–haired, black–eyed man, on whose face was a cynical expression, as if he was continually out of humor with the world, and wished to show it by a sneer. Nobody liked his discontented, jealous disposition, and it was the keeper’s purpose to get rid of him at the first opportunity. He was an excellent boatman, and this merit had secured him the position of surfman. It was true indeed of all the crew; their knowledge of boating, gained in many trips after cod and pollock, halibut and haddock, constitutedtheir special fitness for the life saving service. They were strong, hardy, muscular fellows, and Slim Tarleton—bony, but tough—was no exception.After breakfast, the keeper led Walter upstairs.“I want to tell you where you will bunk, Walter, and I guess you had better take Silas’ bed. Here it is.”“Who sleeps next?”“Woodbury Elliott there, and Tom Walker on this side. Each man of the crew is numbered, and you will take Silas’ number, six. You are Surfman Six.”“That’s good. Now, I’ve been round over the station, and know it pretty well. Could you just give me an insight into the boat–room, more of an idea of it?”“Sartin. Let’s come down now.”From the kitchen or living–room, on the first floor, one passed directly into the large boat–room; and that immediately proclaimed the nature of the building, and also the work of its occupants. In the center, was the surf–boat, twenty–six feet long. At the stern and bows, were air–chambers.“That long steering–oar is twenty–two feet long, isn’t it? Somebody said so.”“This was worn about the body under the arms”(p.197).“Yes. Walter. It gives me a tremendous purchase when I set in the starn to steer.”“Of course you have six oars, and then there are two spare ones.”“Jest so.”Each oar was stamped, “U. S. L. S. S.,” whose translation is United States Life Saving Service. On each seat was a cork jacket, consisting of two rows of cork blocks secured to a belt of canvas. This was worn about the body under the arms.“That means,” said Walter, “all ready for use, any moment.”“Yes, we may be wanted any hour, and we can’t go out, service–time, unless we put those jackets on.”“So Tom Walker told me. Let me see—Oh, there’s the axe Tom said you kept in the boat; and there’s a hatchet, and you have got ‘Uncle Sam’s’ mark on them.”“Yes. There’s a rudder too, which we can use in smooth water. This is a surf–boat, but there are in the service some life–boat stations. On the Lakes, and Pacific coast, you find ’em. Life–boats are better for a shore that is bold, where the water runs deep.”Along the right hand wall of the boat–room, extended a miscellaneous collection of apparatus.There was a mortar for shooting a line to a wreck, the ball used being a twenty–four pound round shot. There were shovels and a Merriman rubber suit. Wound ingeniously and carefully on pins, were long coils of shot–line, that could be slipped off any moment, and sent whizzing and flying behind an iron ball. There were also long coils of rope, to be used in completing the connection between a wreck and the shore. Of the three sizes, the largest, a four–inch cable, was employed with the life–car, and a three–inch cable with the breeches buoy.“There it is!” exclaimed Walter enthusiastically, as he crossed to the left of the surf–boat and looked up at the life–car. This was suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a boat, but it was covered. In the center of the cover or roof, was an opening. At each end of the car, were air–chambers.“Woodbury Elliott says four small persons, or three large ones, can get in there.”“Yes, we calc’late to stow that number away.”“And that opening is the manhole.”“Yes, and when you are in, you can fasten the cover from the inside, and be tight as a fly inside a drum.”“I used to wonder how they could breathe, till I found out there were little air–holes in the top.”“Sartin.”“And this is the cart,” said Walter, nodding toward a stout hand–cart.“Yes, and you see she is all packed for sarvice any moment.”Here the keeper laid his broad, hard hand on the apparatus in the cart. There was the breeches buoy, consisting of a large cork ring, from which drooped very stout, but very short legs, or “breeches.” A Lyle gun, lighter than a mortar, and used for shooting a line to a wreck, projected its nozzle from the heap in the cart.“There is the cartridge–box,” said Walter. “And I suppose of course the cartridges are there.”“Yes, all ready, and two dozen primers are in there.”“Pickaxe and shovel, and tackle and fall,” murmured Walter.Yes, these were carried by the cart, and Walter saw little tally–boards, inscribed with directions to a shipwrecked crew, for the proper fastening of ropes to the vessel.“Could I look into the closet where theCoston signals and rockets are?” inquired Walter.“Round this way,” replied the keeper, who was pleased to notice that Walter knew so much about the apparatus at the station. He threw open a door, and a drawer also. In this closet, were various pyrotechnic treasures, serviceable with their brilliantly flashing fires for the work of the surfmen.The store of curiosities in the boat–room had not been exhausted yet. Near the door of the living–room, was a row of shots that were adapted to the Lyle gun, one end to rest on the powder, and in the other end was a shank with an eye to which the line was fastened. On the left side of the room, was a four–wheeled carriage for the hauling of the boat. Hanging from the walls were ropes and oil suits. There was also another closet of supplies. There were patrol lanterns, colored signal lanterns, speaking trumpets, twenty–four pound shot for the mortars; and what serviceable piece of apparatus wasnotthere?“Glad to see you know so much about this ’ere room, Walter,” said the keeper.“Oh, yes, I’ve found out what I could,” replied “Surfman Six.”During any visit at the station, Walter hadgone about with two observant eyes, and a tongue that was not ashamed to ask questions. What he learned, he packed away for use in his retentive memory.“You remember your beat when your father let you go one night with Tom Walker?” said the keeper.“Oh, yes.”