As, one by one, we put the plates through the developer, a majority came out well. One or two were a trifle under-exposed, and there were minor defects in others; but, on the whole, they were very good.
The star negative of the lot, however, was that of the stranger whom I had photographed drinking, and who had turned his head and caught me in the act. That was perfect. Everything was brilliantly sharp, and the shutter had caught the man’s full face. In the negative, even so small an object as his eyes stood out beautifully.
We made a blue-print of this negative, and both Lester and myself recognized the faithfulness of the likeness, notwithstanding the fact that we had seen the man but a moment.
About the middle of the afternoon, my father returned from the neighboring town, ten miles away, in one of the banks of which he was clerk. He seemed to be much excited and perturbed about something. My mother noticed it also, and immediately inquired as to the cause of his uneasiness.
“The bank was robbed last night,” he answered, “and over fifty thousand dollars stolen. Every cent I had in the world is gone with the rest.”
My mother made an exclamation of dismay.
“And the worst of it is,” went on my father, “that we are almost certain who the thief is, but we haven’t a thing in the world to trace him by—not a vestige of a photograph or anything like it, which we could give to detectives to guide them in the hunt. The man’s gone, and the money with him.”
And my father sank despondently into a chair.
Meanwhile Lester and I stood by, listening silently, the still wet blue-print in my hand. After a minute I went and pressed the print out flat upon the table, on which my father’s arm was leaning. At any other time I would have proudly exhibited it to him, and would have been sure of his interest and appreciation, but I did not feel like intruding upon his present worriment.
As I laid the picture face upward upon the table, my father turned his head and looked at it indifferently. Suddenly he pushed me aside, and bent over the print so closely that his face almost touched it.
I recovered my balance with difficulty, and stared at him in frightened bewilderment. My father had never acted in this manner before, and I was almost afraid he had gone mad.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “The very thing!”
Then, wheeling around, he grasped me by the shoulders, and wanted to know where I got that picture.
I was far too dazed by his strange actions to answer a word; so Lester interposed and told my father, in as few words as possible, of our morning expedition, and of the man whom we had photographed in the act of drinking.
“Bless the camera!” ejaculated my father, excitedly, “that’s Eli Parker, the thief! And the best likeness of him I ever saw, too!”
Then he questioned us closely as to the direction the man had taken when discovered, and ended by confiscating the print and the negative, and rushing out of the house to take the next train back to town. Lester and I talked about it all the afternoon, and felt ourselves quite heroes for having the temerity to stand before a real bank robber.
Fifty prints were immediately struck off from the negative, and these were given to detectives, who scoured the country in every direction. After a two days’ search, those nearest home were successful, and found Parker in the same woods where Lester and I had first surprised him. He had sought to evade capture by avoiding railroads, and hiding himself until the first excitement of the robbery had passed. As the whole amount of stolen funds was discovered in the little black grip which he carried, he was convicted of the crime without difficulty, and sentenced for a term of fifteen years in State prison.
The sequel of the incident was the most agreeable and the most astonishing of all. One day, a month subsequent, when Parker had been safely housed in the penitentiary, my father came home, and, with a mysterious smile upon his face, handed me an envelope. Upon being opened, the discovery was made that “Howard Benton and Lester Drake were authorized to draw upon the First National Bank of C——, for $100 apiece, in slight recognition of their part in apprehending Eli Parker, the perpetrator of the recent robbery upon that institution.”
I am still an ardent disciple of amateur photography. Who wouldn’t be under such circumstances?
—The umbrella is undoubtedly of high antiquity, appearing in various forms upon the sculptured monuments of Egypt, Assyria, Greece and Rome; and in hot countries it has been used since the dawn of history as a sunshade—a use signified by its name, derived from the Latinumbra, a shade.
GOOD RULES.BY REV. P. B. STRONG.If a mean thing you would do,Always put it off a day;If a noble act and true,Do not e’en a moment stay.Ne’er by proxy do a deed.Would you have it surely done;It you’d never come to need,Wait not wealth from any one.Deem no coin too small to save,Quit not certainty for hope;Good denied, you cease to crave,Neither o’er the future mope.What you can’t by bushels take,Get by spoonfuls, if you can;Never mounts from mole hills make;Ere you leap, the distance scan.Shiver not for last year’s snow,Nor bemoan the milk that’s spilt;When you hasten, slowly go;Keep your conscience clear of guilt.These old rules, which here in verseYou behold thus newly set,Well it would be to rehearse,Till not one you could forget.
If a mean thing you would do,
Always put it off a day;
If a noble act and true,
Do not e’en a moment stay.
Ne’er by proxy do a deed.
Would you have it surely done;
It you’d never come to need,
Wait not wealth from any one.
Deem no coin too small to save,
Quit not certainty for hope;
Good denied, you cease to crave,
Neither o’er the future mope.
What you can’t by bushels take,
Get by spoonfuls, if you can;
Never mounts from mole hills make;
Ere you leap, the distance scan.
Shiver not for last year’s snow,
Nor bemoan the milk that’s spilt;
When you hasten, slowly go;
Keep your conscience clear of guilt.
These old rules, which here in verse
You behold thus newly set,
Well it would be to rehearse,
Till not one you could forget.
“So you boys think you came down here pretty fast, eh?” asked Randy Bronson, crossing one wooden leg over the other and stretching them both out toward the great fire of hickory logs that were roaring in the chimney.
