New York dispatch. [volume], January 11, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
“ Well, I have discovered that sho is a really
very clever and gifted girl. She can imitate
people in the most wonderful way, especially
actresses, though she has only been to a thaatre
once or twice in her life. At Liverpool she
heard some one sing what she calls a topical
song, and this she actually remembers—she
carried it away in her head, every word- and
she can sing it just as they sing it on tho stage,
with all the vulgarity and gestures imitated to
tlie very life. Of course 1 should not like her to
do this" before anybody else, but it is really
wonderful.”
“Indeed!” said Arnold. “It must be very
ale ver and amusing.”
“Of course,” said Clara, with colossal ignor
ance, “ an American lady can hardly be ex
pected to understand English vulgarities. No
doubt there is an American variety.”
Arnold thought that a vulgar song could be
judged at its true value by any lady, either
American or English; but he said nothing.
And then the young lady herself appeared.
She had been driving about with Clara among
various shops, and now bore upon her person
tho charming result of these journeys in the
shape of a garment, which was rich in texture
and splendid in the making. And she really
was a handsome girl, only with a certain air of
being dressed for the stage. But Arnold, now
more than suspicious, was not dazzled by the
gorgeous raiment, and only considered how his
cousin could for a moment imagine this person
to be a lady, and how it would be best to break
the nows.
“Clara’s cousin,” she said, “ I have forgotten
your name; but how do you do again ?”
And then they went in to dinner.
“You have learned, I suppose,” said Arnold,
“ something about the Deseret family by this
time ?”
“ Oh, yes! I have heard all about the family
tree. I dare say I shall get to know it by heart
in time. But you don’t expect me, all at once,
to care much for it.”
“ Little republican I” said Clara; “she actually
does not feel a pride in belonging to a good
old family.”
The girl made a little gesture.
“ I'our family can’t do much for you. that I
can see, except’to make you proud, and pre
tend not to see other women in the shop. That
is what the county ladies do.”
“ Why, my dear, what on earth do you know
01 the county ladies ?”
Lotty blushed a little. She had made a mis
take. "But she quickly recovered.
“ I only know what I’ve’ read, cousin, about
any kind of English ladies. But that’s enough,
I’m sure. Stuck-up things !”
And again she observed, from Clara’s pained
expression, that she had made another mis
take.
If she showed a liking for stout at lunch, she
manifested a positive passion for champagne at
dinner.
“ I do like the English custom,” she said, “ of
having two dinners in the day.”
“Ladies in America, I suppose,” said Clara,
“ dine in the middle of the day ?”
“ Always.”
« But 1 have visited many families in New
York and Boston who dined late,” said Ar
nold.
“ Daresay,” she replied carelessly. “ I’m
going to liave some more of that curry stuff,
please. And don’t ask any more questions,
anybody, till I’ve worried through with it. I’m
a wolf at curry.”
“She likes England, Arnold,” said Clara,
covering up this remark, so to speak. “She
likes the country, she says, very much.”
“At all events,” said the girl, “I like this
house, which is first-class—fine—proper. And
the furniture, and pictures, and all—tip-top.
But I'm afraid it is going to be awful dull, ex
cept at meals, and when the Boy is going.” Her
own head was just touched by the “ Boy,” and
she was a little off her guard.
“ My dear child,” said Clara, “ yon have only
I’nst come, and you have not yet learned to
mow and love your own home and your fath
er’s friends. You must take a little time.”
“Oh, I'll take time. As long as you like. But
I shall soon be tired of sitting at home. I want
to go about and see things—theatres and mu
sic halls, and all kinds of places.”
“ Ladies, in England, do not go to music
halls,’’ said Arnold.
“Gentlemen do. Why not ladies, then? An
swer me that. Why can’t ladies go, when gen
tlemen go? What is proper for gontle
tlemen is proper for ladies. Very well, then, I
want to go somewhere every night. I want to
see everything, there is to see, and to hear-all
that there is to hear.”
“ We shall go, presently, a good deal into
society,” said Clara, timidly. “ Society will
como’back to town very soon now—at "least,
some of it.”
“Ob, yes, I dare say. Society! No, thank
you, with company manners. I want to laugh,
and, and talk, and enjoy myself.”
The champagne, in fact, had made her forget
the instructions of her tutor. At all events,
she looked anything but “quiet,” with her
face flushed and her eyes bright. Suddenly
she caught Arnolds expression of suspicion
and watchfulness, and resolutely subdued a
rising inclination to get up from the table and
have a walk round with a snatch of a Topical
Song.
“ Forgive me, Clara,” she murmured in her
sweetest tone; “ forgive me, cousin. I feel as
if I must break out a bit, now and then. Yan
kee manners, you know. Let me stay quiet
With you for a while. You know the thought of
starched and stiff London society quite frightens
mo. lam not used to anything stiff. Let me
stay at homo quiet, with you.”
“ Dear girl 1” cried Clara, her eyes filling with
tears, “ she has all Claude’s affectionate soft
ness of heart.”
“ I believe,” said Arnold, later on iu tho even
ing. “ that she must have been a circus-rider,
or something of that sort. What on earth does
Clara mean by the gentle blood breaking out ?
We nearly had a breaking out at dinner, but it
certainly’was not due to the gentle blood.”
Alter dinner, Arnold found her sitting on a
sofa with Clara, who was telling her something
about the glories of the Deseret family. He was
half inclined to pity the girl, or to laugh—he was
not certain which—for the patience with which
she listened, in order to make amends for any
bad impression she might have produced at
dinner. Ho asked her, presently, if she would
play. She might be, and certainly was, vulgar;
but she could play well and knew good music.
People generally think that good music softens
manners, and does not permit those who play
and practice it to be vulgar. But, concerning
this young person, so much could not be said
with any truth.
“ You play very well. Where did you learn ?•
Who was your master ?” Arnold asked.
Sho began to reply, but stopped short. He
had very nearly caught her.
“Don't ask questions,” sho said. “I told
you not to ask questions before. Where should
I learn, but in America? Doyon suppose no
one can plav the piano except in England ?
Look here,” she glanced at her cousin. "Do
you, Mr. Arbuthnot, always spend your even
ings like this ?”
“ How like this ?”
“ Why, going around in a swallow-tail to
drawing-rooms With the women, like a tame
tom-cat ? If you do, you must be a truly good
young man. If you don’t, what do you do ?”
“ Very often I spend my evenings in a draw
ing-room.”
“Oh, Lord! Do most young Englishmen
carry on in the same proper way ?”
“ Why not ?’’ ♦
“Don't they go to music-halls, please, and
dancing-cnbs, and such ?”
“Perhaps. But what does it concern us to
know what some men do ?”
“ Oh, not much. Only if I were a man like
you, 1 wouldn’t consent to be a tame tom-cat—
that is all; but perhaps you like it.”
She meant to insult and offend him so that ho
should not come any more.
But she did not succeed. He only laughed,
feeling that he was getting below tlie surface,
and sat down beside the piano.
“You amuse me,” ho said, “and you aston
ish mo. You are, in fact, the most astonishing
person I ever met. For instance, you come
from America, and you talk pure London slang
with a cockney twang. How did it get there?”
In fact, it was not exactly London slang, but
a patois or dialect, learned partly from her hus
band, partly from her companions, and partly
brought from Gloucester.
“1 don’t know—l never asked. It camel
wrapped up in brown paper, perhaps, with a
string round it.”
“ You have lived in America all your life, and
you loos more like an Englishwoman than any
other girl I have ever seen.”
“Do I ? So much the better for the English
girls ; they can’t do better than take after me.
But perhaps—most likely, in fact—you think
that American girls all squint, perhaps, or have
got hump-backs ? Anything else ?”
“You wore brought up in a little American
village, and yet you play in the style of a girl
who has had the best masters.”
She did not explain—it was not necessary to
explain—that her master had been her father,
who was a teacher of music.
“ I can’t help it, can 1?” she asked; “ I can’t
help it if I turned out different to what you ex
pected. People sometimes do, you know. And
when you don’t approve of a girl, it’s English
manners, 1. suppose, to tell her so—kind of en
courages her to persevere, and pray for better
luck next time, doesn’t it ? It’s simple, too, and
prevents any loolish errors—no mistake after
ward, you see. I say, are you going to come
here olten ? because, if you are, 1 shall go away
back to the States or somewhere, or stay up
stairs in my own room. You and me won’t get
on very well together, I am afraid.”