“All right. At the same time this evening, I’ll get you ready, and you can patrol that same side of the station.”At eight o’clock, Walter stood before the keeper like a knight that some king was equipping and sending out for special service.“I am all ready,” said the young surfman, his bright, hazel eyes flashing like two of “Uncle Sam’s” patrol lanterns on a dark night. He wore a cap that Aunt Lydia had lined with soft, warm flannel for this particular duty. His feet were encased in rough, but strong boots; and his clothes, though rough like the boots, were thick, with extra linings, furnished by the same feminine skill as that which lined his cap. He had buttoned up his stout fishing–jacket and now awaited the keeper’s orders.“There,” said the keeper. “Here is your time–detector, and here’s your Coston signal. You know where the key to the detector iskept, I guess I’ve given you directions enough ’bout lettin’ off your Coston signal ef you see a vessel too near shore, or ef you want to signal to a craft in any trouble. Wall, good luck!”Out into the quiet, cool November night, Walter promptly stepped. He halted one moment at the outside door. There was a moon somewhere in the sky, and somewhere behind the station; and it threw its light on that part of the shore and the sea which Walter fronted.“How low the tide runs!” thought Walter. Beyond that rocky rim against which the surf daily fretted, turning over and over like a wheel trying to grind out of the way an obstacle, now stretched the uncovered sands. He could easily mark off with his eye the dry sand, and then the wet sand glistening in the moonlight. Then came the surf, a tumble of silver. Beyond were dark, swelling, threatening folds, forever coming up out of the sea as if to drown the earth; and yet forever breaking down into white surf that rolled away in an impotent wrath. Beyond all, was an untroubled surface of light and peace; this in turn ending in a dark, hazy belt that encircled the horizon. There were two lighthouses whose red fires flashed through this belt of haze, and jeweled it. Above, were the stars, soft and peaceful.“I will walk down on the sands,” thought the young patrol, and his light was soon flashing above the floor of wet, glistening sand. With keen eyes, he searched the surface of the sea for some sign of danger; but the sea was innocent of all disturbance save the tumbling, roaring surf at his feet. He saw a light up the beach that shifted its place—a kind of firebug crawling away; but he knew it was only the lantern of the other patrolman as he slowly walked his beat. What a sense of responsibility came down on Walter’s shoulders! It seemed as if he would be held accountable for any disaster to the world’s shipping on his side of the station; while Slim Tarleton must look out for all harm that threatened navigation on his, the westerly side of the globe. After a while, this sense of responsibility lightened. He was not accountable forallthe disasters on this, the easterly side of the globe, but only on the ocean between Walter Plympton, surfman, and Old England. This stretch of jurisdiction gradually narrowed. It became only the ocean that he could see. This, though, was so quiet, lamb–like, lustrous, that it dulled all sense of alarm; and Walter began to think of something else, as he plodded along. There were the stars. How quiet it was up in their sphere!“There’s Orion!” he exclaimed, tracing the outlines of that celestial hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in the academy.“Where’s the Great Bear?” he said. And there it was; its fires mild as dove’s eyes, that night. Then he hunted up the North Star, the Pleiades, and other worthies. Having finished his astronomy, and as no vessel out at sea sent up any rockets, and no vessel near the shore needed his warning lantern, since the moon hung out a better one, he began to watch the shadows of rocky bluffs, thrown down on the sands. These were huge masses of blackness projected across the shining sands, into which ran little rivulets of gold, where the water, left in pools, tried to make its way down to the sea again. These golden streams, though, could not wash away the great, ebony shadows.“There’s the Crescent!” exclaimed Walter. He could make out its dark ledges, and he located also the probable neighborhood of the Chair. He plodded along in his uneventful walk. He reached the houses at the end of his beat, and turned aside to hunt up the particular building where he might expect to find the key of his detector.“When I patrolled this beat that night with Tom Walker, I had no idea I would ever becoming after that key to–night. Ah, there she is now!” he exclaimed.The key was in its accustomed place. Walter seized it, thrust it into the hole in the detector, turned it, and proudly made his first record as a surfman. Then he retraced his way to the sands, still glistening in the moonlight, and slowly trudged back to the station. When at the close of his long watch, he wearily passed upstairs, and dropped into his warm bed, he went readily to sleep, but not into oblivion. He was busily dreaming, dreaming that he was a knight, and King Barney was dressing him in armor. Then he thought that armed with shield and spear and sword, he went out upon the beach to fight the perils of the sea. These took the form of a monster wriggling out of the surf; and as in the old Grecian fable, Perseus was moved to rescue the maiden Andromeda from a sea–horror, so he was striving to save May Elliott, bound like Andromeda to the rocks on the shore. The battle was a long one and it did not come off till toward morning. He was suddenly aroused by—was it an angry stroke from a claw of the sea–dragon? It seemed so to Walter; and looking up in a shivering horror, expecting to see the most diabolical face ever invented, wasn’the delighted to see—Tom Walker’s shaggy head:“Oh—h—Tom! That you! Well, if I ain’t glad to see you!”Tom roared.“Well, if I don’t call that a cordial greetin’! Ha—ha! Folks are apt to feel t’other way, when waked up. Glad to see me! Ha—ha! Well, I’m glad to see you. Come, breakfast’s ready. Cook Charlie’s taters will soon be cold as the heart of a mermaid, if you ever dream of sich things.”Walter did not say whether he had been dreaming of such a character.