Seven of us academy boys had piled into the only double cutter the village livery stable possessed, and had covered the nine miles between the school and Randy’s place down on the river road in forty-five minutes, and for a pair of farm horses we thought that pretty good time. Randy’s suppers, or rather his wife Maria’s suppers, were famous, and the doctor was always willing to let a party of us off for an evening at their little establishment providing we were back in good season. Randy and his wife were to be trusted to look out for the most harum-scarum boy who ever attended the Edgewood Academy.
While supper was being prepared we gathered about Randy and the wide open fireplace to wait for the repast, with all the patience at our command.
If Maria Bronson’s suppers had gained a reputation among us, so had Randy’s stories. He had been a sailor in his youth, and, indeed, in middle life, until during a naval engagement on the lower Mississippi, in the civil war, he had both legs shot away, and was doomed to “peg about,” as he jocularly called it, on wooden substitutes.
“So you thought you came down here pretty fast?” asked Randy, repeating the remark which opened this narrative. “And well you might, with the roads in the condition they are now. But I’ve been sleighing faster than any of you boys have traveled, unless it was on a railroad train, and over the roughest sort of a track, too.”
We all foresaw a story at once and were eager enough to hear the tale. So with little urging Randy began:
“When I was a boy you know I went to sea,” he said, and we all nodded acquiescence, for about every story Randy told commenced with just that remark. “My parents died when I was young and I was bound out to an old uncle; but farming wasn’t to my taste, and I was always longing so for salt water that finally he told me I wasn’t worth my board and clothes, and to clear out and go to sea if I wanted to.
“I didn’t need any second bidding. I went off that very night, and I never saw my Uncle Eb again.
“After going two or three trips to ‘the banks,’ I shipped aboard the New Bedford whaler Henry Clay, knowing well enough that whaling couldn’t be a great sight worse than fishing off Newfoundland in the dead of winter.
“As luck would have it, though, the Henry Clay joined the North Atlantic fleet and started for the Greenland fishing grounds. We lost the rest of the fleet in a big blow off Cape Farewell and worked northward alone, having the good fortune to fall in with several school of right whales, out of which wecaptured three or four ‘balleeners,’*the oil and bone together being worth something like eighteen thousand dollars.
“The captain had begun to crow over the fine season we were having, when, early in October, we were caught in a nip in Cumberland Inlet, and the ice piled in so solidly around us that we knew we were good for all winter. There wasn’t any particular danger, for the Henry Clay was a well-built craft, strengthened to withstand just such a squeeze as the ice-pack was giving us.
“Captain Simon Lewis, as kind-hearted a man as ever I sailed under, made all needed preparations for winter at once, and we boys before the mast looked forward to a pretty jolly season.
“We were warmly clad, the fo’castle grub was better than is common with whalers, and there was every prospect for plenty of fresh meat and good hunting, as soon as the ice about us should become firm.
“After everything had been made ship-shape, we were given all the freedom we needed, and the library brought aboard by the officers was open to common use. Several days after this order of things had been established, the mate took half a dozen of us younger fellows out for a long tramp over the ice. There were three guns in the party, and we went along like a parcel of schoolboys out on a frolic.
“We made only about eight miles before noon, for the ice was so uneven that the traveling was rougher than any I had ever experienced, when suddenly, upon rounding an enormous ice hummock, we came in sight of a group of Esquimaux, sledges and dogs, and were discovered before we could retreat behind the hummock again.
“The crowd raised a cry of ‘Kabulenet! Oomeak! Kabulenet! Oomeak!’ which means, ‘White men and ships!’ and a general rush was made in our direction.
“The mate told us there was nothing to fear, as they were quite friendly, and he walked forward to meet them. He had been among them before and knew some of their words, so we were quickly on excellent terms with them.
“They surrounded us, laughing and chattering like so many children, shaking hands, examining our clothes and repeating, like parrots, the words and expressions the white men whom they had met before had taught them.
“One old chap, Kalutunah by name, seemed especially kindly disposed towards us, and, following his example, the entire party, finding the white men’s ship was so near, decided to make their winter quarters near us, knowingthat they would probably get what would be, to them, valuable presents.
“Captain Lewis was glad to have them for neighbors, too, for, if we should happen to run short of fresh meat or should get smashed in the ice—and there is always a possibility of that—the Esquimaux would be of great assistance.
“They built theirigloosnot far from the ship, and we interchanged frequent visits. Kalutunah and I became very intimate, and I tried to teach him English words and their meaning in his language; but he never got any farther thaneesandnoe—his pronunciation of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’
“Two months of such an easy life as we led tired me more than cutting up the biggest ‘balleener’ that was ever ‘ironed.’ Parties of the Esquimaux went off hunting every day, and, finding that Kalutunah was making preparations for a two days’ hunt up the inlet, I begged the captain to allow me to go with him, and permission was readily given.
see caption
see caption
“MY BULLET HAD TAKEN EFFECT ON ONE OF THE DOGS, WHICH HAD IMMEDIATELY TANGLED UP THE REST OF THE TEAM AND BROUGHT THE SLEDGE TO A STANDSTILL.“
“The trip was to be made on Kalutunah’s sledge, and if you have never read about or seen a picture of an Esquimau sledge, you want to look it up at once. It is one of the most ingeniously-built things I ever saw, considering the means at the command of the Esquimaux.