“ I don’t think you wifi see me very often,”
he replied. “ That is improbable; yet I dare
say I shall come here as often as I usually do.”
“ What do you nieau by that ?”
She looked sharply and suspiciously at him.
He repeated his words, and she perceived that
there was moaning in them, and sho felt un
easy.
“ I don't understand at all,” she said; " Clara
tells mo that this house is mine. Now—don’t
yon know- I don’t intend to invite any but my
own friends to visit me in my own house.”
“That seems reasonable. No one can expect
you to invite people who are not your friends.”
“ Well, then, I ain’t likely to call you my
friend ’’—Arnold inclined his head—“ and I am
not going to talk riddles any more. Is there
anything else you want to say ?”
“ Nothing more, I think, at present, thank
yon.”
“If there is, yep know, don’t mind me—have
it out—l’m nobody, of course. I’m not expect
ed to have any manners—l’m only a girl. You
can say what you please to me, and be as rude
as you please; Englishmen always are as rude
as they can be to American girls—l’ve always
heard that.”
Arnold laughed.
“At all events,” he said, “you have charmed
Clara, which is the only really important thing.
Good-night Miss—Miss Deseret.”
“Good-night, old man,” sho said, laugh
ing, because she boro no malice, and had
given him a candid opinion. “ I dare say when
you get rid of your fine company manners,
and put off your swallow-tail, you’re not
a bad sort, after all. Perhaps, if you would
confess, you ate as fond -of a kick-up on your
way home as anybody. Trust you quiet chaps !”
Clara had not fortunately heard much of this
conversation, which, indeed, was not meant for
her, because the girl was playing all the time
some waltz musio, which enabled her to talk
and play without being heard at the other end
of the room.
» * * « „ *
Well, there was now no doubt. The American
physician and the subject of the photograph
were certainly the same man. And this man
was also the thief ot the safe, and Iris Aglen
was Iris Deseret. Of that, Arnold had no longer
any reasonable doubt. There was, however,
one thing more. Before leaving Clara's house,
he refreshed hlB memory as to tho Deseret arms.
The quarterings of the shield were, so tar, ex
actly what Mr. Emblem recollected.
“It is,” said Lala Roy, “ what I thought.
But, as yet, not a word to Iris.”
He then proceeded to relate the repentance,
the confession, and tho atonement proposed by
the remorseful James. But he did not tell quite
all. For the wise man never tells all. What
really happened was this. When James had
made a clean breast, and confessed his enor
mous share in the villainy, Lala Boy bound him
over to secrecy under pain of Law—Law the
Rigorous, pointing out that although they do
not, in England, exhibit tho Kourbash, or basti
nado the soles of the feet, they make the pris
oner sleep on a hard board, starve him on
skilly, set him to work which tears his nails
from his fingers, keep him from conversation,
tobacco, and drink, and when he comes out, so
hedge him around with prejudice, and so clothe
him with a robe of shame, that no one will ever
employ him again, and he is therefore doomed
to go back again to the English Hell. Lala Roy,
though a man of few words, drew so vivid a de
scription of the punishment which awaited his
penitent that James, foxy as he was by nature,
felt constrained to resolve that henceforth, hap
pen what might, then and for all future, he
would range himself on the side of virtue, and
as a beginning he promised to do everything
that he could for the confounding of Joseph and
tho bringing of the guilty to justice.
CHAPTER XIII.
nI S LAST CHANCE.
Three days elapsed, during which nothing
was done. That cause is strongest which can
afford to wait. But in those three days several
things happened.
First of all, Mr. David Chalker, seeing that
the old man was obdurate, made up his mind to
lose most of his money, and cursed Joe contin
ually for having led him to build upon his
grandfather’s supposed wealth. Yet he ought
to have known. Tradesmen do not lock up their
savings in investments tor their grandchildren,
nor do they borrow small sums at ruinous in
terest of money-lending solicitors; nor do they
give bills of sale. These general rules were
probably known to Mr. Chalker. Yet he did not
apply them to this particular case. The neglect
oi the general rule, in fact, may lead the most
astute of mankind into ways of foolishness.
James, for his part, stimulated perpetually by
fear of prison and loss of character and situa
tion—for who would employ an assistant who
got keys made to open the safe-showed himself
the most repentant of mortals. Dr. Joseph
Washington, lulled into the most perfect se
curity, enjoyed all those pleasures with the sum
of three hundred pounds could purchase. No
body knew where he was or what he was doing.
As for Lotty, she had established herself firmly
in Chester Square, and Cousin Clara daily found
out new and additional proofs oi the gentle
blood breaking out I
On the fourth morning Lala Roy sallied forth.
He was about to make a great 'moral experi
ment, the nature ot which you will immediately
understand, None but a philosopher who had
studied Conlucius and Lao Kiun, would have
conceived so fine a scheme.
First he paid a visit to Mr. Chalker.
The office was on the ground floor front
room, in one ot the small streets north of the
King's Road. It was not an imposing office, nor
did it seem as if much business was done there;
and one clerk of tender years sufficed for Mr.
Chalker’s wants.
“Oh!” he said, “it’s our friend from India.
You’re a lodger of oid Emblem’s, ain’t you ?”
“ I have lived with him for twenty years. I
am his friend.”
“Verywell. I dare say we shall come to
terms, if he’s come to his senses. Just take a
chair and sit down. How is the old man ?”
“He has not yet recovered the use of his in
tellect.”
“Oh I Then how can you act for him if he's
off bis head?”
"I came to ask an English creditor to show
mercy.”
“Mercy? What is the man talking about?
Mercy! I want my money. What has that got
to do with mercy ?”
“Nothing, truly; but I will give you your
money. I will give you justice, and "you shad
give me mercy. You lent Mr. Emblem fifty
pounds. Will you take your fifty pounds and
leave us in peace ?”
He drew a bag out of his pocket—a brown
baker’s bag—and Mr. Chalker distinctly heard
the rustling of notes.
This is a sound which to some ears is more de
lightful than the finest music in the world. It
awakens all the most pleasurable emotions; it
provokes desire and hankering after possession,
and it fills the soul with the imaginary enjoy
ment of wealth.
“ Certainly not,” said Mr. Chalker, confident
that better terms than those would bo offered.
“ If that is all you have to say, you may go away
again.”
“ But the rest is usury. Think !To give fifty,
and ask three hundred and fifty, is tho part of
a usurer.”
“ Call it what you please. The bill of sale is
for three hundred and fifty pounds. Pay that
throe hundred and fifty, with costs and Sheriff’s
poundage, and I take away my man. If you
don't pay it, then the books on the shelves and
the furniture of the house go to tho hammer.”
“The books, I am informed,” said Lala Roy,
“ will not bring as much as a hundred pounds
if they are sold at auction. As for the furni
ture, "some of it is mine, and some belongs to
Mr. Emblem’s granddaughter.”
“ His granddaughter! Oh, it’s a swindle,”
said Mr. Chalker, angrily. “It is nothing more
or less than a rank swindle. The old man ought
to be prosecuted, and, mind you, I’ll prosecute
him, and you too, for conspiring with him.”
“ A prosecution,” said tho Hindoo, “willnot
hurt him, but it might hurt you. For it would
show how you lent him fifty pounds five years
ago; how you made him give you a bill for a
hundred; how you did not press him to pay
that bill, but you continually offered to renew
it for him, increasing the amount on each time
of renewal: and at last you made him give you
a bilt ot sale for three hundred and fifty. This
is, I suppose, one of the many ways in which
Englishmen grow rich. There are also usurers
in India, but they do not in my country, call them
selves lawyers. A prosecution? My friend, it
is for us to prosecute. Shall wo show that you
have done the same thing with many others ?
You are, by this time, well-known in the neigh
borhood, Mr. Chalker, and you are so much be
loved that there are many who would be de
lighted to relate their experiences and dealings
with so clever a man. Have you ever studied,
one asks with wonder, the precepts of the great
Sage who founded your religion ?”