ON HIS BEAT.

Keeper Barney and his family of surfmen were at breakfast as Walter entered. They were seated about a table on which were two huge steaming dishes,—one of biscuit, and the other of fried potatoes. By each surfman’s plate, was a cup of hot coffee. A ready chorus of welcome went up from these modern knights of the sea. “How are ye, Walter?” sang out the keeper. “Hullo!” “Good mornin’!” “Come in! come in!” were the various styles of greeting; while Charlie Lawson, the cook, shouted, “You look thin as a shadder! Set down, and have something to fill you out!”

“I’m much obliged,” replied Walter. “I have been to breakfast, though.”

“That means,” explained the keeper, “that he was out last night practicin’ on a beat, andso took anearlycup of coffee; but we will show him to–night what arealbeat is.”

“That’s so!” said Tom Walker. “Them fancy beats don’t amount to nothin’, beside the real article.”

Walter felt at home at once, and declared that he guessed he would try “Cook Charlie’s biscuit.”

“Biscuit! Try them fried taters too. One of ’em would keep you a–goin’ a hull day,” declared the cook.

“You look as if they had done a good work for you,” said Woodbury Elliott to the cook. Something had fatted up “Cook Charlie” as he was generally called. But what business has a cook to be lean? The presiding genius of the kitchen, certainly ought to give in his own body proof of his skill. A lean cook is an inconsistency; while in a fat cook there is a fitness. And then what right has a cook to be cross? A good dinner begets a good temper; and the cook ought to be sweet–natured always. A lean, cross cook, is an inconsistency. Cook Charlie, was of the kind that harmonizes with the cheerful, comforting nature of the kitchen stove. All the surfmen were at the breakfast table excepting Silas Fay, whose place Walter intended to temporarily fill. There was thesandy haired keeper, and there was Tom Walker, with his big bushy beard,—a shaggy kind of an animal. Next to Tom, sat Woodbury Elliott, his blue eyes flashing out occasional glances of welcome toward Walter. If Cook Charlie was fat, “Slim” Tarleton was lean; and his first name was bestowed upon him on account of this peculiarity. He was Capt. Barney’s bony neighbor on the left. Next to Slim, came two brothers, Seavey, and Nathan Lowd. They were quiet, inoffensive young men, whose peculiarity was a grin on every possible occasion, excepting a funeral. They were twins, resembling one another closely; but showed this difference, that Nathan grinned more than Seavey. There was one more at the table,—Joe Cardridge, a black–haired, black–eyed man, on whose face was a cynical expression, as if he was continually out of humor with the world, and wished to show it by a sneer. Nobody liked his discontented, jealous disposition, and it was the keeper’s purpose to get rid of him at the first opportunity. He was an excellent boatman, and this merit had secured him the position of surfman. It was true indeed of all the crew; their knowledge of boating, gained in many trips after cod and pollock, halibut and haddock, constitutedtheir special fitness for the life saving service. They were strong, hardy, muscular fellows, and Slim Tarleton—bony, but tough—was no exception.

After breakfast, the keeper led Walter upstairs.

“I want to tell you where you will bunk, Walter, and I guess you had better take Silas’ bed. Here it is.”

“Who sleeps next?”

“Woodbury Elliott there, and Tom Walker on this side. Each man of the crew is numbered, and you will take Silas’ number, six. You are Surfman Six.”

“That’s good. Now, I’ve been round over the station, and know it pretty well. Could you just give me an insight into the boat–room, more of an idea of it?”

“Sartin. Let’s come down now.”

From the kitchen or living–room, on the first floor, one passed directly into the large boat–room; and that immediately proclaimed the nature of the building, and also the work of its occupants. In the center, was the surf–boat, twenty–six feet long. At the stern and bows, were air–chambers.

“That long steering–oar is twenty–two feet long, isn’t it? Somebody said so.”

“This was worn about the body under the arms”(p.197).

“This was worn about the body under the arms”(p.197).

“This was worn about the body under the arms”(p.197).

“Yes. Walter. It gives me a tremendous purchase when I set in the starn to steer.”

“Of course you have six oars, and then there are two spare ones.”

“Jest so.”

Each oar was stamped, “U. S. L. S. S.,” whose translation is United States Life Saving Service. On each seat was a cork jacket, consisting of two rows of cork blocks secured to a belt of canvas. This was worn about the body under the arms.

“That means,” said Walter, “all ready for use, any moment.”

“Yes, we may be wanted any hour, and we can’t go out, service–time, unless we put those jackets on.”

“So Tom Walker told me. Let me see—Oh, there’s the axe Tom said you kept in the boat; and there’s a hatchet, and you have got ‘Uncle Sam’s’ mark on them.”

