New York dispatch. [volume], June 19, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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could be found in all the county of York ? I
don’t. And, by the by, I think the sooner you
get home the belter—l believe your poor little
girl, as you call her, is going to be very ill. I’ve
taken the liberty of sending the doctor alter
her.”
“ Thanks a thousand times. I’ll be off. But
where do you put up ? Will you come to us ?”
“I cannot, thank you. I have ordered dinner
at the station hotel, and go back to town to
night. 1 shall send down the bqgt> detective I
can get to-morrow ”
“That is right. I don’t know what your cli
ent’s circumstances are, but let no expense be
epared. There will be no need to say anything
about it to any one.”
“ No, no—to be sure! I fancy he is well off;
but i really don’t know. Pleasant fellows rare
ly are though—are they?’’
So, with a smile and a little joke, they sepa
rated, and the colonel returned to the cottage to
look after Daisy.
Cherry met him in the entrance.
“How is she, Cherry?” the colonel asked,
anxiously.
“ Why, sor, the doctor’s hero yet, an’ Miss
Daisy seems very ill; he’s been giving her bran
dy, lor she has just gone out oi wan swooned
into another ever since she came in.”
“Good heavens 1” cried the colonel, wonder
ing what the end of it all would be.
“ There is that scatter-brained Mary moan
ing all over the place like a banshee,” Cherry
continued; “ an’ Tom’s crying like a baby in the
kitchen this minute 1”
“Oh, they’ll mend fast enough I” the colonel
cried, having very little patience with any one
but Daisy at that moment.
And indeed no ope in the house had time to
think of any one but the young mistress: for she
was very ill, and, as the night wore on, she be
came worse instead of better. The doctor
stayed all night, and, with the colonel and the
cook, sat listening to her incoherent ravings,
trying to soothe her into sleep, trying to per
suade her that Jack, though in a very unpleas- '
f.nt position, was not in danger of losing his j
lie. But it was oi no use—her excited brain I
refused to accept milder and calmer thoughts
and ideaa. Over and over again she repeated !
that Jack was sentenced to death—to bo hanged j
by tho neck until he was dead—to be hanged
by the neck; thou in a very solemn tone—” And
may the Lord have mercy upon your soul 1”
However, when the morning’s blessed light
Came, most of these Irightful visions passed
away, leaving her very weak, somewhat in
clined to wander, yet not distressed in mind, as I
Che had been through the long and weary hours
of the night. Then the doctor went aw ay for a
time, promising to return by noon.
“Don’t let that young maid into tho room.
Bhe is a highly nervous and hysterical subject,
and will do our patient a great amount of
harm. Perfect quiet and -reedom from excite
ment are absolutely essential.”
H Soon after the doctor had left tho house, Mrs.
Price, the landlady of the “Danvers Arms,”
made her appearance, and asked for the colon
el, to whom she made known her errand. Sho
had heard Lhat Daisy was very ill, and had
come to offer her services during the day.
“ You know, sir,” she said, “ Miss Cameron
has always been very sweet and friendly to mo:
and I can never forget how she used to come to
boo my poor boy, now a saint in heaven. Many
and many’s the t me I’ve thought I could never
repay her for all the pleasure she gave to him,
for all tho weary hours she brightened and all
the pain she soothed. ‘My pretty miss,’ ho
used to call her, and used to listen lor her steps,
and throw his poor little thin arms round her
peck when she came; and then, when my poor
lad was taken, she came to me so sweet like.
■ Oh, Mrs. Price,’ said she, ‘ do not fret and take
it so to heartl If you could have kept him al
ways a child, it would have been different; but.
if ho had lived to be a man, longing yet unable
to use his legs or even to sit up, think what it
would have been—think how cruel life would
have beem for him I And then, if you had
been taken away, others might have found a
trouble what was a pleasure to you, and poor
little Jemmy perhaps would have been neglect
ed. Beside,’ said she, ‘this was such a poor,
cramped-up little world he was in—just this
room and only this little village to look out upon.
Don’t fret because he has gone to a great, free,
bright world, where ho will be straight and
strong like other people, and where ho is sale.’
Ay, that was the way she came to me in my
trouble, and after the first I camo to see the
truth of all she said. 'The first time 1 saw my
poor Jemmy a gravestone, with the text she
choso, I felt she was right:
“ * There shall ba no mere pair.’
Well, sir, she came to mo in my trouble, and
I've come to her in hers, so I hope you won’t
Bond me away.”
“Send you away, my dear Mrs. Price 1” cried
the colonel gratefully. “1 am nearly demented
Poor cook is doing her best, but she has been
Up all night, and won’t hear of a hired nurse. ’
“If you’ll give re lea;e, sir,” said Mrs. Price,
Opening her basket and taking therefrom a big
white apron, “I’ll take charge till night, and
cook shall go to bed at once. If I just give an
eye to the meals, 1 doubt that ‘ weak-’earted ’
youug person what made such a fool of herself
yesterday will be able to look alter them.”
“ Oh, I should think so ! Cherry is a capital
cook,though.”
“Ah, yes -I forgot him. Then I’ll find my
way up stairs, sir, with your permission.”
“I’ll take you up myself,’ the colonel an
swered; “ then, at the loot of tho stairs, turned
back and said impressively, “Mrs. Price, you’re
a good, kind-hearted, charitable woman. I thank
you from the bottom of my heart.”
“I hope 1 am a grateful woman, sir,” Mrs.
Price replied; “ and I’m not one as forgets.”
Bo Mrs. Price took her place beside Daisy’s
bod, and poor, lired-outcook was sent forthwith
to get some rest. Daisy looked up in surprise
at tho unexpected hpyearance.
“ Mrs. Price she said wonderiugly.
“ Yea, my dear, it’s me,” the good soul re
plied. “You came to me in mr trouble, and
I’ve come to you m yours, and, please Heaven,
I’ll stay by you till you are through it 1”
“When* shall I ever be through ft?” Daisy
asked wistlalX’. laying her soil little hand on
tho strong, firm, honest one resting on tho edge
Of the bed.
“My dear, how can you think otherwise ? It
Is all a mistake, and will bo made right in a few
Weeks at most. They say the jurymen had all
made up their minds before ever they went at
all yesterday—country louts that they are 1 Eh,
but my master is rare and vexed with them I
Two of them camo down last night for their
glass, but he bundled ’em out—he wouldn’t
serve them with a drop.”
“Bless him 1” cried Daisy, in her weak, plain
tive voice. “Lear old thing—l always thought
he had more sense than all the village put to
gether.”
“Yeo, my dear, I’m proud of my old man,”
Mrs. Prico replied. “But now 1 want you to
get a little sleep. See—let me hold your hands,
•nd inaybo you’ll drop off quietly.”
So Daisy did. The firm clasp of tho strong
hands, tho fresh face, or perhaps the fact that
• firm believer in Jack was beside her, sent
Daisy off into the first really tranquil slumber
she had enjoyed since Ormond Danvers bad
come to his untimely and tragic end. When the
doctor came back at noon, and saw the existing
State of atlairs, he pattod Mrs. Price on the
shoulder and went away again. Sleep, he said,
would do more than all his physic.
Meantime a telegram had arrived for Daisy:
•nd, as Daisy was asleep, and not to be roused
for any earthly consideration, Colonel Cameron
opened it, that he might, if possible, send back
the answer for which the boy was waiting. It
ran thus:
“ Cecily Berners,74.t, Bryanaton Square, Lon
don, to Margaret Cameron, the Cottage, Brock
hurst 1 have heard from Jack this morning.
Am leaving for York at three this afternoon.
Can you take me in ? Answer is paid for.
Colonel Cameron stared at the mesaage for a
minute ere he grasped the fact that thia must
t be Berners’s sister; then he seized a pen and
answered it in his own name.
“My daughter is very ill indeed—haa been
delirioua all night—but ia rather better this
morning. 1 will send to meet you at York. You
Willibe raoat welcome here.”
This done, he felt he might indulge In a well
earned nap; ao in fiv.e minutes, when ho had
given Cherry instructions for Tom, Colonel
Cameron was as fast asleep aa he had ever been
in the old Crimean days.