“ Oh, come, don’t let us have any religious
nonsense 1”
“ I assure you they are worth studying. I
am, myself, an humble follower of Gautama,
but I have read those precepts with profit. In
the kingdom imagined by that preacher, there
is no room for usurers, Mr. Chalker. Where,
then, will be your kingdom ? Every man must
bo somewhere. You must have a kingdom and
a king.”
“ This is tomfoolery 1” Mr. Chalkar turned
red, and looked very uncomfortable. “Stick
to business. Payment in full. Those are my
►terms.”
“ You think, then, that the precepts of your
sage are only intended for men while they sit in
the church? Many Englishmen think so, I
have observed.”
“Payment in full, mister. That’s what I
want.”
He banged his fist on the table.
“No abatement? No mercy shown to an old
man on the edge of the grave ? Think, Mr.
Chalker. You will soon be as old as Mr. Em
blem, your hair as white, your reason as un
steady ”
“ Payment in full, and no more words.”
“It is well. Then, Mr. Chalker, I have an
other proposal to make to you.”
“I thought we should come to something
more. Out with it 1”
“ I believe you are a friend of Mr. Emblem’s
grandson ?”
“Joe? Oh yes, I know Joe.”
“ You know him intimately ?”
“ Yes, I may say so.”
“ You know that he forged his grandfather’s
name; that he is a profligate and a spendthriit,
and that he has taken or borrowed from his
grandfather whatever money he could got, and
that—in short, he is a friend of your own ?’’
It was not until after his visitor had gone
that Mr. Chalker understood, and began to re
sent this last observation.
“Go on,” he said. “ I know all about Joe.”
“ Good. Then if you can tell me anything
about him which may be of use to me 1 will do
this. I will pay you double the valuation of
Mr. Emblem’s shop, in return for a receipt in
full. If you cannot, you may proceed to sell
everything by auction.”
Mr. Chalker hesitated. A valuation would
certainly give a higher figure than a forced sale,
and then that valuation doubled!
“ Well,” he said, “ I don’t know. It’s a cruel
hard case to be done out of my money. How
am I to find out whether anything I tell you
would be of use to you or not ? What kind of
thing do you want ? How do I know that if you
get what yon want, you won't swear it is of no
use to you ?”
“ You have ths word of one who never broke
his word.”
Mr. Chalker laughed derisively.
“ Why,” he said, “ 1 wouldn’t take the word
of an English bishop—no, nor of an archbishop
—-where money is concerned. What is it—what
is the kind of thing you want to know ?”
“It is concerned with a certain woman.”
“ Oh, well, if it is only a woman, I thought
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 11, 1885
I it might be something about money. Joe, you
see, like a good many other people, has got his
own ideas about money, and perhaps he isn’t
so strict in bis dealings as he might be—few
men are—and I should not like to lot out one or
two things that only him and mo know.” In
fact, Mr. Chalker saw, in imagination, the burly
form ot Joe in his office, brandishing a stick,
and accusing him of friendship’s trust be
trayed. “But as it is only a woman—which of
’em is it?"
“This is a young woman, said to be hand
some, tall, and finely-made ; she has, I am told,
light brawn hair and large eyes. That is the
description of her given to me.”
“I know the girl you mean. Splendid figure,
! and goes well in tights ?,’
“ I have not been informed on that subject.
Can you toll me any more about her?”
“ I suspect, mister,” said Joe’s friend, with
cunning eyes, “ that- you’ve made the acquaint
ance of a certain widow that was—married wo
man that is. I remember now, I’ve seen Hin
doos about her lodgings, down Shadwell way.”
“ Perhaps,” said Lala, “ and perhaps not.”
Eks face allowed not the least sign which could
be read. “ You can tell me afterward what you
know of the woman at Shadwell.”
“ Weil, then, Joe thinks I know nothing about
it. Else I wouldn’t tell you. Because I don’t
want a fight with Joe. Is this any use to you ?
He is married to the girl as well as to the
widow?”
“He is married to the girl as well as to tho
widow. He has, then, two wives. It is against
the English custom and breaks the English law.
The young wife who is beautiful and the old
wife who has the lodging-house. Very good.
What is the address of this woman ?”
Mr. Chalker looked puzzled.
“Don’t you know it, then? What are you
driving at ?"
“ What is the name and address of this Shad
well woman ?”
“ Well, then”—he wrote an address and
handed it over—“ you may be as close as you
like. I don’t care. It isn’t my business. But
you won’t make me believe you don’t know all
about her. Look here, whatever happens, don’t
say I told you.”
“ It shall be a secret,” said La'a, taking out
the bag of notes. “ Let ns complete tho busi
ness at once, Mr. Chalker. Here is another
offer. I will give you two hundred pounds in
discharge of your whole claim, or you shall
have a valuation made, if you preterit, and I
will double the amount.”
Mr. Chalker chose the former promptly, and
in a few moments handed over the necessary
receipts! and sent his clerk to recall the Man in
Possession.
“ What are you going to do with Joe ?” he
asked. “No good turn, I’ll swear. And a
more unforgiving face than yours I never Bet
eyes on. It isn’t my business, but I’ll give you
one warning. If you make Joe desperate, he’ll
turn on you; and Lord help your slender ribs
if Joe once begins. Don t make him desperate.
And now I’ll tell you another thing. First, the
woman at Shadwell is horribly jealous. She’ll
make a row. Next, the young one, who sings
at a Music Hall, she’s desperately in love with
her husband—more than he is with her—and if
a woman's in love with a man, there's one thing
she never forgives. You understand what that
is. Between the pair, Joe’s likelv to have a
rough time."
“ I do. I have had many wives myself.”
“ Oh, Lord, he says he’s had many wives 1
How many?"
Lala Roy read the receipt, and put it in his
pocket. Then he rose and remarked, with a
smile of supreme superiority:
“ It. is a pleasure to give money to you, and
to such as you. Mr. Chalker.”
“Is it ?” he replied with a grin. “ Give me
some more, then.”
“ You are one of those who, tho richer they
become, the less harm they do. Manv English
men are of this disposition". When they are poor
they are jackals, hyenas, wolves, and man
eating tigers; when they are rich they are be
nevolent and charitable, "and show mercy unto
the wretched and ths poor. So that, in their
case, the words of the Wise Man are naught,
when he says that the earth ft barren of good
things where she hoardeth treasure; and that
where gold is in her bowels no herb groweth.
Pray, Mr. Chalker, pray earnestly for gold in
order that you may become virtuous.”
Mr. Chalker grinned, but looked uncomforta
ble.
“I will, mister,” he said, “I will pray with
all my might.”
Nevertheless, ha remained for the space of
the whole morning in uneasiness. The words
of the philosopher troubled him. I do not go
so far as to say that his mind went back to the
days when he was young and innocent, because
he was still young, and he never had been in
nocent;.nor do I say that a tear rose to his eves
and trickled down "his cheek, because nothing
brought tears into his eyes except a speck of
dust: or that he resolved to confine himself for
the future to legitimate lawyer’s work, because
he would then have starved." I only say’that he
felt uncomfortable and humiliated, and chiefly
so because an old man with white hair and a
brown skin—hang it! a common Nigger—had
been able to bring discord into the sweet har
mony of his thoughts.
Lala Boy then betook himself to Joe’s former
lodgings, and asked for that gentleman’s pres
ent address.
The landlady professed to know nothing.
“ You do know, however,” he persisted, read
ing knowledge in her eyes.
“ Is it trouble you mean for him?” asked the
woman, “and him such a fine, well-set-up
young man, too 1 Is it trouble? Oh, dear, 1
always thought he got his money on the cross.
Look" here. I ain’t going to round on him,
though he has gone away and left a comfortable
room. So there ! And you may go.”
Lala Roy opened his hand. There were at
least five golden sovereigns glorifying his dingy
palm.
“ Can gold,” the Moralist asked, “ ever
increase tho virtue of man? Woman, how
much?”
“Is it troub’o ?” sho repeated, looking
greedily at the money. “ Will the young man
get copped?”
Lala understood no London slang. But be
showed his hand again.
“How much? Whoso is covetous let him
know that his heart is poor. How much ?”
“ Poor young man ! I’ll take them all, please,
sir. What’s be done ?”
“Where does he live?”