“Yes. There’s a rudder too, which we can use in smooth water. This is a surf–boat, but there are in the service some life–boat stations. On the Lakes, and Pacific coast, you find ’em. Life–boats are better for a shore that is bold, where the water runs deep.”

Along the right hand wall of the boat–room, extended a miscellaneous collection of apparatus.There was a mortar for shooting a line to a wreck, the ball used being a twenty–four pound round shot. There were shovels and a Merriman rubber suit. Wound ingeniously and carefully on pins, were long coils of shot–line, that could be slipped off any moment, and sent whizzing and flying behind an iron ball. There were also long coils of rope, to be used in completing the connection between a wreck and the shore. Of the three sizes, the largest, a four–inch cable, was employed with the life–car, and a three–inch cable with the breeches buoy.

“There it is!” exclaimed Walter enthusiastically, as he crossed to the left of the surf–boat and looked up at the life–car. This was suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a boat, but it was covered. In the center of the cover or roof, was an opening. At each end of the car, were air–chambers.

“Woodbury Elliott says four small persons, or three large ones, can get in there.”

“Yes, we calc’late to stow that number away.”

“And that opening is the manhole.”

“Yes, and when you are in, you can fasten the cover from the inside, and be tight as a fly inside a drum.”

“I used to wonder how they could breathe, till I found out there were little air–holes in the top.”

“Sartin.”

“And this is the cart,” said Walter, nodding toward a stout hand–cart.

“Yes, and you see she is all packed for sarvice any moment.”

Here the keeper laid his broad, hard hand on the apparatus in the cart. There was the breeches buoy, consisting of a large cork ring, from which drooped very stout, but very short legs, or “breeches.” A Lyle gun, lighter than a mortar, and used for shooting a line to a wreck, projected its nozzle from the heap in the cart.

“There is the cartridge–box,” said Walter. “And I suppose of course the cartridges are there.”

“Yes, all ready, and two dozen primers are in there.”

“Pickaxe and shovel, and tackle and fall,” murmured Walter.

Yes, these were carried by the cart, and Walter saw little tally–boards, inscribed with directions to a shipwrecked crew, for the proper fastening of ropes to the vessel.

“Could I look into the closet where theCoston signals and rockets are?” inquired Walter.

“Round this way,” replied the keeper, who was pleased to notice that Walter knew so much about the apparatus at the station. He threw open a door, and a drawer also. In this closet, were various pyrotechnic treasures, serviceable with their brilliantly flashing fires for the work of the surfmen.

The store of curiosities in the boat–room had not been exhausted yet. Near the door of the living–room, was a row of shots that were adapted to the Lyle gun, one end to rest on the powder, and in the other end was a shank with an eye to which the line was fastened. On the left side of the room, was a four–wheeled carriage for the hauling of the boat. Hanging from the walls were ropes and oil suits. There was also another closet of supplies. There were patrol lanterns, colored signal lanterns, speaking trumpets, twenty–four pound shot for the mortars; and what serviceable piece of apparatus wasnotthere?

“Glad to see you know so much about this ’ere room, Walter,” said the keeper.

“Oh, yes, I’ve found out what I could,” replied “Surfman Six.”

During any visit at the station, Walter hadgone about with two observant eyes, and a tongue that was not ashamed to ask questions. What he learned, he packed away for use in his retentive memory.

“You remember your beat when your father let you go one night with Tom Walker?” said the keeper.

“Oh, yes.”

“All right. At the same time this evening, I’ll get you ready, and you can patrol that same side of the station.”

At eight o’clock, Walter stood before the keeper like a knight that some king was equipping and sending out for special service.

“I am all ready,” said the young surfman, his bright, hazel eyes flashing like two of “Uncle Sam’s” patrol lanterns on a dark night. He wore a cap that Aunt Lydia had lined with soft, warm flannel for this particular duty. His feet were encased in rough, but strong boots; and his clothes, though rough like the boots, were thick, with extra linings, furnished by the same feminine skill as that which lined his cap. He had buttoned up his stout fishing–jacket and now awaited the keeper’s orders.

“There,” said the keeper. “Here is your time–detector, and here’s your Coston signal. You know where the key to the detector iskept, I guess I’ve given you directions enough ’bout lettin’ off your Coston signal ef you see a vessel too near shore, or ef you want to signal to a craft in any trouble. Wall, good luck!”

Out into the quiet, cool November night, Walter promptly stepped. He halted one moment at the outside door. There was a moon somewhere in the sky, and somewhere behind the station; and it threw its light on that part of the shore and the sea which Walter fronted.

“How low the tide runs!” thought Walter. Beyond that rocky rim against which the surf daily fretted, turning over and over like a wheel trying to grind out of the way an obstacle, now stretched the uncovered sands. He could easily mark off with his eye the dry sand, and then the wet sand glistening in the moonlight. Then came the surf, a tumble of silver. Beyond were dark, swelling, threatening folds, forever coming up out of the sea as if to drown the earth; and yet forever breaking down into white surf that rolled away in an impotent wrath. Beyond all, was an untroubled surface of light and peace; this in turn ending in a dark, hazy belt that encircled the horizon. There were two lighthouses whose red fires flashed through this belt of haze, and jeweled it. Above, were the stars, soft and peaceful.