And Daisy too slept on for nearly two hours,
waking to find Mrs. Price knitting placidly be
side her. Her voice was stronger, but her first
words warned Mrs. Price that her head was not
yet clear of its delirious fancies. It would have
been strange had it been so, lor during ten days
she had been almost without the blessing of
sleep, and previously to that she had slept bad
ly for weeks.
“ What a queer idea to have my bed in the
garden 1” she said, looking round the room, a»d
then at Mrs. Price, with quizzical eyes.
Jlrs. Price rose to the situation instantly.
' -i “ Well, my dear, we thought it would be a
tileaant change lor you,” she answered.
“ Oh, well, 1 don’t know about that 1” said
Daisy indifferently; then asked in a perfectly
sensible way, “ You liked- Jack very much,
didn’t you, Mrs. Price?”
“Ay, that I did, my dear—and my master
too,” the good soul answered.
“And eo did I,” murmured Daisy fondly;
•‘and I was so sorry lor poor Mr. Danvers—
poor Ormond he was ao fond of nie—so good
to me. I wish I could have liked him better.”
“ We must love where our hearts lead us,”
said Mra. Price gently; then went off into a long
rambling story of how flvo-and-twenty years
before—when she and her “ master ” were just
beginning to think about each other—there
oame a veritable “ Auld Kobin Gray " in the
shape of an elderly but rich farmer—a man
farming his own land, a man known far and near
a a one of substance, who could buy his wife as
many silk gowns as there were days in the
week—a man who could have picked and chosen
•mong all the bonny rosy-cheeked lasses in the
country-side, and could keep his wife as a lady,
to do nothing all the day long but wear fine
gowns and sew beads on to canvas or do fine
embroidery-work. “ But, la, my dear,” Mrs.
•Price babbled on placidly, “ 1 was young and
Strong and healthy 1 My honest lad could buy
me a wedding-ring, and that was about all, but
what did I care ? What were fine gowns and
broad acres to me in comparison with his bright
eyes and his frosh young lace ? Why, even
with Price I shouldn’t have thanked you then
to sit on a chair all day and sew beads su to
canvas tor a cushion—l like a clean chintz, one
beat vet. I did nt care anything about being a
lady,’ lor 1 wasn’t born to it, but I didn’t want
to marry old John Saunders, and I did want to
tiarry I’ri.ce."
F “ Juel like me,” murmured Daisy.
'* “J[ever to this day have I regretted it or eld
Jaifa money,” Mrs. Price continued—“ tor
Bv»«r a trouble did I have until my little Jemmy
jt»)f aid, bntttat wm. » UotAie
might have come to any one—it was the will of
Heaven.”
“Yes,” Daisy whispered. “Dear little Jemmy,
I can see him this minute I Mrs. Price, you are
very kind to me.”
“ Well, my dear, we had need be kind to one
another in this world. People was very kind to
me when I was in trouble myself; and 1 have
not forgot all you did for my boy.”
“ 1 wish,” sdd Daisy presently, “ you would
talk to me a little about Jack. Tell me what he
likes to eat - tell me—oh, anything—l don't care
what I But, Mrs. Price, first, don’t you think
we ought to be going in ? Bhall I take cold, do
you think ?”
“ I think not, my dear. The doctor knows all
about it. Don’t worry, and then I will talk to
you about the dear gentleman we both think so
much of.”
So during that long day the hostess of the
“ Danvers Arms ” contrived to keep Daisy
quiet, at intervals coaxing her off to sleep.
Then, after eight o’clock, when cook had risen,
and Mrs. Price was beginning to think of going
home, some one walked gently into tho room
and said, “Daisy!”
Daisy stared a minute.
“ Is it Cissie?” she asked, in her weak voice.
“ My poor, poor child,” cried Cissie, kneeling
down by the bed and taking the soft little
hands in hers, “ you are very ill, but I have
come to nurse you and take care of you, lor
Jack’s sake.”
CHAPTER XXII.
“ TRUST ME A LITTLE LONGER.”
After Cissie Berners’s arrival at the cottage,
Daisy seemed to revive wonderfully, and in the
course of a lew days was up and about the cot
tage; she never went beyond the gate however,
and flatly refused to receive a single visitor.
Even when two ot the girls from {Stowe Gap
came over to see Cissie and express to her their
I sympathy and the disgust which theyaud every
I one else in the neighborhood felt at poor Jack’s
I misfortune, Cissie received them alone and with
| an apology for her young hostess.
! “Not up to seeing people yet, I suppose ?”
i Ethel Lewis observed. “ No, poor girl—it’s
hardly likely ’ Really, Cissie, it’s about the
I most wretched position a girl was over placed
! in, and, after all, poor little thing, 1 cannot see
myself that she was much to blame.”
“ Oh, no; Jack is blaming himself now!”
Cecily answered.
“ And how is he ? It’s rather hard lines for
him, poor follow, to be in * quod ’ all this time !
However, so long as he gets off and the right
man turns up, 1 suppose he will think himself
tolerably lucky.”
“He ought; I dare say he will. I have not
seen him yet. lamto go to-morrow. I believe
ho is all right, and his letter was most cheerful,
except on Daisy’s account.”
“ Uh, Daisy will bo all right when he is let
out ! Of course she is sure to feel the whole
affair dreadfully for a time 5 but after a while —
when they have got comfortably married and
have had a good long tour abroad—she will for
got all sho has suffered now, and they will be as
happy as possible.”
“I’m sure 1 hope so” said Cecily, with a
sigh.
As she had said, she was to see Jack on the
following day. The colonel took her, and Daisy
was busy very early in the day making ready a
box of comforts for the poor prisoner. Such a
collection it was I There was a box of the
colonel’s best cigars and a packet ot his best
tobacco, two boxes of iusees, a pot of bonoy,
two pots of strawberry-jam and an uncooked
sweetbread wrapped in paper. There were
some black and some white grapes, a bottle of
the best old Irish whisky—from Mrs. Price—
two small game-pies and half a dozen of the
newest railway novels. Then there was a great
bottle of thick cream and the best flowers the
cottage garden could produce.
Jack’s sister laughed heartily as Daisy sug
gested these trifles* one after another ; but Daisy
was not yet in the humor to see jokes in any
thing that concerned poor Jacks' unfortunate
plight.
“Do you know what skilly is?” she asked se
verely, when her visitor absolutely screamed with
delight at atrayful of articles destined to fill a
email hamper in addition to the box, which was
crammed to overflowing—a fine new loaf, half a
dozen fresh tea-cakes, two rolls of sweet butter
and a few trifles in the way of potted shrimps,
game, chicken, and so on. “Have you ever
tasted it ? No ; I didn’t suppose you had ; but
1 have, and I’m not going to leave Jack to eat
nothing else.”
“Ob, they’re not giving Jack skilly I” Cis
sio cried, laughing still. “Depend upon it, he
has the privilege ot' messing from the best
hotel in the town. Trust him for that. How
ever, 1 have no doubt Jack will appreciate the
things all the more as you have sent them. I
know I should if I were placed in his doleful
circumstances.”
“There is the cart,” said Daisy, blushing
rosy red at this gentle sally. “ Here, Tom,
carry these out ’ — pointing to the box and the
hamper. “Now take them carefully.”
And Tom, who was one of Jack's warmest
champions, and knew almost as well as Daisy
did what box and hamper contained, carried
them out and stowed them away in the trap
with aa much care as if they bad been a couple
of fragile babies, or packages of Venetian glass
labeled—” Glass—with care. This side up.”
“ And am I to take him any message .” Uissie
asked, at the last minute.
Daisy turned more rosy than before, but the
flush faded quickly. The tact was, she was
nursing a miserable recollection—that on the
day of the second inquiry Jack had never even
looked at her ; and, oh, how he had frowned
when she was giving her evidence, and how
angrily ha had flushed up when she replied
that he was “awfully angry” when she changed
her mind at Peterborough !
She quite expected that Jack would, if he got
froo, utterly repudiate bis engagement to her.
He would say he had suffered enough for her
already, without running the risk of further
danger. Beside, could he ever, even if they
were to bo married, look at her without remem
bering that through her—at least, through and
because of his love for her—he had undergone
the sname and indignity of lying in prison
under a charge of willful murder ?