“The runners, which are of bone, are square behind and curved upward in front, usually five feet or more in length, three-fourths of an inch thick, and seven inheight. They are not of solid bone, but composed of many pieces of various shapes and sizes, yet all fitting together so perfectly that they are as smooth as glass.
“The shoe is of ivory from the walrus, and is fastened to the runner with seal strings looped through counter-sunk holes, and in the same manner the various bones making up the runner are fastened in place.
“When you take into consideration the fact that all this fitting and smoothing is done with stone implements, you will believe me when I say the Esquimau sledge is a wonderful thing.
“The runners are placed fourteen inches apart and are fastened together by cross-pieces tightly lashed by sealskin strings. Two walrus ribs are lashed to the after end of each runner in an upright position, and these are braced by other bones, forming the back, and, with plenty of skins and robes for cushions, the Esquimau sledge isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world to ride upon.
“Kalutunah was going after walrus, and Iborrowed a rifle of the mate, thinking that I might do a little shooting on my own account on the way.
“Seven of the hungriest-looking and ugliest dogs among the large number belonging to the natives drew the sledge. The Esquimau usually hitches seven dogs to his sledge, and never drives them tandem, each dog being attached to the sledge by a single trace fastened to a breast-strap.
“It doesn’t matter how rapidly they are running or what the obstructions are, they will keep their traces clear of one another. The dogs on either side have the most work to do, and, after holding that position for some time, a dog will jump over several of his fellows into the centre of the pack and let some other have his place on the outside.
“Kalutunah got on the sledge, and I sat between his knees, and, amid a great deal of shouting and chaffing from the rest of the crew, the dogs started off at Kalutunah’s cry of ‘Ka! Ka!’ and a touch of the whip.
“By-the-way, boys, that whip was a wonder. The lash was six yards long and the handle but sixteen inches. Learning to throw the lasso isn’t a circumstance to learning the ins and out of that whip.
“Of course, boy like, I wanted to try it before we had gone a mile. While traveling, the lash trails along in the rear, and by a quick motion of the hand and wrist is thrown forward like a great snake, snapping like a gun-shot over the heads of the team.
“The first time I tried it the end of the lash caught me on the arm, and, although the member was thickly covered, I felt the blow unpleasantly.
“Kalutunah laughed immoderately at my failure, but dodged the next instant as I tried it again, the lash this time coming within an ace of taking him across the face.
“The third time I essayed the feat, the end of the whip caught on a jutting piece of ice, and I was ‘snatched’ off the sledge in grand style, nearly wrecking it in my exit.
“That was going a little too far, so Kalutunah thought, and he wouldn’t let me try it again, so I contented myself with nursing the various bruises I had received in my tumble.
“But how those dogs could travel! The frozen inlet was strewn with hummocks and broken ice cakes, and I had to cling to the sledge with both hands sometimes to keep from being thrown off.
“I was profoundly grateful when we reached our stopping place about the middle of the afternoon. A week before Kalutunah had seen a walrus near this place, under some new ice that had formed over a breathing hole.
“The dogs were left fastened to the sledge, so that their presence would not disturb the walrus should one be near. The Esquimau got out his harpoon and line and approached the thin ice, telling me to keep back.
“I wasn’t very eager to stay near the walrus should the old fellow be lucky enough to iron one, for there had been one caught near the Henry Clay, and a more ferocious-looking beast I never saw.
“I stayed back near the sledge with my rifle, on the lookout for something to try a shot at, and in the meantime keeping my eye on old Kalutunah. He went forward carefully, dodging from hummock to hummock, but gradually getting nearer the thin ice. All at once I caught sight of another object on the ice a little to the right of the Esquimau. At first I thought it was a seal, for it lay flat on the ice, and was about to hurry after Kalutunah to tell him about it, when the figure rose up and I saw that it was a man—another Esquimau.
“The stranger walked rapidly toward Kalutunah, and had almost reached his side before the old fellow noticed him. Then he sprang up, and although they were too far away for me to hear them, even if my ears had not been covered with my hood, I saw that they were talking together.
“The stranger continued to advance, holding out his hand as though to shake Kalutunah’s.
“Having arrived quite near, he took a quick stride forward, and instead of offering his hand, as Kalutunah had evidently expected, suddenly raised a short club and struck Kalutunah on the head.
“It was a most brutal act, and so unexpected was it that for an instant I was stupefied.
“Kalutunah threw up his arm, and fell backward without a cry. The treacherous wretch leaned over him to repeat the blow, but I had found my senses by that time, and, raising my rifle, fired at him. The bullet probably flew wide of its mark, but it scared the rascal. Evidently he had not noticed me before, and least of all expected to find a white boy with the old man he had so cruelly attacked.
“With a wild yell, he ran at the top of his speed, expecting no doubt another shot every instant.
“I hurried forward to where Kalutunah was lying senseless on the ice. He was not dead, and, as I reached him, he raised up, with an evident effort, and cried:
“‘See-ne-mee-utes! See-ne-mee-utes!’
“I remembered then what the mate of the Henry Clay had once told me about a tribe of bloodthirsty men in the interior, called by the well-disposed Esquimaux See-ne-mee-utes. These wretches approach a stranger to all appearances in a friendly manner, and, taking him unawares, assault him in the treacherous way that Kalutunah had been attacked.
“The old man was brave if he was an Esquimau, for I could understand by his motions that he wanted me to fly and leave him. But I wouldn’t hear of that.