“I will walk down on the sands,” thought the young patrol, and his light was soon flashing above the floor of wet, glistening sand. With keen eyes, he searched the surface of the sea for some sign of danger; but the sea was innocent of all disturbance save the tumbling, roaring surf at his feet. He saw a light up the beach that shifted its place—a kind of firebug crawling away; but he knew it was only the lantern of the other patrolman as he slowly walked his beat. What a sense of responsibility came down on Walter’s shoulders! It seemed as if he would be held accountable for any disaster to the world’s shipping on his side of the station; while Slim Tarleton must look out for all harm that threatened navigation on his, the westerly side of the globe. After a while, this sense of responsibility lightened. He was not accountable forallthe disasters on this, the easterly side of the globe, but only on the ocean between Walter Plympton, surfman, and Old England. This stretch of jurisdiction gradually narrowed. It became only the ocean that he could see. This, though, was so quiet, lamb–like, lustrous, that it dulled all sense of alarm; and Walter began to think of something else, as he plodded along. There were the stars. How quiet it was up in their sphere!

“There’s Orion!” he exclaimed, tracing the outlines of that celestial hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in the academy.

“Where’s the Great Bear?” he said. And there it was; its fires mild as dove’s eyes, that night. Then he hunted up the North Star, the Pleiades, and other worthies. Having finished his astronomy, and as no vessel out at sea sent up any rockets, and no vessel near the shore needed his warning lantern, since the moon hung out a better one, he began to watch the shadows of rocky bluffs, thrown down on the sands. These were huge masses of blackness projected across the shining sands, into which ran little rivulets of gold, where the water, left in pools, tried to make its way down to the sea again. These golden streams, though, could not wash away the great, ebony shadows.

“There’s the Crescent!” exclaimed Walter. He could make out its dark ledges, and he located also the probable neighborhood of the Chair. He plodded along in his uneventful walk. He reached the houses at the end of his beat, and turned aside to hunt up the particular building where he might expect to find the key of his detector.

“When I patrolled this beat that night with Tom Walker, I had no idea I would ever becoming after that key to–night. Ah, there she is now!” he exclaimed.

The key was in its accustomed place. Walter seized it, thrust it into the hole in the detector, turned it, and proudly made his first record as a surfman. Then he retraced his way to the sands, still glistening in the moonlight, and slowly trudged back to the station. When at the close of his long watch, he wearily passed upstairs, and dropped into his warm bed, he went readily to sleep, but not into oblivion. He was busily dreaming, dreaming that he was a knight, and King Barney was dressing him in armor. Then he thought that armed with shield and spear and sword, he went out upon the beach to fight the perils of the sea. These took the form of a monster wriggling out of the surf; and as in the old Grecian fable, Perseus was moved to rescue the maiden Andromeda from a sea–horror, so he was striving to save May Elliott, bound like Andromeda to the rocks on the shore. The battle was a long one and it did not come off till toward morning. He was suddenly aroused by—was it an angry stroke from a claw of the sea–dragon? It seemed so to Walter; and looking up in a shivering horror, expecting to see the most diabolical face ever invented, wasn’the delighted to see—Tom Walker’s shaggy head:

“Oh—h—Tom! That you! Well, if I ain’t glad to see you!”

Tom roared.

“Well, if I don’t call that a cordial greetin’! Ha—ha! Folks are apt to feel t’other way, when waked up. Glad to see me! Ha—ha! Well, I’m glad to see you. Come, breakfast’s ready. Cook Charlie’s taters will soon be cold as the heart of a mermaid, if you ever dream of sich things.”

Walter did not say whether he had been dreaming of such a character.