And, beside that, there lurked in Daisy’s
mind tho remembrance of a horrible thought, a
memory which stuck to her like a leech or a
bad name, and would not be got rid of—that
for a time alter Ormond Danver’s death she had
feared, dreaded, believed that Jack had done
tho deed—her brave, bright, noble Jack, whom
everybody had believed in but herself and
those twelve country louts who bad formed the
jury. How could she meet him, when he was
sot free, with such a doubt upon her heart ?
Could she run to him with open arms and fair
words—she who had doubted him? Why. ho
would surely ask, first of all: “ You did not
doubt me, my darling?” Could she tell him a
lie, or must she confess that she had indeed be
•lioved him a murderer?
Poor Daisy! she hardly knew what to do.
But the colonel was calling impatiently, and
Cissie was waiting lor an answer. So she flung
her arms round Cissie’s neck and kissed her
thrice.
“ Uh, I see,” said Cissie, kissing the troubled
lace in return. “ Yes, I’ll give them to him
along with the other good things you sent him.
Good-by, my child. Be sure you do not worry
about anything till we return.”
Miss Berners therefore set off in good spirits
to pay her visit. The morning was tine and
clear, the cob fresh, the colonel as chatty and
agreeable a companion as she had met lor some
time, and altogether she really enjoyed the
drive until they reached the frowning and
gloomy portals of the castle.
Then the smile faded from her lips, the light
from her eyes, and she realized lor the first
time that Jack was a prisoner within those walls
on a charge of willful murder; for, oh, the
walls were so high, the great door so massive,
and the grating within them was like a huge
trap. Bhe shivered sharply as the colonel
turned the cob under the entrance, and her
heart sank as deeply as it had ever sunk for
Gregory St. Lawrence.
However, she found that Jack was taking the
matter very easily—and, indeed, now that bis
natural bewilderment at his position had worn
off a little, he was having quite a good time ot
it. He laughed as heartily as Cissie had done
over Daisy’s notion of his fare. But, all the
same, she noticed two things—one, that he
turded over tho contents of the box and the
hamper with eagerness, tasting this, sniffing at
tfiat, looking into the books, and arranging the
posy of flowers ; the other was that he never
mentioned Daisy in any way.
“You don’t ask about the poor child,” his
sister exclaimed at last, with impatient re
proach.
Jack turned very red.
“ How is she ?”
“Oh, better ; she was very ill when I came.”
“I am very sorry,” he said, awkwardly.
“ You — are — very — sorry I” repeating his
words in an accent of intense surprise—” why,
Jack!”
Jack shuffled about uneasily, marched across
the cell two or three times, glanced at bis sister
sideways and at last blurted out:
“ Ob, dash it all, Cis—a fellow in ‘quod,’ with
a charge ot murder hanging over him can’t
have the cheek ”
“ Shall I give you her message ?”
“Her message “’—eagerly. “Did she send
one? What ia it?’
Cissie put her arms round his neck, just as
Daisy had done round hers, and kissed him
three times.
“That was her message.” she answered.
“Must I take them back to her, and say you
don’t want them ?”
“ No: I’ll give you some more in return.
And tell her I am pretty comfortable ; very
grateful ter her good things, and ask her to
trust me a little longer.”
So Cecily Berners went back to the cottage
well pleased with her visit, and gave Daisy
Jack’s message.
“He said,” Cissie cried, seizing the shorter
Daisy in her arms, “that you are to trust him a
little longer. However, be is very cheerful,
considering everything, and was so delighted,
poor dear, with the box and hamper. Of course,
you know Daisy, they may be all very good to
him, yet, stuck in prison as he is, be must of
necessity feel it awfully, because he has never
been cooped up in all his life before. Poor
dear Jack I he really hardly dared to ask for
you—in fact, fee did not until I mentioned you ;
and then it turned out ho hadn’t the cheek,
being, as he said, iu ( quod ’ on the charge of
murder.”
“Absurd!” cried Daisy.
“So 1 said. And then Jack said : ‘Tell her
I am pretty comfortable ; very grateful for her
good things, and ask her to trust me a little
longer.’ Poor Jack!”
Misa Barners wondered, not unnaturally, why
NEW YORK DISIMTCH, JUNE 19 1887.
Daisy seemed so little elated by Jack’s mess ge.
To her it seeme I just the one o all others she
would have liked and appreciated best had she
and—well, say, Gregory iSt. Lawrence—been
£ laced in the same circumst nces. But with
aisy it was different. She could have screamed
out loud as the words left Cissie’s bps—she was
to trust him a little longer! He bid taken it
for granted, as a matter of course, a thing which
went without saying, that she had trusted him
implicitly all along; and, oh! what would he
say when he found that she had not trusted him
at all?
During the weary days that followed Daisy
was almost as much a prisoner as Jack, for she
never stirred outside the cottage scarcely, in
deed, entered the garden, though Cecily Berners
used to beg her often to do so. it was very sel
dom, however, that she could be coaxed into
the iresh air; and once, when Cecily had suc
ceeded in dragging her out, and had led her,
without thinking whither she was going, down
the pathway under the hedge to the little gate
leading to the river side, Daisy almost fright
ened her to death by such a fit of weeping, that
she was glad to leave her afterward to the more
tranquil atmosphere of the house itself.
Oh, but those were dark and dreary days I Ce
cily Berners began to wonder if she would ever
laugh again. Lower and lower sank Daisy’s
spirits as she brooded over the short period of
her unbelief in Jack’s innocence less and less
cheerful grew Jack as the unwonted confine
ment began to tell upon his health and appetite
—longer and longer grew tho poor colonel’s
face as the days slipped by and the detectives
failed to find the slightest clew to the discovery
of tho real criminal ; so dismal he grew, in fact,
that at last - though, as a matter of course, no
company was received at tho Cottage—ho asked
the Doctor to com© and dine with him one even
ing, when Jack's sister had been at Brockhurst
nearly a month.
“ Come and dine with me to-night, Foster,”
he said, one morning, when the Doctor passed
the Cottage gate. “Do—it will be a real
charity.”
“ Well, I shall be very glad,” the Doctor an
swered. “{Seven o’clock, i suppose?”
“ Yes, as usual. Don’t trouble to dress—my
young ladies won’t show.”
“ How is Miss Cameron ?” .
“Oh, down—very down ; and no wonder !*
“No, poor thing-that’s true ! Well, I must
be off now ; see you again. Good-by !”
“ Good-by !” called the Colonel in return,
and went back into the house in quite jovial
spirits at the idea of spending a social evening
once more. He found the two girls in his own
“den”—Cissie writing a letter, and Daisy sit
ting on the other side of tho table, resting her
chin upon her clasped hands and watching her.
“ Oh, Daisy, Foster is coming to dine with me
to-night ! h ill either of you be inclined to
show ?”
“I think not,” said Cecily, looking up from
her letter.
“No,” said Daisy, decidedly. “But it won’t
matter; we can dine just as comfortably m
here.”
“ 1 thought so. I told him he needn’t bother
to dress; but, if you had cared to come, I
would have sent down to let him know—that
was all.”
“I’ll tell cook about the dinner,” Daisy said,
quietly.
Bo at a few minutes after seven that evening
the Colonel and the Doctor sat down to dinner
together.
“ By Jove,” exclaimed the Colonel, “ but I am
glad to have some one to spe .k to 1 As long as
i live 1 hope 1 shall never put in such a month
again aa the last has been 1 As soon as this poor
chap gets out, up to town I go by the next train,
and we ll turn our backs on the place lor a good
long holiday. Upon my word, 1 think we have
earned it I”
“ Yes, it will be the best thing all round,”
Doctor Foster agreed.
It happened, during the course of the meal,
that the conversation turned upon birthplaces.
“I’m a {Staffordshire man,” said the Colonel.
“Staffordshire, with a Scotch name !” laughed
tho Doctor.
“ Oh, well, to be sure, my father was a Soot;
but then 1 was born in Staflord 1”
“Stafford itself?” asked the Doctor, care
lessly.
“No, at Shugborough. They used always to
tell me, when i was a lad, that I had been born
in the same place—the same house, they used
to say, but that was doubtful as one ol the
greatest heroes in the world, and that I was to
do great things in consequence. 1 never did,
however, though it’s true we have managed to
achieve an unenviable kind ot notoriety with
this wretched business.”
“ Yes. And who was he ?”
“Lord Anson—Admiral of the Fleet.”