“I know where he lives,” she said, “ because
our Bill rode away with him at the back of his
cab, and saw where he got out. He’s married
now, and his wife sings at the Music Hall, and
ho lives on her earnings. Quite the gentleman
he is now, and smokes cigars all day long.
There's his address, and thank you for the
money. Oh,” she said with a gasp. “To think
that people can earn five pounds so easy.”
“ May the gold procure you happiness—such
happiness as you desire 1” said Lala Roy.
“It will nearly pay the quarter’s rent. And
that’s about happiness enough, for one morn
ing.”
Joe was sitting in his room alone, half asleep.
In fact he had a head upon him. He sprang to
his feet, however, when he saw Lala Roy.
“ Hallo I” he cried. “ You here, Nig ? How
the devil did you find out my address ?”
There was not only astonishment, but some
alarm upon his countenance.
“Nover mind.. I want a little conversation
with you, Mr. Joseph.”
“Well, sit down and let us have it out. I
say, have you come to tell me that you did
sneak those papers, after all? What did you
get lor them? ’
“I have not come to tell you that. I dare
say, however, we shall be able, some day. to
tell you who did steal the papers—if any "were
stolen, that is.”
“Quite so, my jolly mariner. If any were
stolen. Ho, ho ! you’ve got to prove that first,
haven’t you ? How’S the old man ?”
“Ho is ill; ho is feeble with age; he is
weighed down with misfortune. I am come,
Mr, Joseph, to ask your help for him.”
“My help for him I Why, can't he help him
self ?”
“ Four or five years ago ho incurred a debt
for one who forged his name. He needed not
to have paid that money, but he saved a man
from prison.”
“ Who was that? Who forged his name?”
“ I do not name that man, whose end will bo
confusion, unless he repent and make amends.
This debt has grown until it is too large for him
to pay it. Unless it is paid, his whole property
—bis very means of living—will be sold by the
creditor.”
“ How can I pay him back ? It is three hun
dred and fifty pounds now,” said Joseph,
“ Man, thou hast named thyself.”
Joseph stammered, but blustered still.
“ Well—then -what the devil do you mean—
you and your forgery ?”
“ Forgery in one crime; you have since com
mitted, perhaps, others. Think—you have
been saved once from prison. Will any one
save you a second time ? How have you shown
your gratitude ? Will you now do something
for your benefactor ?”
“ What do you mean, I say ? What do you
mean with your forgery and prison ? Hang me,
if I (oughtn’t dojkick you out ot the room. I
would, too, it you were ten years younger. Do
you know, sir, that you are addressing an offi
cer and a gentleman ?”
“ There ie sometimes, even at the very end, a
door opened for repentance. The door is open
now. Young man, once more, consider. Your
grandfather is old and destitute. Will you help
him ?”
Joseph hesitated.
“I don’t believe he is poor. He has saved
up all his money for the girl; let her help him.”
“ You are wrong—ho has saved nothing. His
granddaughter maintains herself by teaching—
he has not a penny. You have got from him,
and you have spent all the money he had.”
“ He ought to have saved.”
“ He could, at least, have lived by his calling
but for you and for this debt which was incurred
tor you. He is ruined by it. What will you do
lor him ?”
“ I. am not going to do anything for him,” said
Joseph. “Is it likely ? Did he ever have any
thing but a scowl for me ?”
“lie who inures another ie always in the
wrong. You will, then, do nothing ? Think—
it is the open door. Ho (is your grandfather;
he has kept you from starvation when you were
turned out of office for drink and dishonesty. I
hear that you now have money. I have been
told that you have been seqn to show a large
sum of money. Will you give him some ?”
As a matter ot fact, Joe had been, the night
before, having a festive evening at the Music
Hall, from which his wile was absent, owing to
temporary indisposition. While there, he took
so much Scotch whisky and water that his
tongue was loosened and ho became boastful;
and that to so foolwh an extent that ho actually
brandished in tho eyes of tho multitude a whole
handful of bank-notes. He now remembered
this, and was greatly struck by the curious fact
that l.ala Roy should seem to know it.
“ I haven't got any money. It was ail brag
last night. I couldn't help my grandfather it I
wanted to."
“You have what is left of three hundred
pounds,” said Lala Roy.
“If I said that last night,” replied Joe, “I
must have been drunker than I thought. You
old fool I the flimsies were duffers. Whore do
you think I could raise three hundred pounds ?
No, no—l’m sorry for the old man, but I Can't
help him. I’m going to sea again in a day or
two. We jolly sailor's don’t make much money,
but if a pound or two. when I come home, will
be of any use to him, he’s only got to say the
word. After all, I believe it’s a kid, got up be
tween you. The old man must have saved
something.”
“ You will suffer him, then, even to be taken
to the workhouse ?”
“ Why, I can’t help it, and I suppose you’ll
have to go there too. Ho, ho! 1 say, Nig !”
He began to laugh. “ Ho, ho I They won’t lot
you wear that old fez of yours at’ the work
house. How beautiful you’ll look in tho work
house uniform, won’t you ! I’ll come home,
and bring you some baccy. Now you can cheese
it, old ’un.”
“ I will go, if that is what you mean. It is
the last time that you will be asked to help
your grandfather. The door is closed. You
have bad one more chance, and you have
thrown it away.”
So ho departed, and Joe, who was of a self-re
liant and sanguine disposition, thought nothing
of the warning, which was therefore thrown
away and wasted.
As for Lala, he called a cab, and drove to
Shadwell. And if any man ever felt that ho was
an Instrument set apart to carry out a Scheme
of Vengeance, that Hindoo Philosopher felt like
one. The Count of Monte Christe himself was
not more filled with the Faith and Conviction of
his Divine obligation.
In the afternoon he returned to Chelsea, and
perhaps one who knew him might have remark
ed upon his face something like a gleam of sat
isfaction. He had done his duty.
It was now five days since the fatal discov
ery. Mr. Emblem still remained up stairs in
his chair; but he was slowly recovering. He
clearly remembered that he had been robbed,
and the principal sign oi the shock was his firm
conviction that by his own exercise of memory
Iris had been enabled to enter into possession
ol her own.
As regards the Bill of Sale, he had clean for
gotten it. Now, in the morning, there happen
pened a thing which surprised James very
much. The Man in Possession was recalled.
He wont away. So that the money must have
been paid. James was so astonished tliat he
ran up stairs to tell Iris.
“ Then,” said tho girl, “we shall not be turn
ed out after all. But who has paid the money?”
It could have been no other than Arnold. Yet
when, later in the day, he was taxed with hav
ing committed the good action, Arnold stoutly
denied it. He had not so much money in the
world, he said; in fact, he had no money at all.
“The good man,” said the Philosopher, “has
friends of whom he knoweth not. As the river
returns its waters to the sea, so the heart re
joiceth in returning benefits received.”
“Oh, Lala,” said Iris. “But on whom have
we conferred any benefits ?”
“ Tho moon shines upon all alike,” said Lala,
“ and knows not what she illumines.”
“Lala Roy,” said Arnold, suddenly getting a
gleam of intelligence, “it is you who" have paid
this money.”
“You, Lala?”
“No one else could have paid it,” said Ar
nold.
“ But I thought—l thought ” said Iris.
“You thought I had no money at all. Chil
dren, I have some. One may live without mon
ey in Hindostan, but in England even the Philo
sopher cannot meditate unless he can pay for
food and shelter. I have money, Iris, and I
have paid the usurer enough to satisfy him.
Let us say no more.”
“Oh, Lala !” The tears came to Iris’s eves.
“And now we shall go on living as before.’ 1
“ I think not, ho replied. “In the generations
of Man, the seasons continue side by side; but
Spring does not always continue with Winter.”
“ I know, now,” interrupted Mr. Emblem,
suddenly waking into life and recollection; “ I
could not remember at first. Now I know very
well, but I cannot tell how, that the man
who stole my papers is my own grandson.
James would not steal. James is curious; he
wants to read over my shoulders what I am
writing. He would pry and find out. But he
would not steal. It doesn’t matter much—does
it?-since I was able to repair the loss I al
ways had a most excellent .memory— and Iris
has now received her inheritance; but it is my
grandson, Joe, who has stolen the papers. My
daughter’s son came home from Australia when
—but this I learned afterward—he had already
disgraced himself there. He ran into debt, and
I paid his debts; he forged my name and I ac
cepted the bill; he took all the money I could
let him have, and still he asked formore. There
is no one in the world who would rob me of
those papers except Joseph.”