“From the direction in which the See-ne-mee-ute had fled I saw a dozen figures approaching. Evidently there were plenty of reinforcements at hand, and, even with my rifle, I could not keep them at bay.
“Kalutunah was not a large man—Esquimaux seldom are—and the dog sledge was not far in our rear. I had strong arms and two good legs under me in those days, so, lifting the poor fellow, I carried him to the sledge.
“The dogs were up and excited, I could see by their actions; but I had no time to fool with them. I placed Kalutunah, who had again become unconscious, on the sledge and got on before him. By this time my pursuers were close at hand, and I was horrified to see two dog sledges following in the rear. Unfamiliar as I was with the management of Kalutunah’s team, the See-ne-mee-utes would overtake us in spite of all I could do.
“I raised my rifle and gave them a parting shot, and the dogs, frightened by the report so near them, started off like mad over the ice toward the distant ship.
“Again my bullet must have been badly aimed, for it only brought forth a howl of rage from my pursuers, as they saw me escaping. Hastily boarding their sledges, four of them started after me.
“I had a little start, but my dogs, having had only an hour’s rest, would likely be no match in speed for those attached to the See-ne-mee-ute sledges; but they started nobly, spreading out like a fan before the sledge and tugging at the breast-straps.
“Had Kalutunah been able to drive them, there might be more chance for us, I thought; but Kalutunah remained unconscious, and I had all I could do to hold both him and myself upon the swaying sledge.
“Without Kalutunah’s voice and whip to guide them, the dogs turned aside for very few obstructions, but tore over them all,nearly wrecking the sledge at every leap. The pursuing sledges, guided by skillful drivers, were therefore able to gradually creep up on us.
“I knew very few Esquimaux words, but I yelled to the dogs at the top of my voice and managed to get ’em infused with some of my own fear, for they sped over the ice-field as I had never seen them travel before.
“On, on we went! The wind cut my face—from which the hood had fallen back—like a knife. I grew dizzy with the rush of air and the swaying of the sledge. It was impossible to get a shot at my pursuers, while the dogs were traveling at this rate; but I determined to make a desperate stand against the four men, should they overtake us.
“For some reason or other, their dogs were not so superior in endurance to Kalutunah’s as I had feared. After first gaining on us a little, they barely kept their pace for the first six miles. Then the speed began to tell on my dogs and skillful driving on my pursuers’. My animals were getting fagged out, and slowly but steadily I was being overhauled.
“Old Kalutunah had all the appearance of a dead man. For one dreadful moment I was tempted to throw him off the sledge. Their burden thus lightened, the dogs might be able to carry me safely back to the ship, still far down the inlet.
“But this cowardly thought possessed me only an instant. I recalled the old Esquimau’s unselfishness in wanting me to escape and leave him when he was wounded, and determined that, if I ever reached the Henry Clay again, he should.
“The See-ne-mee-utes were close behind me now, urging their dogs on with exultant cries. The foremost sledge was within fifty feet, and the other directly behind it.
“Risking a disastrous tumble upon the ice, I rose upon my knees and turned toward them, holding by one hand to the back of the sledge. Kalutunah lay on the bottom, and I held his body from rolling off by the pressure of my knees.
“The wretches saw my head appear above the back of the sledge, and they uttered a loud shout of rage, shaking their spears and urging on their dogs to still greater exertions. An extra heavy lurch of the sledge almost threw me overboard, but I braced myself and raised my rifle to my shoulder.
“As soon as they saw my weapon the two men in the foremost sledge burrowed like rats among the robes. Those in the rear were hidden from me.
“I had but an instant to reflect. We were rapidly approaching a terribly rough piece of ice, and I should be thrown out did I not sink down into the sledge again.
“The dogs were between me and the crouching occupants of the pursuing sledge, and kept me from getting a correct aim at the men.
“Quick as a flash I fired right into the pack, and then dropped into the bottom of my own sledge. The next instant we struck the rough stretch of ice, and I had all I could do to cling on until we had passed it. Then I looked back.
“Judge of my surprise when I saw that, by a fortunate accident, my pursuers had been stopped.
“My bullet had taken effect on one of the dogs, which had immediately tangled up the rest of the team and brought the sledge to a standstill.
“The sledge behind seemed to be completely mixed up in the disaster, and the two sets of dogs were fighting furiously, while theEsquimauxwere running about trying to separate them.
“I was safe! Another two miles and the Henry Clay would be in sight, and, unless some accident happened to my own team, my pursuers would not be able to gain the vantage they had lost.
“When I reached the ship, the moon was high and all hands had turned in long before, but they roused out, as did the Esquimaux from their huts, at my halloo.
“Poor old Kalutunah was carried into the cabin, and the captain and mate worked over him a long time before they brought him to. He had been almost frozen in addition to his wound, so that he had a hard fight for life. But when he was finally on his pins again, how thankful he was to me! And the whole tribe was the same way.
“One bad result of my adventure, however, was that Captain Lewis would allow no more extended trips away from the vessel, and although we never saw anymore See-ne-mee-utes, every party that went out for even a short tramp was fully armed and under the command of an officer.
“Now you can’t tell me anything about rapid sledding,” concluded Randy. “I’ve had my day at it, and I must say that it was about as uncomfortable an experience as I ever had.”
*All the large whales of the region referred to are called “balleeners” as their mouths are furnished with the balleen or whalebone of commerce.
[This Story began in No. 43.]