“ Lord Anson ? ’
The Doctor remembered nothing about it, so
the Colonel continued :
“Tho man who did such fearful damage to
the Spanish fleet in South America in the
eighteenth century—captured one galleon worth
four hundred thousand pounds. I believe the
silver was found in great"bars, and was coined,
most of it. Every coin has ‘ Lima ’ upon it; but
they say there are not many left now.”
“ By Jove, but I have one !” cried the Doctor,
feeling in his pocket and producing the coin—a
half-crown. “There!”
The Colonel picked up tho coin and turned it
over, looked at the Doctor in a puzzled way, as
if he was trying to remember something, looked
at the coin again closely, so that the lamplight
fell upon two tiny letters scratched on the sil
ver suriace ; then a clear recollection came to
him of an evening in that room—himselt. and
the dead Squire, the flower-decked table, the
scent of tho roses blowing iu through tho win
dow, the com iu his hand.
“Good heavens, Foster,” he exclaimed,
abruptly, “where did you get this? Danvers
showed it to me on the night he was mur
dered !”
CHAPTER XXIII.
“bill jainob is the man who MURDERED MR.
DANVERS,”
For a moment Colonel Cameron and his com
panion sat speechless, staring into each other's
eyes in absolute bewilderment. Then Doctor
Foster spoke.
“ Are you quite sure ? Do you know that it
is the same coinhe asked.
“1 am certain of it. 1 was saying the very
same thing about my birthplace that I have
just said to you, and Danvers told me then that
a great-uncle ot his father’s—one Edward Ban
tinck—was a lieutenant on board the ‘Centur
ion,’ and had kept one of the t ima coins all his
lite as a memento. He explained the tact ot its
being just then in his pocket thus—he’d shown
it to some one during the day, and, being rather
late tor his engagement here, and not caring to
leave it lying on bis dressing-table, lest it
should be appropriated or mislaid, had slipped
it into his waistcoat pocket. Look here — there
are the initials E. B. scratched just above ‘Lima’
(scratched by Edward Bentinck himself; lest it
should at any time be stolen.”
“ And how was it you never mentioned this
before, Colonel?”
“ Why, to tell you the truth, I never gave
conversation or coin a second thought from that
night to this. But, Foster, how do you come by
it ? You don't mean to say you had a hand in
it ?” he ended, in a tone as near joking as the
gravity of the subject permitted.
“ I got the coin from Price, at the ‘Danvers
Arms,’ ” said the doctor, quietly. “ How Px’ico
came by it is more than I can say.”
“ From—Price—at—the —‘ Danvers Arms,’ ”
repeated the colonel, in gasps. “ Oh, it’s ab
surd ! Price is as decent a fellow as ever lived.
I’d as soon suspect Berners, every bit.”
“So would 1. Beside, if ho had done it, and
had rifled his victim’s pockets, he would hard
ly be such a fool as to give away a marked coin
like that; lor, though, to be sure, I never no
ticed the initials upon it, nor yet, I dare say,
did he; still, coins stamped ‘Lima’ are not com
monly knocking about the country.”
“ And Price gave it to yoa ?”—in an inquiring
tone.
“ Yes. Y’ou see it was in this way: That poor
little lad Jemmy was ill a long, long time—
quite a hopeless case from the first. I knew he
would never live to be a man; but tho poor lit
tle lad was so patient and the lather and moth
er so anxious, that I used to look in and see
him a good deal oltener than was really neces
sary, and when the poor little lad died, I
couldn't send in much of a bill—in fact, just
enough to satisfy them that they had paid for
attendance. Well, ever since then they have
always been anxious to do me any good turn
they could, and, it ever Price chances to come
across a bit of old china, a coin, an old oak
chair or box, he collars it at once and sends it
off to me. Sometimes betakes the price of it
back, and sometimes he won’t. Soin this case;
he told me he took the coin in the way of busi
ness, and, noticing the word ‘Lima’ stamped
upon it, fancied it might be worth something to
a collector, as he had never seen one like it be
fore. And that’s all I know about the matter.”
“ 1 see. Well, don’t you think we had better
go down to the ‘Danvers Arms’ immediately,
and hear where Price got it?”
“I am qu.te willing. I only hope Price may
remember from whom he took it. If he does
not, the clew will be at an end. No one could
suspect Price tor a moment.”
“ You would think no o’ne in his senses could
suspect Berners,” returned the colonel.
“True—true; but then he had a reason —
Price could have none. I mean that Berners
was certainly in love with the squire’syiancee.”
“ Yes, that is so. Well, shall we go now?”
The doctor assented, and the two men left
the house together. They found the inn in Rs
usual evening condition—two men having a
casual glass in the bar, the regular company
in the front parlor—the host, the parish clerk,
the village blacksmith, barber, tailor and
schoolmaster, and one or two others ot the
same class. They stared in surprise when the
burly form oi the doctor appeared in the door
way backed by Colonel Cameron’s handsome
ruddy face and trim white mustache.
“Price,” said the doctor, “we want a word
with you privately.”
“To be sure, doctor,” answered the landlord,
rising instantly. “Come into the parlor”—lor
so Mrs. Price’s private sitting-room was called,
to distinquish it from the front parlor, which
was in reality a kind of club-room. “ This way,
gentlemen. My dear, these gentlemen want a
word in private with me.”
“No, no,” cried the colonel and the doctor in
the same breath; “ Mrs. Price may hear all we
have to say—in fact -we would rather she did,”
added the colonel politely.
So Mrs. Price remained; and the man of
medicine turned from her to her husband.
“ You remember giving me this coin, Price?”
he began.
“To be sure, doctor; ’twas the day before
yesterday, in the forenoon.”
“ You took it in the way of business?”
■ “I did, sir.”
“ And do you remember from whom ?”
: “Of course 1 do, doctor; it was from Bill
Jainor”—naming the most notorious blick
sheep of the neighborhood, a regular poacher
and ne'er-do-well.
The new corners turned and looked at each
other meaningly, and Colonel Cameron spoke
next. t
“ Just give ur all the details of tbetrunßaction
Price,” he said, in a voice that shook with
anxiety—“ all you know about it.”
“ Well, gentlemen it was on Monday night
Bill Jainor came in here and asked lor a glass
ot whisky. He had been drinking, for I was
serving myself just then, and I smelt the spirit
plainly; but lie certainly could not have been
called drunk-hardly in liquor. Now, you
know, I’d been there with Bill Jainor, and he
owed me a pretty long score which had never
been wiped out, and you may believe I didn’t
want to add to it further; so i askshim it he wants
to pay for it. Weil ’—here Price relapsed into the
true Yorkshire way ot tolling a story — ” be ups
in a m niite and he says, ‘ In course I does; whv
shouldn’t I?’ ‘Weil,’ says I, ‘ there’s a pretty
long bill to your name, Jainor, and I shouldn't
at all object to seeing my money back.’ ‘ So you
shall,’ says he. ‘Let’s hear how much it is.’ So
1 looks in my book, and Bill dashes a sovereign
down on the table. “Tis one-and-twenty shil
lings,’ says I. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘take that and
give me my whisky;’ and then he lays down on
the bar this very coin. ‘And you needn’t
ring them, Mr. Price,’ says be. ‘ I ain’t
taken to uttering counterfeit yet.’ But I did
ring tike coins, lor I thought it queer that be
should be aide to pay two-and-twenty shillings
at a moment’s notice; and then 1 noticed the
word ‘Dima’ on the half-crown, so I put it away
by itself, thinking it might be out of the com
mon, and that you, sir, might value it.”
“So it is out of the common, Price,” Doctor
Foster answered—“the more so that there are
two initials scratched above the word ‘Lima.’”
“I noticed them, sir—‘E. 8.,’ if I remember
rightly. Then what about the coin? Do you
think Jainor stole it ?”
“ Yes—we are sure of it,” answered the
colonel. “ Bid Jainor is tho man who murdered
Mr. Danvers, for he showed me that coin alter
dinner on the very night he was murdered.”
“ Good Heaven above us, gentlemen,” cried
the landlord in surprise—“you don’t say so 1”
—while his wife broke out into exclamations of
intense thankfulness that tho truth had come to
light bQlore Mr. Borners trial.
“ Wo do sav so, Price,” said Doctor Foster
solemnly. “ The s oundrel has betrayed him
self as murderers often do. Wo must go now to
the police-station, and then to the rectory.