Now, the door was open to the staircase,
and the door of communication between the
shop and the house-passage was also open.
I his seems a detail hardly worth noting; yet it
proved of the greatest importance. From such
small trifles follow great events. Observe that
as yet no positive proof was in the hands ot the
two conspirators which would actually connect
Ins with Claude Deseret. The proofs were in
the stolen papers, and though Clara had those
papers, who was to show that these papers
were actually those In the sealed packet ?
Whom Mr. Emblem finished speaking, no
one replied, because Arnold and Lala knew
the facts already, but did not wish to spread
them abroad; and next, because to iris it was
nothing new that her cousin was a bad man,
and because she thought, now that the man in
possession was gone, they might just as well
forget the papers, and go on as it all this fuss
had not happened.
In the silenco that followed this speech, they
heard the voice of James down stairs, saying:"
“I am sorry to say, sir, that Mr. Emblem is
ill up stairs, and you can’t see him to-day.”
“ 111, ie he ? lam very sorry. Take him my
compliments, James. Mr. Frank Farrar’s com
pliments, and tell him-——”
Then Mr. Emblem sprang to his feet, crying;
“ Stop him—stop him I Go down stairs, "some
one, and stop him ! I don’t know where he
lives. Stop him—stop hfm !”
Arnold rushed down the stairs. He found in
the shop an elderly gentleman, carrying a bun
dle of books. It was, in fact, Mr. Farrar, come
to negotiate the sale of another work from his
library.
“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Arnold, “ Mr.
Emblem is most anxious to see you. Would
you step up stairs ?”
“ Quick, Mr. Farrar—quick,” the old man
held him tight by the hand. “ Tell me before
my memory runs away with me again—tell me.
Listen, Iris! Yet it doesn’t matter, because
you have already Tell me ■” lie seemed
about to wander again, but he pulled himself
together with a great effort. “You knew my
son-in-law before his marriage.”
“Surely, Mr. Emblem;! knew your son-in
law, and his father, and all his people.”
“ And his name was not Aglen, at all ?” asked
Arnold.
“No; he took the name of Aglen from a fan
cied feeling of pride when he quarreled with his
father about—well, it was about his marriage,
as you know, Mr. Emblem; he came to London,
and tried to make his way by writing, and
thought to do it, and either to hide a failure or
brighten a success, by using a pseudonym.
People were more jealous about their names in
those days. He had better,” added the unsuc
cessful veteran of letters, “be had far better
have wade his living as a—as a”—he looked
about him for a fitting simile—" as a book
seller.”
“ Then, sir,” Baid Arnold, “ what was his real
name ?”
“ His name was Claude Deseret, of course.”
“ Iris,” said Arnold, taking her hand, “ this
is the last proof. We have known it for four or
five days, but wo wanted the final proof, and
now we have it. My dear, you are the cousin
of Clara Holland, and all her fortune, by her
grandfather’s will, is yours. This is the secret
of tho sate. This was what the stolen papers
told you.”
(To be Continued.)
a lonelKdeata.
USING THE FOND;’ ENDEARING
LANGUAGE OF LOVE.
It was at one of the city hospitals that I saw
the saddest funoral ceremony I ever witnessed.
It was that of a woman who had literally died
by inches. Poverty, sorrow and sickness had
been her constant’ companions for years, and
when at last on a hospital bed she drew her last
breath, it seemed as if there could be nothing
left to feel the pang of dissolution—nothing but
skin and bone.
She had been well cared for in her last sick
ness by those who gave their time and service
to the work of charity, but it is doubtful if she
knew it. Her mind lived in the past, and she
murmured in delirium of a happy home and
seemed to be always caressing a little child.
Now she would talk to it in a sweot mother
tongue, using the fond, endearing language of
lovo to call it to her; again she seemed to dread
some terrible fate for it, and besought God to
save it, even to take it away from the evil to
come. Always it was the child that was present
with her, so that pain was naught—the child
that she continually addressed as “Darling
Emma,” and she died with that name on her
lips.
This was all there was of the dead woman’s
history. The pall of a dark past had fallen
upon her,. It was only known that the child
about whom she had raved and prayed was still
alive, and somewhere in the city, t But so tar all
search had failed to find her.
The brief funeral ceremonies—at the expense
of the city, for hers was a pauper burial—were
held in the large parlor of the hospital. A
young clergyman who had just entered upon
his work, the assistants of the hospital, the un
dertaker, hat in hand, and one or two strangers,
were all "who wero present. The dead woman
lay in a highly varnished pine coffin, from which
the metal shells were already falling in a shower
of tawdry splendor, s’o imperfectly were they
fastened on. Her face was composed and peace
ful. Life and death had done their worst—the
battle was now over.
In the chill and silenco the voice of the young
minister, cultured and tuneful, sounded like a
strain of music. All heads bowed as he re
cited :
swweeUffa W lift.’’.
There was a scream—a wail of heart-rending
grief, and the service was interrupted, as a
woman, young and haggard, rushed into the
room and threw heiself on the coffin; sho was
dressed gaily in silk attire. A long feather
dangled from a gaudy hat—everything about
her bespoke a death sadder than that in the
coffin.
“Mother, mother,” she moaned, “why did
you not let me know ? Oh, I would have" come
to you and worked my fingers to the bone to
save you ! Ob, mother, mother ! come back to
me just to say you forgive me. Mother, it is
your own little Emmy I Do you hoar me ? It
is Emmy I Oh, my God I lam too late 1 She
will never speak to me again I”
Pitying friends drew the frenzied woman away.
In a moment she had dashed them aside, and
leaning again over the dead mother, she pressed
her lips once—twice—thrice to the cold lips of
the dead. Then she clasped her hands and
lifted her eyes to Heaven, while her lips seemed
to be recording a vow, The winti-y sun shone
out at that moment from the western sky and
touched with golden finger the sad, sad scene
of death in life, and life in death, and the min
ister resumed tho service where ho had been
interrupted :
“I am tha resurrection ami ths life.”
theloveletter
BY MISS PATRICE.
Miss Orinthia Brown set down her teacup
with emphasis that made all the China rattle.
And little Mrs. Meeker jumped nervously at ths
sound.
“ I never heard anything so ridiculous in all
my life,” said Miss Brown, derisively. “Gil
bert Mott in love with Georgia Arlington! Why,
she's a mere doll, with big blue eyes and pink
cheeks and yellow curls.”
“ She’s very fascinating in her manners,” Mrs.
Meeker ventured to remark.
“ Oh, pshaw 1” was Miss Orinthia’s con
temptuous comment. “And you really think
he’s in love with her ?”
“ Yes, I must say that I think so.”
“Ah-h-h,” said Orinthia, meaningly. “11l
only dared to tell you all I”
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Meeker;, eagerly;
“ what do you mean ?”
“Nothing,” said Mias Brown, with a nod of
her head. Ho walked home from church last
night with mo—didn’t he ?”
“Y’es, but ”
“He stayed on my side of the room ail the
time we wero decorating the fair rooms with
evergreens didn’t he ?’’
“ Yes, but that was because ”
“And—but nevermind, never mind I” said
MissOrinthja, mysteriously. “Time will show!
Georgia Arlington, indeed—why she’s nothing
but a child—a mere school girl! I know better !”
.“Do tell me, Miss Orinthia,” pleaded Mrs.
Meeker. “Is he really engaged to you ?”
Miss Orinthia pursed up her lips, drooped
her eyelids with a manner that was wonderfully
eloquent, but she would commit herself no
further!
“Let’s go up stairs and finish dressing these
china dolls for the lucky-bag,” said Miss
Brown. “We shall get more money out of the
lucky-bag than anything else, and we must be
sure and have it well furnished 1”
While the tea-drinking ceremonial had been
going on in the lower part of the mansion of
Mrs. Meeker, quite a different chain of circum
stances was transpiring above stairs. Mr. Gil
bert Mott, who had been inveigled into the
snares of the ladies fair, nolens volens, had come
early to help in tho last preparations, and,
walking up to the workroom, had surprised a
lovely blue-eyed lassie in the occupation of fill
ing sundry cones of bright-hued paper with
sugar plums and Fench bon-bons.