THE PURPLE PENNANT / OR / ALAN HEATHCOTE’S FORTUNE.
The sudden collapse of Mr. Mackerly, while in conversation with his son, was a great shock to the latter, who could scarcelybelievethat the news he had just been relating should have such an extraordinary effect upon his imperious and lofty father. Was it possible that the statements at which he had scoffed had some plausibility, and that there was a grain of hidden truth in the charge brought by his rival, Alan Heathcote? There was no mistaking the fact that something external had caused the magnate’s startling indisposition, and Grant, even though he was badly scared at his father’s plight, drew his own conclusions in regard to the matter. Meanwhile he stood helplessly calling until he collected presence of mind enough to go around to the other side of the table and raise his father’s inanimate form to a more comfortable position.
“Help! Help!” he cried distractedly. “Father’s dying! Aunt Annie! James!”
He was warranted in his belief that his parent was breathing his last, for his face was of a deathly pallor, and to Grant’s inexperienced eye this was a symptom of the gravest import, and he gave his father up for lost immediately.
He did not stand long alone in his helplessness, for in another moment James, the butler, and Grant’s Aunt Annie came hurrying in. They both took in the situation at a glance, and while the first mentioned opened the window, in order to admit the fresh cold air, the latter bathed his temples with water and cologne.
Mr. Mackerly had fallen into a swoon of unusual severity, and the process of reviving him was slow and tedious. It was nearly a half hour before he was strong enough to speak to them.
“Shall I send for a doctor?” inquired his sister anxiously.
“No, by no means,” he feebly replied. “It’s one of my ordinary fainting spells. I’ve had them before. I’ll—I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Lay me on the couch in the library and—let me alone. What time is it?”
“Nearly half-past seven,” answered his sister.
“Where is Grant?” was his next query.
“Here I am, father,” and his son stepped before him. “What’s wanted?”
“Come to the library at eight o’clock. I want to speak to you. I will be much better then. Don’t forget.”
Grant promised, and with the help of the butler and the gardener his father was carried to the library and placed upon a couch, where he was left by himself in spite of his sister’s expostulations.
She was a widow, as Mr. Mackerly was a widower, and they made their home together in that magnificent residence on the hill back of Whipford.
Promptly on the chime of eight, Grant marched into the library, and found his father, pale but steady, seated at the secretary, busily examining aheterogenousmass of papers.
“Are you better, father?” he asked, solicitously.
“Don’t you see I am?” was the cross response. “That spell was only temporary. I am afraid of them, as they are coming on more frequently. Doctor Sedgwick tells me I must take more exercise or I’ll fall sick in earnest.”
“I thought you took plenty,” said Grant, guardedly.
His father did not seem to hear his remark, but went on searching busily among the papers. Grant grew impatient and asked:
“Well, what do you want of me, father?”
“Oh, yes, I did ask you to come in, Grant, didn’t I?” he replied, as if just recollecting the fact. “Why, what were we talking aboutwhen that dizzy feeling came over me? Do you remember the conversation?”
“Why, of course,” replied the son, considerably astonished at his parent’s alleged forgetfulness. “It was about that little affair between Alan Heathcote and myself. Just as I told you he denied his father owed you anything, you fainted, and I hadn’t a chance to finish. You—”
“Oh, I remember!” interrupted Mr. Mackerly. “You told me he stated that he had an envelope containing papers, didn’t you?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Grant. “I never said anything about an envelope, and he didn’t, either. He said he had papers to prove that you owed his father money, and that’s all. There was something more about witnesses—just what it was I don’t recollect.”
“Well, you had quite a wordy quarrel. What else did he say?”
The tone of anxiety with which this was asked was but barely concealed.
“Oh, all sorts of tough things, together with that little imp, Dick Percy!” responded Grant, bluntly. “But I gave them as good as I got, and don’t you mistake. Pretty soon that big chump Teddy Taft came up and put in his say, and, as I couldn’t stand up against three, I took my leave.”
“From what you say, this Heathcote boy is a determined fellow, is he not?” inquired Mr. Mackerly, toying with a paper-cutter.
“Bull-headed, I call him,” was his son’s vindictive reply. “He’s no gentleman, and I’ve told him so. What makes me so mad is that Cole and Mr. Nicholson have put me off the eleven, and put him in my place. Him! He can’t play football, the country jay!”
“It’s favoritism, that’s what it is,” remarked Mr. Mackerly, shortly.
He had heard rumors of the matter in the village, but held his counsel.
“They can do as they please,” asserted his son; “but if I don’t make that fellow sick, my name’s not what it is, that’s all. The idea of him saying he had proof that you were a rascal. It’s a mean, bold lie, and he ought to be drummed out of school.”
“You have my authority for branding it as a malicious falsehood,” said his father, “and if it is repeated, I shall take measures to have young Heathcote punished. But don’t say anything of it, Grant, until some one informs you. You needn’t take the trouble to deny it if he hasn’t told anybody. Perhaps he has been afraid to spread the tale among the boys at Whipford.”
“I guess he was afraid of the licking he knew he’d get from me,” said Grant, vauntingly; “so I don’t think he’s told anything like that.”
It was for another reason unknown to him that Alan had kept silent—because Beniah Evans had cautioned him to that effect—and not that he feared the vain-glorious Grant.