CHAPTER XIII.UNDER FIRE.Boardman Blake sat in his store, patiently holding his hands in his lap, and waiting for a customer. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing else that he could very well do. He was not needed in the barn, for Don Pedro was there, looking faithfully after oxen and cows; after “Old Jennie,” the mare, also. Boardman had just brought from the well all that Aunt Lydia needed in her department—“two heapin’ pails of water.” He was tired of looking at the few books on the shelves in the store, and he had gone through theCounty Buglefrom its first note to its last one. As no customer arrived, his only occupation was to nurse his hands in his lap, and wait in hope. If Boardman had waited until an actual customer had arrived, there would have been a good deal of nursing. He supposed at first it was a customer,when he heard a footstep at the door, and then caught the tinkle of the watchful bell.“Ho, Walter, that you? I am glad to see you,” and as Uncle Boardman welcomed the young man, he expressed his pleasure in a very beaming smile and a very firm hand–grip. Walter explained the errand about certain goods which Keeper Barney wanted Uncle Boardman to send to the station, and the conversation then became a personal one.“Well, Walter, how do you like the surf business?”“Oh, I have enjoyed it so far. It’s not all play, though.”“No, no! It’s a rough–and–tumble life when the winter sets in. However, I would make the best of it.“Oh, I mean to do that, uncle.”Here Uncle Boardman looked out of the window, and twirling his hands in his lap, talked away on this subject of making the best of things.“Now, at the station you won’t find everything to your mind. You won’t like all the men; but then you can make a good deal of what you do like; and what you don’t like, you can just look over it, and try not to mind it, Walter.”“I know it. There’s Joe Cardridge. I don’t take to him a bit; but I try not to mind him. And as for Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott, I could do anything for them. There’s Cook Charlie—he’s a jolly team, and the Lowds, they’re great grinners, and the men make a deal of fun of them; but they’re good–hearted as the days are long. I like Slim Tarleton.”“Pretty hard trampin’ backwards and forwards, some nights, ain’t it?”“Yes, that’s so; but then I say, ‘Well, there will be a warm bed when I get through,’ and then in the morning, I can’t say I enjoy getting up, turning out into a cold room; but I say, ‘There’s a lovely hot breakfast downstairs,’ and I pop up quicker.”“That’s it, Walter. I guess you’re getting the hang of the house. How—how do you come on since—” Uncle Boardman hesitated. He felt the pressure of a certain amount of responsibility, as he stood in the place of Walter’s father and mother, and he wished to ask about his religious life.“Since—since you were confirmed, Walter?”“I—I try to do right, uncle, and—”“You stick to your prayers and your Bible?”“Oh, yes. I miss my church, Sundays.”“Well, Walter, do the best you can, your duty toward God and toward man; but do it naturally.”“What, sir?”“Why, I mean by that—let me see how I shall put it? It seems to me that I might—of course I don’t intend it—be too—too conscious of my religion. Seems to me a man may be painfully so, going round with a kind of holier–than–thou way. Do you understand me?”“I think I do.”“Just be natural. Let your religion just take possession of you, and then come out just—just as song comes out of a bird. I don’t see why it shouldn’t, for religion is the happiest thing in the world. Sometimes, I find a man, and he makes me feel that he is so dreadful good, why it would be taking a liberty, to laugh in his presence. Now that man is sort of painfully conscious of his religion, all the time a–worrying about it and a–fussing over it; and makes the people uneasy all round him. Just be natural, Walter, and without your fussing over it, it will come out easy and smooth as a bird’s singing. I tell you, Walter, a good kind of religion is one that says when you weigh a thing, ‘Sixteen ounces make a pound;’ and when you talk, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness againstthy neighbor;’ and when it comes to our no licensing, that says, ‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.’ Do you understand, Walter? Be thorough in your religion. Pray, but act as you pray.”“I want to do that way.”This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, andmade extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly, and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him almost due, and whose payment he would press!“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was doing his best to struggle out of them.“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and amid the storm clouds,steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful, patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! Shewasgingery at first, peppery even, and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife, and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo, surf–boy!”“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.“Surf–boy” was a title, which, spoken in Joe’ssneering way, Walter did not fancy. If Tom Walker had roared it out, Tom would have put into it a tone of hearty good–will; and Walter would have worn the name gladly. Joe added a sneer to it, and the title galled Walter. However, he kept his temper under, and always addressed Joe courteously. The other surfmen noticed Joe’s manner, and silently criticised it by treating Walter’s youth with all the greater considerateness.On one occasion when Joe contemptuously and with the spirit of a bully had flung this title at him, Slim Tarleton remarked, “Hullo, Walter! You’ve got a lot of strength, I know. You have got master arms. We’ve got an old stump in our cow pasture, and I mean to tell father to let you try on it when we are takin’ up stumps.”There was no Slim standing at the station door to offset Joe’s present sneer with the tender of another stump.“Ben movin’ the world, boy?” continued Joe.“I have been up to Uncle Boardman’s,” replied Walter.“How is his mill gettin’ on? ‘A fool and his money is soon parted,’ they say.”“He is not a fool,” said Walter resolutely.“I believe if he had an honest man to deal with, he would get along.”“Indeed!” remarked Joe sneeringly.Several of the surfmen now came to the door, tempted by the mild air, whose softness seemed to be on sea and land, softening all glaring color and over all roughness throwing a veil of purplish haze. It was one of the fine effects of that scenic painter, Nature.Who of those present understood that Joe Cardridge was not only an ally of the great Baggs, but also his hired—I can hardly say paid—agent? It was he that had induced a number of the men to intrust their money with Baggs; and on every man’s money he had been promised a commission.“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of TomWalker, Cook Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give “pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs, as he thought.“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into firm outline his splendid frame.“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let me beat.”This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly followed by another from Joe.“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”“Oh, I’m willing,” said Walter pleasantly “Any time.”Joe was the older and the taller of the two, but Walter was as heavy, and his frame was more compact. Joe’s bones had been put together loosely. If Walter could have looked down to the bottom of Joe’s dark, evil eyes, he would have read this determination there: “I’ll punish this boy smartly ’fore I git through with him to–day.” Walter however saw no such sinister spirit, and he only said, “Ready!” The two gripped, and quickly Joe came to the ground in a heap. Joe looked angry when he rose. “Let’s try that agin!” he said.Woodbury noticed the anger in Joe’s face, and called out, “Fair play, fair!”Joe made no answer, but renewed his effort, only to make a worse heap on the ground than before. When he rose the second time, he was furious with wrath and immediately struck at Walter. The “surf–boy” though, quietly pinioned his arms and laid him on the ground a third time. Rising again, his fury was his master, and he would have thrown himself on Walter, but Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott planted themselves before Joe, and called out to him to stop.“I challenge—him!” said the almost breathless Joe. “I want—to—try—it—in fightin’ fashion.”“I shan’t fight,” said Walter. “But I can take care of myself if I am attacked.”“You are afeared!”“Quiet, Joe!” said Tom. “He has come off fust best, and he is not afraid; and he could use you all up, and I ’vise you to keep quiet. You ought to be ashamed of yourself that you can’t play fair. Here comes the keeper, too.”Hearing this, Joe stumbled off into the station, looking like a disgraced animal, which he really was. He muttered vengeance however, as he stole away.“Didn’t that boy carry himself well?” said Tom to Woodbury, as they strolled back of the station. “I’ve been a–watchin’ him and he has stood Joe’s mean fire like a hero. I think he means to do the right thing.”“No doubt about that; but I guess he felt pretty well stirred up.”“That’s so. I imagine he jest felt like bilin’ over; but he didn’t show it more than the outside of an iron pot, where the bilin’ is. I think he did well. He jest conquered that Joe, and he conquered himself; and I think I could more easily give ten lickin’s of the fust sort, to one of the second.”As for Walter, he had entered the station, gone upstairs, and was looking out of a windowthat faced the west, where the sun was frescoing the misty walls of the sky with daintiest shades. He was in no quiet mood. He was sorry that he had consented to any trial of strength ending so unpleasantly. He was sorry to find out that under the roof with him, was an avowed enemy. The world looks friendly to the young, and it is a bitter discovery to hear lions roaring about our path. Walter resolved, though, he would try the harder to do only the thing that was right; and as he stood with his face to the flaming sky, he asked God to help him.