Georgia Arlington shook back her sunny
curls and blushed like a June rose-bud, as she
started up.
“ Don’t go. Miss Arlington, please !” pleaded
Gilbert, himself not unembarrassed. But
Georgia muttered something about a roll of rib
bon which she had forgotten, and fluttered past
him ere he could remonstrate further.
Gilbert looked alter her, with a whimsical ex
pression of despair on his countenance.
“ Now, why doos she run away from me like
that?” he said to himself. “Probably because
she knows it tantalizes me ! But I’ll be even
with her yet; if she won’t let me tell her how
dearly I love her, I’ll write it to her !”
And heedless of the neglected piles of cedar
sprigs and princess pine, yet waiting to bo
wrought into garlands, he sat down to the ta
ble and seizing pen and ink began a passionate
billet deux after the following fashion:
“Mv On’s Pbecious Daki.ins Why are you
so cold and cruel to rne ? Why will you not let
ma tell you in words what you inust so often
have read in my eyes—the story ot my heart’s
devotion ? For I love you, and have loved you,
and shall love you to the world’s end, and you
must have seen it for yourself during the last
few days that wo have been working together
for the church fair ! Yet you will not give me a
word or a glance of encouragement!
“Is this right, my ruthless queen of hearts ?
But I am determined that you shall tell me
when we meet again whether I may hope or
not! Until then, sweet one, I am, half in des
pair, half hopeful.
“Yours, ever and unalterably, G. M.”
He had just scribbled ofi this unstudied effu
sion when the sound of footsteps on the stairs
chased away the solt shadows of his love dream,
and he had just tim« to slip the paper under a
leaf of Norway spruce twigs, when Mrs. Meeker
and Miss Orinthia Brown entered.
“At work so soon 1” cried the latter, archly.
“Isn’t he industrious, Mrs. Meeker ?”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, hyprocritically, “I’m
at work already 1”
So lie was, but not exactly for the fair.
He watched nervously for an opportunity to
possess himself of the precious sheet ot paper,
without observation, but Miss Orinthia, doubt
less prompted thereto by some baleful-evil
spirit, hovered around the spruce boughs like
a middle-aged turtle dove, and effectually
warded off his designs. And presently he was
borne down stairs in the popular current to
open some boxes of donations, which had just
arrived by parcels delivery.
“ I can easily come back to get it when they
are busy cackling over the new things,” he
thought.
But—fit illustration this of the futility of all
human plans—when ho came rejoicing back
some twenty minutes or so later, the sheet was
gone.
Gone, leaving no trace or vestige behind
gone, utterly and entirely!
“ I believe there has been some superhuman
agency, at work I” thought our bewildered hero,
as he tumbled over the chaotic contents on the
table in vain.
But Mr. Mott was wrong. The agency had
been exceedingly human—no other, in fact, than
mischievous little Billy Arlington, come up in
search of stray prizes for the famous lucky-bag
which had been temporarily delivered into his
hands. Cornucopias, pin-cushions, Rimmel’s
scent-bags, needle-books he pounced on alike,
and, perceiving a sheet of pink paper, written
on, he crumpled it into an old envelope, di
rected “Miss Orinthia A. Brown,” which lay
beyond.
“ What larks it will be,” thought the incorri
gible Billy. “ Some of the girls ’ll think they’ve
got a love-letter, and how mad they’ll be when
they find it ain’t nothing but one of Rintley’s
receipts or crochet patterns.”
And away rushed Master Billy, little recking
of the mischief he was unwittingly working to
the cause of true love ?
The evening of the fair came—and the pretty
rooms, made still prettier by paper roses and
evergreen garlands, wero crowded with the
brave, the fair, and some that were neither one
nor the other. Georgia Arlington, presiding at
one of the tables, looked lovely enougte,to drive
half a dozen young men distracted, instead of
one, and Miss Orinthia, in a rustling slate
colored silk dress, went about like an autumn
leaf in a high wind. The lucky-bag circulated
from hand -to hand, carrying, as is the wont of
these institutions, a little current of merriment
and laughter in its wake. Georgia drew a cigar
case, Mr. Mott became the proprietor of a rag
doll, and Miss Orinthia Brown drew—a letter,
addressed to herself.
Gilbert Mott, leaning against tho doorway,
saw Miss Brown hurrying up to Georgia and
displaying her prize with malicious glee, while
Georgia colored and bit her lip, and looked
ready to cry, and feigned a merry little ripple
of laughter, all in one and tho same breath.
“Why don’t that horrid old maid keep away
from Georgia Arlington 1” thought our discon
tented hero. “ She looks like a dried up bunch
of raisins beside a cluster ot blooming Isabella
grapes.”
And, watching bis opportunity, he slipped
through the crowd and edged up to tho table
where Georgia was selling pin-cushions and
tape trimmings at an exorbitant price.
“ Goorgia 1” he whispered softly, “ Georgia ’”
But she turned her head haughtily away.
“Please to excuse me, Mr. Mott,” she said,
coolly.
While Gilbert was staring at her in amaze
ment, a hand was slipped through his arm, and
Miss Orinthia Brown drew him gently away.
“ Where are you going ?” he demanded,
rather unwillingly.
“ Just outside the door, one minute,” whis
pered Miss Orinthia, falteringly. “It is not in
the tumult of a common crowd that such words
should be spoken 1”
“ What words ? I haven’t an idea of what
yon mean 1” cried the young man.
Orinthia drew him into the hall, her head
drooped on his shoulder.
“ Yes,” she falters, “ yes. How could yon for
a moment doubt it I”
“ Doubt what ? Excuse me, Miss Brown, but
I think your wits are forsaking you,” said Gil
bert Mott, striving to extricate himself from the
damsel s grasp.
“Gilbert, would you, then, be false to me?”
sobbed Orinthia, with the dawning symptoms ot
hysterics.
“Il False to you I” echoed ourhero. “Miss
Brown, will you be so good as to tell me at once,
and plainly, what you are talking about ?”
Orinthia Brown’s sallow cheeks reddened—
her eyes sparkled ominously, as she drew from
her pocket the precious missive.
“Do you mean to say, sir, that you didn’t
write this letter?” she demanded.
Gilbert took the letter and scrutinized it
closely.
“ Yes, of course, I wrote tho letter.”
“Then, dearest—”
“ Stop, though,” ha interrupted, frantically.
“ It wasn’t to you.”
“Not to me?"
“ No. Do you suppose I want to marry you ?"
Qliuw* uttered, st uluUl the
next tuom.J she'was alone, Gilbert Mott had
vanished.
For the matter was growing serious now. If
Georgia wero to bo won, she must bo won at
once, before Fate conspired with another old
maid to deprive him of her coveted love.
“Georgia,” ha said, planting himself reso
lutely beside her. “ I have got something I
wish to say to von.”
“ You had a great deal better say it to your
beloved Miss Orinthia,” said Georgia, tossing
her flaxen curls.
“ But she isn’t my beloved Miss Orinthia,”
cried Gilbert.
“ I suppose you will be denying your own
handwriting next,” said Georgia, indignantly.
“But it’s of no use; I saw the letter myself.”
“But, Georgia, the letter was written to you.”
“ Then,” said Georgia, brightening up a little,
" how did she got it ?”
“ That’s just what I can’t comprehend my
self,” said Gilbert; “ but one thing I am Very
certain of—l love you, and you alone, and I
won’t leave you until you tell mo whether the
love is returned.”
And he did not; neither was it necessary for
him to stay there very long.
But to this day nobody, save Billy, the irre
pressible, knows exactly how Georgia’s letter
camo into Miss Orinthia Brown's hands.
A NIGHT ATTACK,
BY n. F. UFFORD.
(From- the Youth’s Companion.)
With the cow-boys at “ Jerusalem Valley ” we
were on the very best of terms, during the en
tire sojourn of our little engineering party of
exploration at the Sierra La Sal. Bluff, hardy,
and generally honest we found them ; rough of
speech, perhaps, yet on the whole, genial, good
natured fellows.