“Well,” remarked the magnate, “that may be. I hope he has kept a close tongue in his head for his own good, if nothing else. It will save him trouble. Go and tell James to pack my grip,” he directed, suddenly, as he scattered the raft of papers with a quick move of his arm and closed and locked the secretary. “Hurry up. I must catch that ten o’clock train.”
“Where are you going this time of night?” asked Grant, who, though used to his father’s absences, and caring little whether he was home or abroad, felt somewhat curious as to this rapid determination to travel.
“I’m going to Philadelphia and then possibly further south to see a man on very important business,” responded Mr. Mackerly. “I am restless and can’t stay at home. I originally did not intend to start until next week, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“But you aren’t well. What will Aunt Annie say?”
“She needn’t know,” was the short reply. Then, hastily, “You run and get the buggy out for me, and I’ll call the butler. I must catch that ten o’clock train at the Junction at all hazards. Stop at O’Brien’s house andtell him to come and drive me over. If he isn’t there, James will have to try his hand at the reins.”
Grant hastened to obey his father’s directions, and in the space of a few minutes the team was ready, with O’Brien, the stable-man, and Mr. Mackerly as its occupants; and soon they were out of sight in the darkness, speeding for the train.
“There’s something up, that’s dead sure!” soliloquized Grant, as he stood in the doorway. “Father’s never in all that hurry for nothing. I wonder what the racket is? I’ll go a fiver that it has something to do with that Heathcote matter. He’s a perfect nuisance, and I hope father will squelch him this time, once and for all, the booby!”
Soon dismissing his father’s departure from his mind, Grant went up to his room and retired to bed.
The next morning he went over to the Hall very early, considering his past record, and was one of the first to take his seat in the assembly room.
Archer and Shriver, with whom he desired to speak, were somewhat tardy, and he got no chance to address them until the end of the first recitation.
“Hello, Grant!” called the former. “Where’ve you been all the time? Haven’t seen you for an age.”
“Been up at the house,” replied Grant, briefly. “Any practice to-day, George?”
“Yes,” answered Shriver; “at half-past twelve. You’re with Wilcox on the second eleven. Sorry that Heathcote dished you out of half-back, but it can’t be helped. I took Runyon’s place, and he was angry at first, but he came up to-day and shook hands with me like a little man, and said he hoped I would get along first rate, and that he’d try and oust me next year. He’s one of the substitutes this year, and you are to play substitute half-back with Wilcox.”
“I am, am I?” growled Grant, sneeringly. “Who says so?”
“Cole gave it out last night,” put in Lewis Archer, “so it’s settled.”
“It’s not settled as far as I am concerned,” declared the turned-down player, firmly. “I play on the regular team or not at all. That’s my proper place, and no miserable upstart like Alan Heathcote is going to crow over me.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Archer, with a careless drawl.
Grant Mackerly was steadily dropping from the high place,he once held in his estimation, and every action now exhibited his selfishness to Archer, who, with all his laziness, was a boy of fine feelings.
“Why, let’s boycott him altogether,” said Grant, eagerly. “Let’s put all the fellows against him and show him up for just what he is. If he sees nobody speaks to him he’ll soon come down from his high horse. What do you say to it, fellows?”
Instead of making any immediate reply in words, his companions at first gave him looks of incredulity and amazement, and then burst into loud peals of laughter. It was some time before they sobered down.
“What?” demanded Shriver. “Boycott Alan Heathcote? Send him to Coventry? Ha! ha! Why, you’d have the heaviest contract on your hands you ever had in your life. It’s all nonsense.”
“There’s not a fellow in the whole school who would be fool enough to join you,” said Archer, plainly and in disgust. “Why, you might as well try that scheme on Cole or Mr. Nicholson. No, no, my dear boy, that plan of yours won’t work. The fellows, as a rule, like Heathcote pretty well. He attends to his own business, stands well in his class, or will when the next exam. takes place, and to add to it all he’s as fleet of foot as a deer on the foot-ball field; so you would be the solitary duck in the puddle if you tried to freeze him out.”
Grant Mackerly listened to these responses of his friends in silence. Then his face assumed a determined look, and without another word to either of them he turned away and walked quickly out of the door to the campus and disappeared among the trees.
“Mad as a hornet,” observed Archer, carelessly.
“He’ll cool down by to-morrow,” remarked Shriver.
And they went into the recitation-room talking it over.
The story of Grant Mackerly’s attempt to place a boycott on Alan soon leaked out among the boys, and great was the merriment it aroused at the Hall.
In the ridicule and disgust which the incident produced the prestige of the rich man’s son was lost forever. No one pitied him. It was all his own fault, and even his quondam friends deserted him, while his appearance would have been the signal for a universal grin.
Strange to say, he had not been seen at the Hall since he had made that proposition to Archer and Shriver, and now a couple of days had passed and no sign of him.
He did not respond to his name either inthe assembly or recitation-rooms, and Doctor Bostwick began to think something was wrong.
He summoned Lewis Archer one day in passing and asked him if he could call at the Mackerly residence and obtain some news of the missing boy.
“I am afraid that he is ill,” said the good principal, “or something unusual has happened to him. I have never known him to have been absent for so long a time without sending in an excuse or asking for leave.”
Archer called that very afternoon at the house on the hill, and, after repeated ringings, Mrs. Weldon, Grant’s aunt, came to the door.
“What’s become of Grant?” asked Archer. “Doctor Bostwick sent me up to inquire about his absence. He’s been away from the Hall for three days.”