Mr. Lennox is a magistrate, and will give us a
warrant to put Mr. Bill Jainor m the place that
he should have been in six weeks ago. Mean
time will you both be absolutely silent about
our discovery? News flies fast, particularly in
a place like Brocklmrst, and we want to search
Jainor’s house before he has heard that ho is m
any way suspected."
“ We will not breathe a word, sir,” said the
innkeeper earnestly.
“ We are too anxious to get Mr. Borners off,”
added his wife, wiping her eyes, for she had
been obliged to relieve her feelings by a few
quiet tears.
“ That is right—then good night to you both.”
“Stay, sir,” said Price; “tho detective, Mr.
Tomlinson, is hero—ho camo this evening, and
is having his suppor now. Hadn’t he better
hear what you have to say, and go with you ?”
“ No, Price no. Go and tell him all you have
heard, and send him down to tho police-station
after us. The more quietly tho whole affair is
done the less trouble there will be in securing
Jainor.”
e “I expect there will be a tussle over that
job,” sai’d the landlord, nodding his bead know
ingly. As he would have said in dialect with
which he was most familiar, he had “been
there” with Bill Jainor; he had seen one of Bill
Jainor’s scuffles with the police.
(To ba Ooutmixal.i
A SWAMP WiPJ.
A Story of ths Burnside Expe
dition.
The Summer of the year 1862 was particular
ly hot on the coast of North Carolina. It even
did something to counteract the more destruc
tive heat of the civil war.
General Burnside bad captured a long reach
of the seaboard, and had established his head
quarters at Newbern. No battles followed very
soon, nor any storms to speak of, but the army
and the weather were fast getting into a high
state of preparation for either kind of event.
There were Union troops at Fort Macon and
Morehead City, not many miles up the coast
from Newbern, and much pay was due them.
The money came down from the North in Ju
ly, and a couple of paymasters received orders
to go at once and deal it out to the men.
Before the war a railway had been construct?
ed from Newbern to Morehead City, its rails
were still there, but all its rolling stock, with
the exception of one hand-car, had gone into
the interior of the State. The viaduct was only
just wide enough to carry the ra Is, and much
ot its course was through a swamp whose dense
bushes were now luxuriantly reaching out as if
they meant to capture the track before the end
of the season.
The quartermaster placed his one hand-car
at the disposal ot the paymaster. He did so
with the pleasant information that on the pre
vious evening the busy Coni ederates had made
a raid and had swept away all the pickets post
ed along the line oi the railway. New pickets
had been posted, he told them, and their pro
posed trip would be reasonably sa e.
“That is,” saidhe, “ 1 guess you're safe from
any Confeds, but it you don’t get through before
dark, I’d advise you to bo pretty prompt about
answering any hail. The boys’ll be wide awake
this time. They won’t be slow about taking care
of themselves in the dark. Not a man ot ’em
wants to go to Wilmington just now, nor to An
dersonville, either.’
The warning m» de the paymaster shake bis
head and grow in importance before lhe hand
car set out, for it was plain enough that it
would be dark be ore the trip could be half
made. Precisely how dark it would bo or
why was not as yet imagined by anybody.
There were nine men huddled on that hand
car when it went. A sergeant and lour soldiers
were its motive-power, guard and garrison. The
writer of this story was there altogether as an
adventurer. Two paymasters, with the rank of
major, and one clerk were in charge of a black
box containing over SBO, ;0t) in greenbacks to be
scattered among the volunteers on the morrow.
The air grew more and more close and sultry,
and just be ore night a sort of haze began to rise
over the eastern horizon.
“ That’s it, major,” said the sergeant to one of
the paymasters. “We’re, going to hear from
Cape Hatteras.”
“ Storm coming ?”
“ Right along. ’Twon’t take it long to come.”
He was correct as to the time required by
Cape Hatteras, or whatever was managing that
storm. The sky rapidly grew black as ink, and
darkness came with but moderate reference to
the departing sun.
Just before entering the denser thickets of
the swamps a picket was reached and the officer
in charge repeated the warning to the quarter
master.
“Be ready to answer right away. It’ll be
pitch dark, and some of the boys are nervous
alter last night’s work. They’ll shoot quick.”
This was to the sergeant, but it was a pay
master who replied:
“ Well, now, captain, we didn’t say, but we
thought the trip would be safer by night than
by day. The men have got to have the money.”
“ Hope the Rebs won’t get it, then. Put her
through, sergeant, but look sharp. Tho storm’s
most got here.”
He was also correct about the weather. In
ten minutes more such a storm had arrived as
was a credit to Cape Hatteras and the whole
seacoast of North Carolina. On rolled the hand
car, its crouching passengers drenched with
rain, that fell in streams rather than drops.
The lightning flashed almost incessantly, and
the thunder seemed to be rolling around all
over the swamp. Except where a streak ot
lightning cleft it, the darkness was like a solid
wall,and there was neither headlight nor hand
lantern provided tor that handcar.
“ Worst storm I ever saw,” remarked the ser
geant, and one of the brace of men who were
acting as motive-power, grunted back at him,
“ It’s the worst kind of a storm, bub you can’t
see it.”
It was a just correction of the statement made
by the sergeant, but at that moment a hoarse,
deep, all but sepulchral voice from among the
bushes and blackness at the right of the track
commanded:
“Halt!”
“Stop her! Quick, boys!” exclaimed the
sergeant, and as the men changed instantly
from motive-power into brakes, he sprang from
the car into water above bis knees and waded
forward to answer the hail and give the coun
tersign.
It was all in vain. Down came a double del
uge of rain and thicker darkness. Then a viv
idness ot blue electricity danced through the
drooping bushes, and a great roar of thunder
followed, as if in search of the hidden “ picket.”
Neither rain, nor lightning, nor thunder, nor
anxious questionings of the sergeant discovered
him.
There he was, or must have been, dead or
alive, for he had said “halt,” but that was ap
parently all he had to say.
The sergeant splashed his way back to the
band-car, using very strong language, and it
was decided to go forward.
“Were just as likely to be fired into first
thing,’ remarked the paymaster’s clerk, “and
they’d hit some ol us, sure.”
Both of the paymasters agreed with him, and
one expressed his satisfaction that the box con
taining the greenbacks was waterproof.”
“ That’s more than I am,” said one of the sol
diers. “This ’ere rain’s got through my roof.
I can feel it trickle down inside of me.”
The hand-car was not propelled rapidly after
that, but the lightning and thunder worked
harder than ever. Perhaps half a mile had
been gained when another voice—on the left
this time, and not so near, but equally hoarse
and peremptory—shouted:
“Halt 1”
Other words which seemed to follow were
swallowed up by a wide-mouthed clap of thun
der, and so was the sergeant s response, but in
an instant he was among the bushes.
The first we heard from him was:
“ Boys, xt’s up to my waist, and getting deep
er I”
“Go on, sergeant,” shouted one of the pay
masters. “They’ll be shooting at us if they
don’t get an answer.’*
“ Hurrah for General Burnside!” squawked
the paymaster's clerk, in the effort to let any
supposed picket know which side ho was on ;
! but a severe sternness from the further end
bade him :
“Shut up! Halt! Come along.”
“I’m coming,” shouted the sergeant. “Friend
Paymaster 1”
“Shut up! Come along I” responded the
threatening voice beyond him.
For full quarter of an hour the sergeant
groped and floundered among the bushes.
Again he used strong language, very strong in
deed ; but not a soul came to meet him, nor
did another word reply to his repeated requests
that the picket should advise him as to what
course he should takje.
The party on the hand car cowed under sheets
and torrents and whole miilponds of falling
water, and hoped that there might boa cessa
tion of the lightning flashes, so that any bidden
riflemen would be less able to shoot straight.
“ 1 give it up,” said the voice of the sergeant
at last.
Ho was only three paces from the car, but
was invisible.
“ The boys know who wo are,” said one of
the soldiers, “ and we can go on ; but it’s an
awful mean joke to play in such a rain as this.”
“There's something more than that in it.”
said one of the paymasters. “There’s a trap
of some kind. We’ll never got to Morehead
City.”
“ We 11 go ahead, anyhow,” said the sergeant.
“ There’s as much danger behind as there is
before.”
“I’m glad I hurrahed for Burnside,” re
marked the paymaster’s clerk.