UNDER FIRE.

Boardman Blake sat in his store, patiently holding his hands in his lap, and waiting for a customer. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing else that he could very well do. He was not needed in the barn, for Don Pedro was there, looking faithfully after oxen and cows; after “Old Jennie,” the mare, also. Boardman had just brought from the well all that Aunt Lydia needed in her department—“two heapin’ pails of water.” He was tired of looking at the few books on the shelves in the store, and he had gone through theCounty Buglefrom its first note to its last one. As no customer arrived, his only occupation was to nurse his hands in his lap, and wait in hope. If Boardman had waited until an actual customer had arrived, there would have been a good deal of nursing. He supposed at first it was a customer,when he heard a footstep at the door, and then caught the tinkle of the watchful bell.

“Ho, Walter, that you? I am glad to see you,” and as Uncle Boardman welcomed the young man, he expressed his pleasure in a very beaming smile and a very firm hand–grip. Walter explained the errand about certain goods which Keeper Barney wanted Uncle Boardman to send to the station, and the conversation then became a personal one.

“Well, Walter, how do you like the surf business?”

“Oh, I have enjoyed it so far. It’s not all play, though.”

“No, no! It’s a rough–and–tumble life when the winter sets in. However, I would make the best of it.

“Oh, I mean to do that, uncle.”

Here Uncle Boardman looked out of the window, and twirling his hands in his lap, talked away on this subject of making the best of things.

“Now, at the station you won’t find everything to your mind. You won’t like all the men; but then you can make a good deal of what you do like; and what you don’t like, you can just look over it, and try not to mind it, Walter.”

“I know it. There’s Joe Cardridge. I don’t take to him a bit; but I try not to mind him. And as for Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott, I could do anything for them. There’s Cook Charlie—he’s a jolly team, and the Lowds, they’re great grinners, and the men make a deal of fun of them; but they’re good–hearted as the days are long. I like Slim Tarleton.”

“Pretty hard trampin’ backwards and forwards, some nights, ain’t it?”

“Yes, that’s so; but then I say, ‘Well, there will be a warm bed when I get through,’ and then in the morning, I can’t say I enjoy getting up, turning out into a cold room; but I say, ‘There’s a lovely hot breakfast downstairs,’ and I pop up quicker.”

“That’s it, Walter. I guess you’re getting the hang of the house. How—how do you come on since—” Uncle Boardman hesitated. He felt the pressure of a certain amount of responsibility, as he stood in the place of Walter’s father and mother, and he wished to ask about his religious life.

“Since—since you were confirmed, Walter?”

“I—I try to do right, uncle, and—”

“You stick to your prayers and your Bible?”

“Oh, yes. I miss my church, Sundays.”

“Well, Walter, do the best you can, your duty toward God and toward man; but do it naturally.”

“What, sir?”

“Why, I mean by that—let me see how I shall put it? It seems to me that I might—of course I don’t intend it—be too—too conscious of my religion. Seems to me a man may be painfully so, going round with a kind of holier–than–thou way. Do you understand me?”

“I think I do.”