“Yes, I know he has,” answered Mrs. Weldon; “but please tell Doctor Bostwick I don’t know the reason for his absence, except that one day he came home and said he was too ill to stay at school, and the day before yesterday he borrowed some money from me and went to Buffalo, where his uncle lives. I hope Doctor Bostwick will be patient with him. His father is away, too, and won’t return till over a week.”
“Well,” cogitated Lewis, as he carried this information to the doctor, “that’s very satisfactory, I must say. I wonder what Doctor Bostwick will think?”
The principal of Whipford Hall looked puzzled as Archer related to him the account of Mackerly’s whereabouts, but said nothing except, “I will communicate with Grant’s father on his return,” and thanked his schoolmate for the call he had made and bowed him out.
When the examination took place, Grant Mackerly was still absent, and it was understood that no word had been received from either himself or his father.
As a consequence he was dropped to the foot of the class, and a poor report was sent to his home.
Alan was overjoyed to find that he was very near the head, and still more so when he saw the accounts of his progress in study which was to be sent to Beniah Evans. The principal complimented him on his good work, and hoped he would keep it up.
Alan inwardly resolved to do so, and remit no exertion which would cause him to forge to the front at Whipford.
It was now the first week of November, and he had been at the Hall for nearly two months and was getting along famously with both the pupils and teachers.
As far as his intimacy with Cole, Taft and Kimball was concerned, it continued with unabated ardor and remained unbroken. The four of them conned their studies over to each other in their rooms, and Alan got many an idea from the older and more experienced genius of King Cole.
As for football, they were the backbone of the team, and many a new trick in the game was invented by one of them as they sat together in the autumn nights over the sputtering lamp.
By the boys of the school they came to be known as the “Big Four,” and it was to them that every one looked to uphold the honor of the Hall, both in study and athletics.
The team kept on practicing with persistent regularity, and the interest in the championship, which had somewhat abated after the Jamesville game, now began to arouse, for the Ripley Falls contest was at hand.
For three weeks the eleven had had a holiday, and played no heavy games except on two occasions, when a delegation from the Whipford Athletic Club had given them a sample of hard playing, and, sad to say, beaten them on both meetings. It was no wonder, though, for their team was composed of full-grown young men, some of whom had been to college and all of whom were in business or lived in the neighborhood.
It was no disgrace to be defeated by such good material, and while the Hall team went into the fight with no expectation of winning, they came out with a great stock of experience and many new points. It was a good practice to them, and a couple of the Athletic Club players took their eleven in hand and coached them for a whole week. Every boy was developing into a fine all-around player.
One Saturday afternoon in the middle of November, on a dull and chilly day, the team from the High School at Ripley Falls came over with a full complement of players, and the whole school to a boy following on their footsteps.
They were an enthusiastic but orderly crowd, and had the most implicit confidence in their team. In truth, their eleven deserved it, for they had met both Davenport and Jamesville and whipped those teams by good scores—the former by 16 to 4, the latter by 25 to 8, thus rendering their chances for the pennant null.
So far, they had won the same number of games as either the Whipford or Weston, and stood neck to neck with them in the race.
There was more uncertainty about to-day’s game than any the Hall boys had yet played,but none of them would hear of defeat for an instant.
“What!” exclaimed Ike Smith, who was worked up to the shouting point, and who had heard one of the boys express a doubt as to the team’s ability to win except by a stroke of luck. “What do you say? Our eleven be frozen out? I guess not, young fellow. Look at Cole, just coming out of the gymnasium. Why, he’s cooler than most of us. There comes Heathcote now and Kimball, and there’s Teddy Taft. Hooray for the Big Four! Come, fellows, let’s give them a cheer.”
The group of Hall boys whom Ike headed followed his instructions and gave the four players a rousing yell of encouragement, which was duly appreciated.
As the four made their way to the scene of the conflict, Percy’s field, Ike and his company got together and marched up to the station, with the purpose of meeting the visitors.
When the train rolled in, carrying the High School boys, the latter, on alighting, were both surprised and pleased to see a whole line of Hall boys drawn up with military precision on the other side of the road, and saluting the newcomers with uplifted hands.
The fellows from Ripley Hall formed in twos in short order, and, escorted by their opponents, proceeded down the road to Percy’s field. Ike Smith, who was in his element, led the procession, and his proud strut was something comical to see.
The appearance of the two contending factions in one parade was a surprise to the town’s-people who had gathered to see the game, and they greeted the young collegians with applause.
After a few preliminary movements, the boys of the opposing schools settled in one place of their leaders’ choosing, and waited for the contest to begin.
The grounds were in fair condition, and had been put in good order by a number of the boys the day before. They had been measured off under the supervision of Mr. Nicholson, so that the field was a perfect rectangle of three hundred and thirty feet in length by one hundred and sixty in width, the five-yard lines and bounds being marked with streaks of lime, so that there could be no mistaking them.
Some of the boys had borrowed a roller from Mr. Percy, and by dint of much work had succeeded in leveling the field and pressing down the uneven spots. Although it was a fair place for playing, and, as the small field directly back of the Hall could not be utilized, this was of very good service. Unlike the Davenport grounds there was no stand, and the spectators moved from one end of the field to the other, keeping pace with the players. As the boys would rather stand than sit, it made no difference to them, and the majority of the others had vehicles in which they stood to view the play.
“Oh, if we only had the athletic grounds!” remarked Archer, who was gotten up in the height of fashion and carried a cane on which was a yard or so of blue ribbon. “That’s the place for a game.”