On went the hand car into tbs water-soaked
darkness, and another mile or more was rolled
over before the wayside summons was sonor
ously repeated.
“Quick, now, sergeant !” said the senior pay
master.
“Don’t know, major,” he replied. “That
fellow’s away in the swamp. He’s got under
cover. 1 couldn’t even find him. Risk it!
Boys, risk it I Ruu her ahead. They can’t hit
us if they do fire.”
“ Halt!” came warningly out of the black
ness as the hand-car dashed forward, and with
it came thunder that sounded like a rattle of
musketry.
“They didn’t work thoir joke this time, ma
jor,” said the sergeant.
“There’s more than that in it,” said the ma
jor. “I’m glad we’re past this picket, but I’m
afraid we’re running into trouble. They may
have surprised Morehead City and the fort.”
“Beckon not, ma or. Run her your level
best, boys. We won’t halt again for anybody.”
That was brave talk, but in less than twenty
minutes he exclaimed:
“ Hold on, boys I That picket is right on the
track ! Stop her for your lives I”
They did so, as an ominous and menacing
threat repeated :
“ Halt! Halt!” and from the roar at the same
moment other voices seemed to say, “ Got ’em ?
Got ’em now 1”
“I’m afraid they have,” groaned the major,
“money and all, and we’re on our way to Wil
mington.”
“No use to hurrah for Burnside this time,”
squeaked the paymaster’s clerk.
The sergeant ran ahead along the track until
be missed his footing in the dark and went off
into a grimy depth of water and black mud just
as somebody said:
“ Who’s there ? ’ and he was trying to re
spond:
“Friend, with the countersign.”
His mouth had too much in lor success, and
ouco more he used strong and very volcanic ex
pressions as soon as bis vocal organs were at
work again. Then we hoard him say;
“ Come along, boys ! There isn t anybody
here and the water's six inches deep over the
track.”
It was a doleful mystery, and the chance of
being fired upon grew grisly enough as the car
was dubiously urged forward.
The fierceness of the storm diminished, and
thus, with a great gust of wind from Cape Hat
teras, it ceased. More wind came and swept
away the clouds. The moon came out glorious
ly, and at that very moment the paymaster’s
clerk exclaimed:
“Quick, sergeant! They could see to shoot
now 1”
“Halt! Como along! Got ’em! Got ’em
now 1 Bully ! Better mount! Better mount!”
That was what it sounded like, but the ser
geant exclaimed;
“ Abraham Lincoln! If it doesn’t make five
times that we’ve been halted by those Confed
erate frogs!”
In half an hour more wo wore all safe in More
head City, leaving the frogs to play jokes on
somebody else.
LEGEND OF THE IVY.
BY ISA MONROE GRAY.
(From the German.)
In a little village among the German hills
there once dwelt a beautiful, fair-haired maid
en. Her eyes were blue as the Hummer sky
and her lips as ripe as an opening rosebud. It
is said that this lair maid was something of a
coquette* and had many lovers. But one seem
ed more favored than the rest; on him she cast
her brightest smiles, and promised on some
future day to givo her hand in holy wedlock.
“ But not yet,” she said, “ give me freedom a
little longer.”
Weeks passed, and the youth becoming jeal
ous of her smiles, urged her to name the day
when she would make him happy; but with a
merry laugh and a twinkling eye. she bade him
“wait.”
“ Ho turned from her with a sigh and waited.
Again be came to her and urged his suit, but
the same answer was given. A third time he
came, saying:
“ I ask thee now, for the last time, to name
our wedding-day.”
She looked at him in surprise, and asked:
“ Why sayest thou tor the last time ?”
“ Because I have come to thee many times
with the same request, and each time thou bast
told me to wait. If still thou tellest me to wait,
it w 11 be to wait forever.”
Thinking he only told her this to frighten her,
with a toss of her pretty head, she replied:
“Then wait forever, kind sir.”
Her lover, with one long, sad gaze in her
sweet face, loft her. Never thinking but he
would come again and renew his suit, the
maiden danced on and was as merry as over.
But days lengthened into weeks, and he came
not. One day news came that her lover had
gone off to the Holy war, and she knew then
that he would come no more. Bitterly she re
pented of her folly, but it was too late. In
vain the village lads and maids smiled upon
her, and urged her to join them in their sports,
but she heeded them not. Remorse and grief
were gnawing at her heart. The roses faded
from her cheek, her eyes grew dim and her
step slow; and when, at last, w’ord came that
her lover had fallen in battle, she drooped and
died.
They buried her in the village churchyard,
amid the budding flowers of Spring. And
there the kind villagers often went to scatter
flowers over her grave, for she had been much
loved by them.
One day. on coming to her grave, they saw
there a strange plant growing. It put forth its
tender leaves and long, slender fingers. Ever
moving onward, it covered the grave till it was
a beautiful mound of green, then moved on
over the ground, fastening its slender fibers in
the rootlets of the grass and clover. The
superstitious villagers watched it with wonder.
Never beiore had they seen so strange a plant,
and they whispered one to the other that this
strange vino that was ever traveling onward
was the maiden Ivy’s soul going forth to find
her lover.
“UGH!”
The Singular Spectacle That Old Chief
Kaweah Beheld.
(From the San Jose Herald.)
Bank Commissioner Potts, of Los Angeles,
had an amusing experience in the gold times of
California. The story, as told to a Herald re
porter, runs as follows:
In the early days of the gold excitement, be
fore many of the young men of the present day
were born, Mr. Potts and his partner, both
miners, put their heads together and decided
that there was probably gold at the headwaters
of the San Joaquin. They thought it would bo
well to investigate the matter, and accordingly
they set out. In due time they arrived at their
destination.
They discovered a deep hole in the bod of one
of the forks, and they concluded that if there
was gold anywhere m the bed of the stream it
was in that hole. They tried diving to reach
the bottom, but the water was too deep, and
they iound themselves in a dilemma. Mr.
Potts’s partner bethought him of a diving suit
in San Francisco that he could procure, and the
decision was reached that he go and bring it.
This he did, arriving with it alter a time.
Those who have seen a diving suit are aware
of the frightful appearance of a man arrayed in
it. The front of the head piece is a large circu
lar pane of glass that gives the wearer the ap
pearance of a hideous Cyclops. Prom the top
of the head runs a rubber tube for supplying
air to the diver, and there is also a rope' at
tached for hauling him up.
Mr. Potts’s partner arrayed himself in the
suit. Lying across the hole was a fallen tree,
and Mr. Potts and his partner walked ont upon
the log, and the partner slipped down into the
water, and was instantly out of sight, Mr. Potts
holding the rope by which to haul him up. The
agreed signal was a jerk on the rope.
While Mr. Potts was thus sitting on the log
and holding the rope, he appeared to be fishing
with a stout line .or big fish. He was thus en
gaged when Chief Kaweah and his squaws came
down from the mountains, where they had been
gathering nuts. He stopped, and thus addressed
Mr. Potts:
“ You ketchum fish ?”
“ No, not yet,” was the reply; “ but I expeet
a bite pretty soon.”
The old chief was evidently much interested
in the scene, and, without more ado, he squat
ted on the bank and awaited developments, his
numerous wives quietly following his example.
Pretty soon there came a jerk on the rope
that rippled the surface of the water. Kaweah
became greatly excited when he saw Mr. Potts
pulling heavily ou the line, and the old chief got
to his feet and watched the procedure with the
deepest interest. Presently the monster of the
deep came to the surface, with its hideous Cy
clopean eye turned in Kaweuh’s direction.
“ Ugh 1” shouted the old warrior, and then he
and his harem turned tail and fled panic
stricken, over the plains,
BITTER CREEPS BAD MAN.
The Original Citizen Who Made Life
Miserable for the People.
(From the San Francisoo Examiner.)
Nay, had I the power I’d pour
Th* sweet milk of Concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace.
Confound all unity on earth.
“ 1 admit that 1 am from Bitter Creek,” said
W. F. Robbins, at the Russ House, to an inter
viewer. “ I can’t help it. I was from there,
and now can’t very well get away for keeps.
Beside, why should I? lam doing very well
there and like the place.
“ But I get a little weary. Everywhere I go,
when I put down my name, the fool clerk says:
“ ‘ Oh, aha ! You’re the Bad Man from Bitter
Creek, are you V
“•These things make me weary! New to the
idiotic clerks and others, perhaps, who make
the remark, but awfully old to me.
