THE BATTLE OF EASTER MONDAY.

THE CARE OF A WHEEL.

RICK DALE.

BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE BOX.

EASTER.

WHAT IS A MILLION?

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

THE PUDDING STICK.

BICYCLING.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

STAMPS.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 24, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 856. |  | two dollars a year.

THE BATTLE OF EASTER MONDAY.

BY W. G. van TASSEL SUTPHEN.

Fred March had an idea. It was even a brilliant idea, and the longer he pondered over it, the more certain he was that it was a practical one. "And that, after all, is the important point," as Jack Howard had sagely observed, after being taken into Fred's confidence. Here it is as it finally resolved itself into tangible form.

"The Twelfth Regiment of the Transylvania State National Guard are to hold a sham fight on Easter Monday. There has been a great deal of talk about the use of the bicycle in war, and here is a chance to test the theories. Let us organize the boys into a bicycle corps, and offer our services to your father, Colonel Howard, who commands the regiment."

Jack reflected, soberly, "How could we be of any use?"

"We could be organized as a body of mounted riflemen, and also do scout and staff service. The fight is going to be somewhere on the Quantico golf course, and the grass on the links is short and smooth enough for riding. Easter comes so late this year that the frost is out of the ground already, and it isn't likely to rain before Monday. And then there are the roads in all directions."

"How many fellows can we muster?"

"Well, you know that all the boys from boarding-school are at home for the Easter holidays, and I've counted up sixty-five single wheels and three tandems; then we have the motor cycle, the 'Happy Thought,' and the people at the Driving Park have promised to lend me the 'quad' that they have there for pacing the circuit riders—an available force altogether of seventy machines and seventy-seven men."

Jack became enthusiastic. "Let's go down to the armory and propose it to my father," he said, briefly.

Colonel Howard was mildly amused when the proposition was first broached to him, but as the boys proceeded to explain the practical details of the plan he grew interested.

"There may be something in it," he said, finally, "and I'll think it over."

Two days later Colonel Howard sent for Fred and Jack, and informed them that their idea had been favorably considered, and that the services of the bicycle corps would be accepted.

"I have arranged," said Colonel Howard, "that the boys on the single wheels and two of the tandems shall be armed with short repeating carbines, and shall act as mounted riflemen, under command of Fred March. I have a friend in the gun-factory at Decatur, and he has promised to lend me two rapid-fire guns, which I will have mounted on the third tandem and on the 'Happy Thought.' Jack will take command of the 'quad,' and will act as a member of my personal staff. You will report with your men at the armory Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp."

The idea had actually materialized, and Fred was naturally pleased to think that his suggestion was to be taken up in earnest. But he was even more anxious that the experiment should be a success and that the military value of the bicycle should be demonstrated.

Now sham fights are generally carried on after a carefully prepared plan, every movement being carefully thought out beforehand, even to the strategy. But on this occasion it had been proposed that an actual problem should be placed before the two commanders, and that they should be allowed to work it out in their own way. Here, then, was a chance for real strategy, and, other things being equal, brains must win. Of course, as only blank cartridges are used, umpires must be appointed to determine the practical results of the various movements, and to finally award the victory to the side which in their judgment has fairly won it.

The field of operations had been decided upon, and Saturday afternoon Fred and Jack jumped on the "Happy Thought" and went down to have a look at it.

The map on the opposite page gives a good idea of the military features of the battle-ground, and if you study it carefully, you will easily understand the conditions of the problem.

PLAN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD.

It is supposed that Colonel Howard with a force of two hundred and fifty men, together with an auxiliary bicycle corps of mounted riflemen, including two machine-guns, are intrenched upon the wooded ridge at the left and locally known as the "Cardinal's Nob." This ridge is the key to the country lying behind it, and must consequently be defended at all hazards. The position is naturally strong, as its steep sides are inaccessible except at the three points marked by the numerals 1, 2, and 3. The open space in front is part of the Quantico golf course, and a putting-green occupies the little knoll at 8. The green is defended by an earth bunker, and from its military appearance it is known to the golfers as "Sebastopol." In the woods immediately behind "Sebastopol" the forces of the enemy, under command of Lieutenant-Colonel Camp, are supposed to be concealed. They number four hundred and fifty, with a battery of two field-pieces, and their object is to obtain possession of the "Cardinal's Nob." It is to be understood that the ground south of the "Cardinal's Nob" and separated from it by "Deadman's Hollow," is practically unfitted for military occupation, and consequently of no strategic importance to either side. The other features of the map explain themselves.

It is furthermore arranged that the two parties shall leave the armory at Fairacre at ten o'clock precisely, and proceed by separate routes to their respective positions. The battle will begin theoretically at eleven o'clock, and will continue until three in the afternoon unless decided earlier.

With these points carefully fixed in mind the two boys made a careful survey of the ground. The "Happy Thought" moved swiftly and easily over the short, firm grass of the golf course, and it was evident that the bicycles would have no difficulty in operating in the open. But how would they ever have a chance to do so with the enemy under cover in the woods? Exposure would mean destruction, and, moreover, they could expect no support from the main body under Colonel Howard. At all risks the "Cardinal's Nob" must be held, and, it was clear that Colonel Howard would act strictly on the defensive. The bicycle corps, it is true, could assist in the defence as an unmounted body, but that was not what Fred wanted. Could not the wheelmen be used as an independent force without materially weakening the defence? Of course the "Cardinal's Nob" must be held, but might it not be strategy to both repel the assault and destroy the attacking force?