“Just be natural. Let your religion just take possession of you, and then come out just—just as song comes out of a bird. I don’t see why it shouldn’t, for religion is the happiest thing in the world. Sometimes, I find a man, and he makes me feel that he is so dreadful good, why it would be taking a liberty, to laugh in his presence. Now that man is sort of painfully conscious of his religion, all the time a–worrying about it and a–fussing over it; and makes the people uneasy all round him. Just be natural, Walter, and without your fussing over it, it will come out easy and smooth as a bird’s singing. I tell you, Walter, a good kind of religion is one that says when you weigh a thing, ‘Sixteen ounces make a pound;’ and when you talk, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness againstthy neighbor;’ and when it comes to our no licensing, that says, ‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.’ Do you understand, Walter? Be thorough in your religion. Pray, but act as you pray.”

“I want to do that way.”

This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”

It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, andmade extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly, and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him almost due, and whose payment he would press!

“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”

That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was doing his best to struggle out of them.

“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”

When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and amid the storm clouds,steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.

“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful, patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! Shewasgingery at first, peppery even, and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife, and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.

As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo, surf–boy!”

“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.

“Surf–boy” was a title, which, spoken in Joe’ssneering way, Walter did not fancy. If Tom Walker had roared it out, Tom would have put into it a tone of hearty good–will; and Walter would have worn the name gladly. Joe added a sneer to it, and the title galled Walter. However, he kept his temper under, and always addressed Joe courteously. The other surfmen noticed Joe’s manner, and silently criticised it by treating Walter’s youth with all the greater considerateness.

On one occasion when Joe contemptuously and with the spirit of a bully had flung this title at him, Slim Tarleton remarked, “Hullo, Walter! You’ve got a lot of strength, I know. You have got master arms. We’ve got an old stump in our cow pasture, and I mean to tell father to let you try on it when we are takin’ up stumps.”

There was no Slim standing at the station door to offset Joe’s present sneer with the tender of another stump.

“Ben movin’ the world, boy?” continued Joe.

“I have been up to Uncle Boardman’s,” replied Walter.

“How is his mill gettin’ on? ‘A fool and his money is soon parted,’ they say.”

“He is not a fool,” said Walter resolutely.“I believe if he had an honest man to deal with, he would get along.”

“Indeed!” remarked Joe sneeringly.

Several of the surfmen now came to the door, tempted by the mild air, whose softness seemed to be on sea and land, softening all glaring color and over all roughness throwing a veil of purplish haze. It was one of the fine effects of that scenic painter, Nature.

Who of those present understood that Joe Cardridge was not only an ally of the great Baggs, but also his hired—I can hardly say paid—agent? It was he that had induced a number of the men to intrust their money with Baggs; and on every man’s money he had been promised a commission.

“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of TomWalker, Cook Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give “pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs, as he thought.

“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”

The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.

“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.

“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into firm outline his splendid frame.

“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let me beat.”

This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly followed by another from Joe.

“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”

“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”

“Oh, I’m willing,” said Walter pleasantly “Any time.”

Joe was the older and the taller of the two, but Walter was as heavy, and his frame was more compact. Joe’s bones had been put together loosely. If Walter could have looked down to the bottom of Joe’s dark, evil eyes, he would have read this determination there: “I’ll punish this boy smartly ’fore I git through with him to–day.” Walter however saw no such sinister spirit, and he only said, “Ready!” The two gripped, and quickly Joe came to the ground in a heap. Joe looked angry when he rose. “Let’s try that agin!” he said.

Woodbury noticed the anger in Joe’s face, and called out, “Fair play, fair!”

Joe made no answer, but renewed his effort, only to make a worse heap on the ground than before. When he rose the second time, he was furious with wrath and immediately struck at Walter. The “surf–boy” though, quietly pinioned his arms and laid him on the ground a third time. Rising again, his fury was his master, and he would have thrown himself on Walter, but Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott planted themselves before Joe, and called out to him to stop.

“I challenge—him!” said the almost breathless Joe. “I want—to—try—it—in fightin’ fashion.”

“I shan’t fight,” said Walter. “But I can take care of myself if I am attacked.”

“You are afeared!”

“Quiet, Joe!” said Tom. “He has come off fust best, and he is not afraid; and he could use you all up, and I ’vise you to keep quiet. You ought to be ashamed of yourself that you can’t play fair. Here comes the keeper, too.”

Hearing this, Joe stumbled off into the station, looking like a disgraced animal, which he really was. He muttered vengeance however, as he stole away.

“Didn’t that boy carry himself well?” said Tom to Woodbury, as they strolled back of the station. “I’ve been a–watchin’ him and he has stood Joe’s mean fire like a hero. I think he means to do the right thing.”

“No doubt about that; but I guess he felt pretty well stirred up.”

“That’s so. I imagine he jest felt like bilin’ over; but he didn’t show it more than the outside of an iron pot, where the bilin’ is. I think he did well. He jest conquered that Joe, and he conquered himself; and I think I could more easily give ten lickin’s of the fust sort, to one of the second.”

As for Walter, he had entered the station, gone upstairs, and was looking out of a windowthat faced the west, where the sun was frescoing the misty walls of the sky with daintiest shades. He was in no quiet mood. He was sorry that he had consented to any trial of strength ending so unpleasantly. He was sorry to find out that under the roof with him, was an avowed enemy. The world looks friendly to the young, and it is a bitter discovery to hear lions roaring about our path. Walter resolved, though, he would try the harder to do only the thing that was right; and as he stood with his face to the flaming sky, he asked God to help him.

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