“ You say you half supposed this Bitter
Creek, or at least the Bad Man part of it, to be
hypothetical? Not a bit of it. Consult your
map. You’ll find one Bitter Creek in tVyoming,
two in Arizona, one, and possibly two, in Utah,
onoin Montana, and one in California. Almost
all are small streams, or they would be called
rivers, as you may suppose.
“ Well, the genuine and historic stream is in
southwestern Montana, and that’s where I had
from. The creek is 110 miles long, and empties
into the Clark’s Fork of the Columbia.
“The bad man was a fellow named Jim
Yount, an exceedingly rocky individual, who
came there in very early times from Tennessee.
Nobody knew the exact date, for he was ahead
of most everybody else. Ho was none of your
* mild-mannered ’ sort of men, as Slade was rep
resented to be. Originally, in Tennessee, I sup
pose he was a Knob-hiller, and as he grew older
he rapidly grew worse.
“ I pon my word, he was the most vicious,
vindictive man I over heard of. Ho fairly earned
his title. AYo beard ho was a murderer in Ten
nessee, of three boys, playmates in school,
whom he didn’t like. He sloped to Missouri
and kni.ed an old gentleman, in whose employ
ho was, because the old man insisted on his get
ting up at seven o’clock in the morning.
“He blazed his way in this manner pretty
effectually to the West, (me of his first deeds’,
which the pioneers of Montana recollect, was
the shooting off of both ears of a bull-whacker,
by Jim.
“ Jim saw him driving along and remarked to
a friend that he thought he could make a cen
tre-shot ou the teamster’s big ear. The friend
doubted it, and he let her go. He struck tbs
auditing apparatus plum in the middle. Be
fore the teamster could clap his hand on the
shot ear, whack wont a ball through the other
one.
“The bad man then asked the bull-whacker
if he didn’t want him to present him with a
couple of earbobs, since he had such nice round
holes to put them in.
“ His next deed was to burn a school-house
seme twenty miles away. He claimed the chil
dren made faces at him as ho was going along
one day, and he’d be hanged if he’d have such
kids to grow up to know any more than he d d.
“In a dispute with two confederates about
some stolen horses in ’CO, a year after this school
house affair, he killed both of them, took all
the stock and gobbled their money. He didn’t
even bury the fellows, but left their bodies lying
only fifty yards or so from the corral.
** But bis best hold was in the saloons. He’d
drink a barrel o.i whisky every few days —no
soft drinks for him —whisky every time. Ho
had a bleared, blotched face that looked like a
chromo, and his oaths and language in general
was something frightful to hear.
“I don’t recollect a crime in those early days
that he didn’t commit. He field up stages, stole
bullion and robbed mails with impunity. No
body molested him. Everybody feigned not to
know who did it, and everybody went around
cnngingly asking Jim, as they patted him on the
back, to take a drink. Quite o.ten he’d get mad
at this even, and tell them to have a care how
they camo slobbering around him or he’d shoot
the tops of their heads off.
“ Jim played many brilliant engagements of
this sort around Virginia City, in Montana,
Boulder City and other places. His Bitter
Creek ranch was only a rendezvous lor him, a
sort of a central or pivotal point, where he and
fellow thieves rounded up their stolen horses
and cattle.
“ Jim ran along for several years in this way,
cutting, shooting and killing until he boasted,
himself that two graveyards wouldn’t hold the
people that he had laid away.
“in ’67, however, Jim made one trip too often
to Helena. He had made his record over there.
But the rich placers had drawn a host of bad
men there, and one night when Jim drew his
artillery in Tom Beet s gambling-dive and be
gau to lay on right and left he got a ball in lus
heart that lorever fixed him.
“Of the crowd, though, he killed four first
and maimed for life three or four more. He
was buried out in the foothills near Helena,
and for a long time and until it rotted away a
plain pine board marked hie grave and bore
the inscription:
I THE BAD MAN FROM BITTER CREEK.
“I think Jim was about forty years old when
be was rounded in. It was a glad day for Bit er
Creek and a joyful one for Helena, which for a
long time boasted that it had tucked our bad.
man away under the daisies.
“ Now, you might think that our region is
full of such citizens as Jim, but it is not so. \Ve
are now, at least, a quiet, peaceable community*
devoted to ranching and agriculture. It wou.d
do you good to visit Bitter Creek.”
A ROMANCE OF A RANCH.
Pathetic Story of a Rough Westerner
and a Flaxen-Haired Babe.
(From the Chicago Herald.)
At Rawlins, Wy., a few weeks ago I saw one
of the saddest incidents it has ever been my
misfortune to witness. A rancher rode into
town on horseback holding in bis arms a dead
baby—a sweet little thing with flaxen hair, which
curled all over its head, and soft blue eyes
which had not been closed even in death.
Seventy-five miles across the country that
rancher had carried the dead baby in bis arms.
I talked with him and heard his story. It was
like this:
“ A year or more ago he had begun a corres
pondence with a young woman in Chicago, get
ting her address from a matrimonial paper. 3 he
result was an exchange of photographs, and
finally marriage. Tbo girl went to live with
him on bis ranch, but the lonely life there did
not suit the city girl, and a few weeks after the
birth of her babe she ran away to Chicago, leav
ing husband and child behind her. There was
no woman on the ranch, and the rough father
did the best he could to rear the child. I have
no doubt that he was tender and attentive—in
fact, he said he neglected his stock and did
nothing else but care for his child -but robbed
of Us mother’s oare the little ono siokened and
didd.
“ ’ My life seemed to go out with that ’ar little
one,’ said the rancher, in his rough way, * au’
when she died I cried like a woman. Then my
heart rose in anguish against the mother, and I
felt that I could kill her. It seemed to me that
’ar babe would be alive and smilin’.an’ cooin’ to
day if her mother had not deserted her. Thon
says Ito myself, i’ll be avenged! And, so I
wrapped the poor little thing in a blanket,
jumped on my horse and came here. I’m goin’
to send the mother a little present- a peace
offerin’ from her deserted husband. Pm going
to send her the body ot her little ’an.’
“Ho actually procured a little oolin and laid
the babe in it, after kissing the white face again
and again, and cutting a few locks of the golden
hair from the little round head. There wore no
tears in his eyes—he seemed to be past that -
but as he turned away from the railway station,
whore he had shipped the body to an address
'in Chicago, which 1 shall not give, he appeared
to mo to be the most broken-heartod man I’d
ever seen.
“In five minutes he came running back,
seized the little box, and exclaimed:
“No, no ! 1 can’t do it. Give me my little ’tin.
Keep the money, but give mo my littlo girl.’
“Before the station agent could say a word
the man had put the box on his shoulder and
run away. Five minutes later wo saw him on
his horse, the box in his arms, galloping back
to his ranch.”
AN EARNEST REQUEST.
Thought the Governor Would ‘-Sock”
it in His Message.
(Jl'O.ni the Arkansaw Traveller.)
Ths governor of Arkansaw is sometimes
forced to entertain peculiar visitors. Tbo other
day, an old fellow Irom Gray Bayou called on
him, and although he at once began to speak
of the great prospects ot the State, his ac
tions showed so clearly that he had not touched
upon the subject which prompted the visit,
that the governor asked :
Can 1 do anything lor you ?”
“ Wall, now, you talk so much like a clever
man that wantster do the square thing that I
will tell you—didn’t think I would airter I got
up here, but I will now, ef it takes ever’ bit of
the har off. Now, oven ef you kain't do what
I ax, I want you to promise that you’ll be sorter
tender with me.”
“ All right; state your case.”
“ I am not aieered to, knowin’ in reason that
you won’t do what I ax you, but as you have
promised to be tender with me, I’ll rip itout, ef
it do take ever’ bit of the ha’r off. I came to
town yistidy an’—wall, got drunk an’ hit a
feller an’ knocked down a stove an’ choked a
'man an’ sheered a boss. I was tuck and locked
up, an’ I paid my way out this mornin’.”
“ But what do you want me to do!” the gov
ernor asked.
“ I want you to keep it out. Thar’ now, ef
you kan’t do it, be tender with me.”
“ Keep what out!”
“ The transactions, Guv’ner. Bein’ tuck up
fur cuttin’ sich capers.”