“It costs too much,” replied Ike, “and we can’t very well charge an admission.”
“They’re fine grounds and no mistake,” said another. “But here come the teams. Little Dick Percy is running ahead.”
In another moment the two elevens had vaulted the rails and burst into the grounds amid the cheers of their respective schoolmates.
The visiting team had changed their clothing in the gymnasium, and in company with some of the Hall eleven had set off for the grounds. Cole and Kimball had been trying for goals for some time, and when the rest came on they ceased practice and joined the eleven. After a few minutes’ preparatory work in kicking and passing, the two teams stopped while the captains tossed up for choice of the ball or position. Cole won and decided to keep the ball. The referee was a member of the Whipford Athletic Club and the umpire was from Davenport. As both were well acquainted with the rules of the game, there was no question of any disputed point remaining unsettled. Time for the play was called.
“Oh, now, fellows,” pleaded Ike Smith, “do your level best and beat ’em.”
“You bet they will,” said Archer, emphatically. “Look at George Shriver getting ready to spring at the ball. George means business and no mistake.”
“And look at little Dick Percy dancing around with his hands ready for service,” added Ike. “Isn’t he a little wonder now?”
The ball was placed in the centre of the field. The rushers of the High School eleven stood leaning forward expectantly, waiting the moment of charging. They were obliged to stand ten yards from the front of the leather sphere, the movements of which decided the fate of the game. It was plain to be seen they knew their business and were of much superior stuff to the members of theDavenport and Jamesville teams. Their captain held the position of right half-back, and from that place gave his commands to the players, who were well trained and drilled in the intricacies of team work. On the other side the Hall team was the same that had played the game at Jamesville and looked like sure winners to a disinterested outsider. Wilcox and Mackerly were the substitute half-backs, and there were a dozen other players to be put on in case of necessity. But the latter named was still absent, much to the disgust of everybody, and as his non-appearance was unexplained, it was naturally put down to sulkiness and lack of school patriotism.
In the first exciting minutes his absence was not noticed by all, and attention was earnestly concentrated on the opening of the match that was to decide if Ripley Falls or Whipford should have the best chance for the pennant and should battle with the presumably successful Weston.
Teddy Taft, amid a death-like silence, advanced to the middle of the field, followed by all his supporters, and slowly picked up the ball.
He was the apex of a triangle of boys, who were ready to rush down the field the instant the ball was put into play. Dick Percy crouched behind him with extended hands ready to receive it.
The centre-rusher held the ball for a moment, and then passed it to the active quarter-back, who in turn passed it to Harry Kimball, and in the centre of the V, and protected by its side, the latter tore diagonally down the field for a gain of forty feet, until he was held by the rushers of the other side, who had finally broken through.
Quickly the teams lined up in the scrimmage, and Alan ran around the ends for a good gain.
Then, unfortunately, the Hall boys could not advance another yard, owing to the active tackling of the High School players, and on four downs, without a five-yard gain, the ball went to their opponents.
Then ensued a battle royal for the next quarter of an hour. Ripley Falls struggled hard to advance the leather into Whipford’s land, with some small success, but being in danger of losing the ball on downs, it was passed to their full-back, who punted it away up the field close to the blue’s goal-line.
It was caught by Cole, who no sooner clutched it than he was seized and held by the boys of the white and purple—the colors of the High School. He grasped it firmly, and was allowed a fair catch.
This gave Whipford the kick-off, and the ball was punted up the field with the whole eleven on its track.
Upon lining up for the scrimmage, McKenzie, the right end of the Hall team, broke through and was down on the captain of their opponents before the latter could run with the ball.
It was a big loss for Ripley, and when Adams, the left end, did the same thing an instant later, the noise from the Hall boys along the bounds was ear-piercing.
When it looked as if the captain of the High School eleven was good for a run the whole length of the field, with only Heathcote and Cole in front of him, and was very neatly stopped by the former with a gain of a few yards only and the loss of the ball, the racket was tremendous.
Then the blues did some tall playing. They had the ball and meant to keep it, and surely was it forced to within a couple of yards of the goal-line of the purple and white.
The next play of the Hall team settled the question, for when Dick Percy received the ball from Teddy Taft, instead of throwing it to Heathcote, as the enemy expected, it was passed over to Adams, who, with Shriver, Heathcote and Cole pushing him, crossed the line and touched the ball down amid the plaudits of their schoolmates.
As the touch-down was made near the centre of the goal immediately under the cross-bar, Cole had no difficult task to kick a goal.
It had been hard work, but was accomplished nicely, and the boys from Whipford felt highly elated, while the High School fellows looked mournful.
The first half ended without any further scoring, and the contestants threw their sweaters over their shoulders and retired to their benches for a rest, while their supporters talked the game over.
“I don’t see Grant Mackerly,” remarked a boy, looking over all the wearers of football costumes. “What in the world has become of him?”
“Well, he might as well stay away,” declared the ever-ready Ike. “He’s not needed in this game, anyhow. Alan Heathcote is doing the work of two like him. Now look how he stopped that half-back of the Ripley’s! Wasn’t that fine? Just like clock-work!”
“No question about that,” admitted Archer. “I thought for sure that fellow was headed for a touch-down, but Heathcote brought him to grass as neat as a whistle. He certainly is a plucky player.”
The sentiment among all the boys was practically to the same effect.