To those on the range nearest our camp—
“ Charley,” “ Kid,” “ Bob ” and “ Little we
were under many obligations, both for beef and
for the loan of numerous utensils. Hence it
happened that we became involved with them in
the events which attended the break-up of the
ranges in that locality.
For some time previous to our arrival, the
Navajoes, incited by a renegade Apache chief
named Poconaro-Guinnep,—who, with his band
of Indian outlaws, had been prowling about
the valley,—had threatened trouble to the cat
tle-men around the Sierra. They claimed
“.Jerusalem Valley,” so called, as theirs, and
from time to time sent threatening messages
ordering the whites to take their cattle and
leave the valley.
Now the upper line of their reservation, as
Little had been careful to learn from the Gov
ernment Agent, ran below the place where the
lower cow-camps were located. Of this the In
dians were well aware ; but as a pretext, they
now claimed the whole valley, and grew more
and more insolent.
A series of outrages and reprisals had taken
place during the previous month or two. Lit
tle “ bunches ” of six or eight head of cattle
would be found dead, pierced with arrows, and
still others would be seen languishing on the
range, wounded with the same cruel weapons
in their flanks and shoulders.
Once two of the cow-boys had been shot at
from the cliffs, and one of them had come to
the camp with an arrow through bis arm. Dur
ing the same week, a young man, prospecting
in the Sierra, was waylaid and killed. These
atrocities naturally alarmed and greatly excited
us all.
It chanced that a few days after the murder
of the young prospector, the writer' had gone up
on the mesa, or plateau, to hunt deer. The
ground was very broken, and much cut up with
canons and gulches, and I had tied my horse,
and was making my way on foot. Coming to
one of these canons', I heard voices below me,
and, peering cautiously over, saw three mounted
Indians hurrying along a little “bunch” of cat
tle, upon whose flanks I plainly saw the circle
and triangle—Little’s brand.
Keeping out of sight, I followed them fora
mile or more, until they turned into a side
canon, or gulch, in the mouth of which were
about a dozen “wick-i-ups,” or brush tents,
with fifteen or twenty Indians lounging about.
Scattered all around were heaps of offal and
drying hides, showing that the savages had
been at their thievish work for some time.
Screening myself behind an old cedar stump,
I watched them through my field-glass for some
minutes, and made out that the gang was mostly
renegade Indians, with a sprinkling of Navajoes.
Old Poconaro himself was not among them, so
far as I could see, but I made out the faces of
two of bis most vicious and reckless lieutenants
— Unlc-ti-yats, or “Black Tom,” an Apache
negro half-breed, and “ Whisky Jack,” a Pi-Ute.
They were all armed with bows and arrows, and
about half of them had rifles.
Taking careful note of the location of their
camp, I cautiously retreated, regained my
horse, and, meeting Little on my way back, told
him what I bad seen. That evening a council
of war was hold, in which our party made com
mon cause with the cattle-men—with the excep
tion, I shouldadd, of our cockney cook, Batters,
who declared most positively that —
“’E ’adn't lost no Hinjuns, hand ’e wasn't
goin’ to ’unt hanny hup. 'E’d ’card hennff hof
tpat bloodthirsty Poconaro, hand wasn’t goin’
to let ’impofee a harrow through ’im.”
The trouble between the cow-boys and the
Indians was, strictly speaking, none of our
business ; but the former had treated us so
kindly, and those renegade Apaches wero so
dangerous and murderous a crow, that wo did
not hesitate to join in the effort to expel them
from the valley.' On my report that most of the
Indians were renegades, headed by Black Tom
and Whisky Jack, it was decided to surprise
and attack them without scruple; and if any
Navajoes, who were supposed to be “good In
dians,” should get hurt in the melee, they would
then appreciate the moral contained in the fable
of “ Old Dog Tray.”
As the canon was inaccessible to horsemen,
except at its mouth, where it debouched into the
valley, it was agreed that part of our force
should enter it on horseback and charge the
camp, while the rest of ps, from behind the
rocks on either side, should attack the savages
in the rear and flanks.
By the middle of the night, our little force—
seventeen men in all—wore posted; four men
ou each sido of the mouth of the small gulch,
five at the head of it, a quarter of a mile away,
and the remaining eight a mile down the canon,
ready to charge at the appointed time, which
was to be as soon as the moon was fairly above
the crest of the Sierra.
We who were in ambush lay quiet, watching
the “ wick-i-ups ” below, hardly distinguishable
from the rocks among which they were built.
Warfare by ambuscade is, I confess, far from
pleasing to mo, or to most civilized men, I
think. But when I reflected that these redskins
were outlaws, veritable human boasts of prey,
who had only a day or two before waylaid the
men with me,' compunction vanished, and I was
only afraid some of them might escape.
The moon had risen high enough to light up
the mouth of the gulch and show the “ wick-i
--ups ” plainly, and we wero wondering why the
attack was not begun, when there came the
crack of a rifle from down the main canon, fol
lowed by a mingled chorus of shots and yells I
A score of dark forms poured out of the “ wick
i-ups” below, and darted to the shelter of the
rooks on both sides of the gulch, but were met
by afirs which drove them back. Repulsed here,
they turned and daubed up the gulch; but the re
ception they met from the men hid among the
rocks and trees in front, told them that they could
not escape on that side. So, doubling on their
tracks, they scurried back for the main canon.
But the mounted party was not there to meet
them. In our eagerness not to let them escape,
we left our ambush, and rushed in pursuit.
Then.ensued a wild scramble. As we tore down
the hill a flash of fire blazed out at my feet, and
I felt a sharp prick, as of a red-hot needle, in
the upper part of my left arm. I was going so
fast I could not stop until I reached the bottom
of the steep descent. There I found Charley
beside me, and together we bounded along after
the flying Indians, who were running tor the
shelter of the rocks on the other side.
Meanwhile the battle was going on around the
bend in the main canon, whence had come the
first alarm; but we had not time to turn aside
or see what was the trouble there. We were
half way across the canon, when there came a
flash from behind a tree half way up the side,
and Charley, who was a yard or so in advance,
pitched forward on his face.
Stopping, I bent over him, to see if he was
badly hurt; but the “ spang 1” of a bullet which
tore up the dirt beneath my feet, and the
“ whack I” of another that struck the butt of
my rifle, warned me not to tarry, and I sprang
for the shelter of a neighboring rock.
The tables were turned, and we, the assail
ants, were ourselves assailed. The redskins
were above us, sheltered by rocks and trees
and darkness; for the bluff was in shadow,
while we were in plain sight.
Peering about, I could see that the rest of the
party, like myself, had taken to cover, A few
yards to my left was a form which I thought I
recognized.
“ Is that you, Kid ?”
He was a cow-boy nicknamed Kid.
“Yes; these redskins have got us this time.”
“Yes; looks that way. What do you suppose
is the matter down the canon ?”
“Dunno. Reckon our boys’ll be up this way
before long. I wonder if the varmints are
skulking over there, or if they retreated across
the mesa ? I’ll take a peep. Ugh !”
There was a“whish!”and what seemed a
section of a white moonbeam flashed past, car
rying Kid’s hat from his head as it flew by.
“Close call, that!” he muttered, as he
crouched lower. “Smart chaps, those red
skins. They’re usin’ their bow ’n’ arrers so’s
we can’t see to fire by the flash of their guns.
Wish these rocks were a little bigger. Listen
to that 1”
“ That,” was the “ swish 1” “ swish 1” of ar
row after arrow as they flew by.
“Reckon some feller’s picked too small a
rock, and—and whew, I’m the chap.”
“ Are you hurt ?” I called.
“ Calf of my leg pricked; that’s all. There !”
as he slightly changed his position, “now go
ahead with yer shootin’ if yer like I”
For ten or fifteen minutes, we were closely
besieged. The slightest movement was the
signal for an arrow from our watchful foes; and
we hugged the ground like a flock of soared
partridges.