“ Keep it out of what?”
Thar, now, recolleck what you promised.
Keep an account of it outen your message.”
“ Merciful heavens 1” exclaimed the chief ex
ecutive.
‘‘Thar, now, I know I've dun went too fur,
but be tender.”
“ Is it possible that you thought I would men
tion such an affair in a message
“ W’y the boys round at the wagin yard ’lowed
that you would sock it in your message an read
it befo’ the Legislatur’, an’ that would ruin me
everlastin’ly out at the bayou. Ligo Boide he
’lowed that ho knowed a teller that you writ up
in a message ouct, an’ ’cording to Lige, he ain't
been wuth nothin’ sense. Says that his wife
left him, an’ I tell you what s a fact, if my wife
was to leave mo I wouldn’t be no manner of
’count on the face of the yetb. That woman
ken stand at one end of a cross-cut saw ah’
make most any man squeal. Now, jest keep it
out of your message, Guv’ner, and when you
run fur oilice ag’in, tbar ain’t mon enough in
my neighborhood to hold me away from the
polls. Good-by,” seizing the Governor’s hand,
“ good-by, an’ recolleck that I never will lorgit
you. Make ole Ligo open his eves when I ashore
him that I won’t be in the message.”
KISBESTJRIEND.
THE STORY OF A SAGACIOUS
HORSE.
(From an Unknown Exchange.)
One day last Autumn a miner, whose homo is
in an adjoining county, and who lives alone in a
small cabin situated in tl>e toot of the hills, sev
eral miles fretn his nearest neighbor, reaehed
home about dusk from an extended prospecting
tour, almost worn out and sick. He removed
the saddle and bridle irom his horse and turned
him loose to graze, and, entering his cabin,
threw himself down upon his cot and soon fell
into a restless slumber, from which ho awoke
late in the night, with a raging fever.
Almost delirious, he knew not what to do,
being alone and without medicines. It might
happen that some neighbor would pass by in
the morning, but there was no certainty that
anybody would call tor days or probably weeks.
2I realization of his helpless couditi. n aggra
vated his disease, and the poor man grew worse.
Morning came, and he was unable to leave his
bed. His horse, his one iaithiul friend and
companion, could be heard near by, evidently
waiting for his coming.
All day long the animal remained within hear
ing distance, and during the long, tedious hours
of the second night, could be heard moving
about with restless tread, as though conscious
that some misfortune had befallen his master.
Daylight appeared at last, and the sick man
made an effort to speak. The horse, hoarmg
the welcome voice, went to the door of the
cabin, and pushing it open, thrust his head
into the sick man’s presence, at the same time
giving a low whinny, as much as to say, “ What
is the matter?” to which kindly inquiry there
was no response save a inoan ot distress.
For a moment or two the horse stared
strangely about, seemingly bewildered, then
quickly withdrew, and in a few momenta gal
loped rapidly away. As the sound of the horse’s
feet died away, the sick man felt as theugh his
only friend and moans of relief were now lost
to him, and be shuddered at the thought that
he might fall into that never waking sleep be
fore any person could know that ho was ill.
The nearest neighbor of the sick man was a
ranchman, whose home was located on the river
about six miles distant. Once in a while this
neighbor rode over to the miner’s camp for a
short visit, but these trips were made at irreg
ular intervals, and there was no certainty when
be would be there again.
The ranchman, on the river, had finished his
breakfast and was just coming out of his house,
when his attention was attracted to a riderlese
horse coming down the mountain road at a
tremendous gallop.
The horse did not slacken his speed until ha
reached the corral, or inclosure near the
house. He was i eeked with foam and short of
breath, showing that he had come irom a dis
tance and at unusual speed.
The ranchman, knowing the horse, spoke to
him gently, which the animal acknowledged by
a loud whinny, at the same time running rest
lessly up and down the road by the corral. The
ranchman approached the horse, which, how
ever, would not suffer itself to be captured, but
galloped off toward its home, stopping at a short
distance, and looking back with evident
anxiety.
The ranchman returned to the corral, when
the horse again galloped down the road, and
moved uneasily about, as if determined to at
tract attention, whinnying and occasionally
giving a loud snort, as though frightened.
Another attempt to capture the horse, which,
usually, was a very gentle creature, succeeded
no better than the first, the animal avoiding
the man in a manner hitherto unknown. Tho
horse ran up the road again, and called to the
man to follow—called to him by every dumb
sign, almost as plainly as though he were pos
sessed of the power ol speech.
These unusual proceedings so impressed the
ranchman that he felt that something was
wrong. Could it be that Galena George— a»
the miner and owner ot the horse was called—
had met with some mishap? Maybe he had
been murdered in his lonely cabin by “ rust
lers,” or had accidentally fallen into the shaft
of his mine without the means ot escape.
The strange conduct ot the horse indicated
that something unusual had happened, and
that was enough to prompt the ranchman to
speedy action. Calling one ol his assistants,
the men quickly saddled two of the best horses
on the place, and securing their revolvers to
against danger, and providing some
medicines and stimulants to use in case of
emergency, they rode rapidly away in the direc*
tion of Galena George’s cabin.
George s horse, observing this movement,
manifested great pleasure, and started on a
gallop toward his home. The horsemen fol
lowed at a lively pace, but the free horse kept
well to the front, now and then looking back, as
it to be sure that the chase had not been aban
doned.
On they sped, and in about forty minutes
from the time of starting the men reached the
cabin of their friend, which appeared to be de
serted.
The men dismounted, and, entering the
cabin, found George upon his couch, wasted in
form and apparently dead, and at the door
stood the faithful horse, which, having tried to
save his master, was patiently waiting for some
sign that he yet lived. The sad sight was so
touching as to force tears to tho eyes of tho
men, who had been guided by tho noble brute
to the rescue.
A hasty examination disclosed the fact that
life was not extinct, and while one of the mon
set about preparations or the relief of the sick
man, the other remounted his horse and gal
loped away for a phys cian, the nearest of whom
lived some twenty miles away.
Before sundown ot that day the doctor
reached the miner’s cabin, and found the sick
man conscious, through the skilliul ministra
tions of his kind neigh or.
Within a fortnight be was able to walk about.
When told ot the remarkable conduct ot h's
horse, the man wept like a child. He said ho
had always known that his horse was unusual
ly intelligent and affectionate, but he could
scarcely believe the story ol his wonderful
sagacity.
Georgo is in good health again, and the care
and attention which he bestows upon his horse
aro like the caro ot a devoted mother for a fa
vored son. Not long since, a gentleman, hav
l ing learned of the incident related above, ex-
I pressed a desire to purchase the horse, but
Georgo informed him that no amount o money
could tempt him to part with the animal; that
it was his intention to keep him as long as ha
lived, upon the very best that the land could
vroduce, and when he died to bury him de
cently, and erect over his grave a monument
with the inscription, “To my best friend.”
A MARRIAGE BOOM.
PLENTY OF BLUSHING BRIDES
AND HAPPY GROOMS.
(Ft'om the San Francisco Examine)'.)
“It beats the world,” remarked the clerk ot
the Grand Hotel yesterday to a reporter, “how
many people aro getting married these days.
The woods are full ol blushing brides and hap
py grooms.
“ For quite a while now young married cou
ples have been flocking here from all tho towns
outside. In all my experience I never knew of
such a heavy business. Night be ore last we
had six couples. Last night we had four, and
we have four more couples already to-day, and
the day is not half over yet.”
“ How about the bridal chamber, or have you
enough ot them to supply all comers ?” was
asked.
“ That’s all nonsense. Most people think the
bridal chamber, so called, consists of a separ
ate and distinct room, or suite of rooms, lavish
ly furnished and sot aside especially for newly
married couples. This is an error? Any good
hotel has numbers ot good rooms, and the hap
py people are simply accorded these. They all
look like bridal chambers to them—like pal
aces, and as a rule the groom is only too glad
to -pay the biggest price you can name. But
that’s all there is in it—simply got a good suite
of rooms, that's ah.”
By a strange coincidence the reporter was
told of an unusually large number of young
people on their wedding tours at the Palace and
Occidental also, and a pretty fair number are
also scattered around at the other hotels.
“1 never knew of quite such a boom in mar
riages at this time ot the year,” said another
clerk, concerning the matter.
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