We know that in half an hour or so, the moon
would be high enough to light up the bluff
where the Indians lay concealed, and we were
waiting for that time, to make a charge, and
rout them out. Except for the “ swish 1” of
the arrows, or an occasional muttered ejacula
te ft smelling fovf -boy. not a sound was
to be heard. My arm began to grow stiff and i
painful; but I dared not move to attend to it,
for fear o! being pierced by another arrow,
Suddenly there was a yell and a volley ol
shots irom the bluff; and, recognizing Little's
voice, with an answering yell, wo dashed for
ward. The light surged upward over the edge
oi the cliff, and by the time we reached the top
it was over, and the surviving Indians had dis
appeared.
Collecting our forces, we compared notes and
casualties. It seems that the horsemen, on theii
way to the attack, had encountered another and
a larger band of Apaches in the canon, who, on
being challenged, had fired upon them, and
driven them from their horses to the rocks; but,
from some unknown cause, instead of following
up their victory the red-skins had retrea’ed to
ward the valley. After their withdrawal, tit
tle’s party, seeing that we were besieged, had
made a flank movement, “flushed” the enemy,
and dispersed them.
On counting up, wo found that we had three
mon including Charley, killed, and the “Kid,”
another of the cow-boys and myself, slightly
wounded. The loss ot'tho Indians we could not
positively ascertain, but five were found dead,
one being “ Black Tom.”
The affair had ended so seriously for us, that
Little withdrew his herd to the Mancos, and
we, accompanying them, were forced for the time
being, to abandon our work of exploration in
the Sierra.
HUMOR OF™ nous -
BY THE DETROIT FREE_PBE33 FIEND,
TOO MUCH OF IT.
A Woodward avenue street car driver yester
day hitched the lines to the brako and entered
the oar and said to a man who was deeply inter
ested in a newspaper:
“ Excuse me; but you haven’t paid your
fare.
“Oh—ah—l see,” stammered the man as ha
hunted for some change; and after he had paid
he went out to the driver and eaid:
“ See hero, sir, I don’t like your way of hold
ing me up to ridicule. Why didn’t-you wink at
me ?”
“ Because you didn’t look up.”
“ Well, as long as you knew it was a case o(
forgetfulness you could have passed it by.”
“ That was the trouble, sir. I have passed it
by with you about a dozen times this last week,
and I thought it was time to say something.’*
AT THE RINK.
“And don’t yon skate, little girl?” he asked
as he sat down beside her.
“ Oh, no, sir I”
“ But you can learn.”
“ I guess I could, but I don’t want to.”
“And do you come here just to watch the
skaters ?”
“ Oh, no—l come to watch Mrs. R.”
“Who’s she?”
“She’s papa’s second wife. He don’t want
her to come, but she will do it.”
“And why do you watch her ?”
“Well, papa wanted her to promise that she
wouldn’t lean on anybody when she was skating
with’em, and that she wouldn’t flirt when she
was resting, but she wouldn’t promise, and so
I came to watch her. These short marks are
when she leans, and these long ones when aha
flirts.”
“ And you show them all to your lather ?”
“Yes, and he dates them’and puts them
away, and t>y and by we’ll have enough to gel
a, divorce on, and marry somebody who can’t
BLUFFING A WAITER.
As we got into South Carolina we were joined
by a judge from Pittsburg. I forgot just what
court he was judge of, but ho had been travel
ing South for his health, and had just figured
up that he had paid out $25 in fees to waiters,
and was mad all the way through. He vowed
by hie baldness-that he ‘wouldn’t pay out an
other red cent, and we encouraged him as hard
as we could.
Whan we wont up to the hotel the landlord
gave us a big room with throe beds in it. A big
negro brought the trunks up, and when he was
ready to go the judge called to him and began:
“Colored person, stand up! Now I want to
say to you that I shall expect prompt service
without foes. You have brought up my trunk;
that’s all right-it was your business to. I
shall want water, and I may want a fire, and I
shall probably ask you to go of errands, but
you even look fees at me I’ll throw vou out of
the window!”
We were there two days, and the waiter waa
vigilant, humble and willing, but as we made
ready to depart the morning of tho third in
in comes a constable with a warrant to arrest
the judge for threats of personal violence. It
haa been sworn out before a justice ten miles
away, and the complainant was the negra
waiter.
It took the two of us to hold the judge down
on his back during his first paroxysm, and
when he had cooled off a little tho negro slip
ped into the room and said:
“White man, stand up! Now I want to say
to you data fivo-dollar bill will settle d-is yer
case jist as I feel now; but if you goes to callin’
names or pullin’ hair or kickin, I’ll stick fur
twenty-five dollars ! Dat justice am my own
brudder, an’ he’s jist achin’ to send some white
man ter jail fur eix months !”
Wo sat on the judge again for about twenty
minutes, at the end of which time he handed
over the amount and was pronounced sane.
“ OLD AMAZIN' GRACE.”
(From the Louisville Courier-Journal.)
A few months ago Col. W. P. Grace, one ol
the most prominent lawyers of the State, had
occasion to make a horseback journey into a
wild district lying between the two great mount
ains of the Ozark range. One day, while the
heat was intense, he came upon a log house sur
rounded by a fence of polos. And old fellow
with low-yellow whiskers, like the dead silk oi
an ear of corn, sat on the fence engaged, it
seems, in the work of killing buffalo gnats.
“ How are you ?” said the colonel, reining up
his horse.
“Little pearter than I wuz; but I ain’t so
powerful peart yit,” snapping at a gnat.
“ Will jou be bo kind as to bring me a dipper
of water ?”
“ Dipper ?” he repeated, contemptuously. “I
ain’t seed a dipper sense I went down ter taka
a look at the Legislator. Ef yer drink hera,
stranger, yer’ll hatter drink outen a gourd.
Want it?”
“ Yes ; I am thirsty enough to drink out of »
straw hat.”
The old fellow wont into the cabin and soon
returned with a gourd, dripping with water.
The colonel took the vegetable vessel, turned it
up, but only for a moment. Spitting out tbs
water, he returned the gourd, and said:
“Put a thermometer in that water and it
would run up to one hundred and fifty.”
“Don’t know about that, cap’n; but put a
wiggletail in it, an’ he’d caper ’round mighti
ly.”
“ When did you draw it ?”
“ Wan’t drawee!; it was fotoh.”
“ When did you bring it from the spring ?’*
“ Day before yistiddy.”
“ Why haven't you brought some-since ?”
“ ’Cause this ain’t give out yit, an’ anuthen
reason is, wife she's down with the chills.”
“Can’t you leave her long enough to got
water?”
“ Tain’t that. She ain’t able to go arter it.
She tends to the water.”
“ How far is the spring ?”
“ ’Bout three miles.”
“Which direction?”
i “ Fust one an’then t’uther. Path’s powerful
crooked.”
“ Why don’t you dig a well?”
“ Weather’s too hot.”
“ Why don’t you dig one when it is cold ?”
“ ’Cause the ground’s friz.”
“ How far is it to the next house ?”
“Thar ain’t none.”
“ What’s your name, my friend ?”
“ Patterson. What’s your name ?”
“ My name is Grace.”
“ What!” exclaimed the squatter, dropping
the gourd. “ Air yer the feller they sings about
at church ? Yer ain’t old Amazin’ Grace, air
yer? Well, dog my cats 1 Git down. I’ve been
waitin’ ter meet yer ever since I heard ’em sing
about yer so much. I reckon yer air a powerful
hand at raslin’, hain’t yer? Jis’ git off an’ fling
me down once. I never wore flung yit, an’ dad
dy ho tole me ’fore he died that Grace would
cbme Tong arter a while an’ fling me. Yer was
a mighty long time cornin’ but yer air here at
last. What, yer ain’t gwine to leave ? Don’t
reckon daddy knowed what a man I’d be agin
yer got here. Well, er good-by, Grace; don’t
reckon I’ll ever see you no mo’.”
A Runaway Train.
RAISING OLD SANG IN AN ORCHARD.
(From the Des Moines Leader.)
While switching on tho old Winterset track, near
the coal banks, tho cars jumped the track, ran up to
the fence, forced it down, proceeded on through a.
grove of fruit trees, btoko sixteen of them down,
ran over a coal hou<o, and finally struck a brick
dwelling house. The rear car broke down the twelve •
inch wall, forced its way through the bed-rooms r
and finally emerged on tho opposite aide. The walla
having been torn out, a portion of tho house fell -
down, loading the cars with brick and debris.
Fortunately the family escaped without injury.
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