"And I think it is possible," thought Fred to himself as the "Happy Thought" rolled slowly back to Fairacre.

Easter Monday dawned clear and warm. The armory was a busy place at nine o'clock, and every effective man was present to answer to his name. Fred's force was complete just as he had counted it up, and the machine-guns, mounted on the "Happy Thought" and Alec Jordan's tandem, looked particularly wicked and fit for work. The ammunition was served out, the general orders read, and at ten o'clock the two forces took up the march. Fred on the front seat of the "Happy Thought," and with forty wheelmen armed with repeating carbines, headed the line, and the rest of the bicycle corps, under command of Acting-Lieutenant Alec Jordan, formed the rear-guard.

The "Cardinal's Nob" was reached at half past ten, and Colonel Howard summoned a council of war. There was still half an hour before hostilities would commence, and it was necessary to consider carefully Colonel Camp's probable line of attack, and to devise an effective checkmate.

Colonel Howard briefly outlined the situation as follows:

1. The "Blacks," or Colonel Camp's force, will occupy "Sebastopol" with their artillery, and a false demonstration will be made against the point 1.

2. A strong flanking force will be sent around by way of the Swamp Road (4) to make an attack in the rear of "White" at the bridge (3).

3. At the moment that the attack on "White's" rear begins, "Black's" main force, under cover of the artillery, will abandon the demonstration against 1, and endeavor to carry the "Cardinal's Nob" by a charge across the open and a general assault at 2, the most practicable scaling-point.

"We may therefore expect, gentlemen," concluded Colonel Howard, "a pretty hot corner at the point 2, and a simultaneous attack at the bridge (3), which, if successful, will place us between two fires. Obviously we must, above all things, protect our rear. Captain Jones will therefore take one hundred men and occupy a position near the bridge (3), to meet and, if possible, ambuscade the expected flanking force. As for the bicycle corps—"

It was Fred's chance, and he improved it. Colonel Howard listened attentively to what he had to say, and turned to his staff for their opinion. The suggestion was a daring one, for it involved a separation of forces in the face of an enemy numerically superior, but it looked feasible, and if there was no hitch it meant defeat to the "Blacks." There was not much time for deliberation, and Colonel Howard acted quickly.

"Your suggestion is accepted, Captain March," said Colonel Howard, "and you will therefore take your corps, including the machine-guns, and occupy the wooded knoll shown on the map at 6. Corporal Wood, with two men, is detailed as signal officer, and will take up a position at the point marked 7. It is expected that Captain Jones will be able to hold 'Black's' flanking force at the bridge (3) in check, but to draw the enemy into the open it will be necessary that we should make a false demonstration in our own rear. If 'Black' takes the bait the bicycle corps will be brought up by signal to the point 7, and finally ordered forward at the proper moment to take 'Black' in the rear, and, if possible, capture the battery. Captain March will remain in strict concealment at 6, and will not advance under any consideration until the signal is given from 7 by the waving of a white flag. Is that clear, gentlemen? It is just eleven o'clock," concluded Colonel Howard, shutting his watch with a snap, "and the game of war is on. Lieutenant Mason, you will determine at once the exact whereabouts and disposition of the enemy's force. Gentlemen, to your posts."

Ten minutes later Fred, at the head of the bicycle corps, was spinning rapidly along the wood road in the direction of the wooded knoll at 6. It was all important that the movement should not be discovered by the enemy, and the greatest care had to be taken in transporting the bicycles down the hill and out upon the road. As Fred glanced back at the shining silent line bowling swiftly along in column of twos, he felt sure that they had been unobserved, and that success was certain.

But he had not reckoned upon the fact that Lieutenant Young of the "Blacks" was a smart young officer who owned a particularly fine pair of binocular glasses. Colonel Camp smiled grimly when Lieutenant Young reported that the bicycle corps had left the "Cardinal's Nob," and were proceeding southward, and that the point 7 had been occupied as a signal station. It had been his original intention to carry out the very plan of operations that Colonel Howard had outlined; but it was now necessary to modify it. Colonel Camp decided upon the following plan:

As before, the artillery would occupy "Sebastopol," and a false demonstration would be made against the point 1. But instead of a large, a very small flanking force would be sent to the bridge (3), and they would be instructed to deceive "White" as long as possible in regard to their real number. In this manner forty "Blacks" might occupy the attention of the hundred "Whites" detailed at 3, and therefore sixty of the defenders would virtually be kept out of the main action.

Secondly, a squad of men under Lieutenant Young would be sent around back of 6 with instructions to capture "White's" signal station at 7, and another squad to ambuscade the wood road at the gate (5).

As Colonel Camp figured it out, it would then be impossible for Colonel Howard to communicate with the bicycle corps either by signal or by a messenger along the road, and with the bicyclers also out of the action, the "Blacks" should be able with their main body of 400 men to carry the "Cardinal's Nob" at 2, the defending force being now reduced to 150 men. It would take just about an hour to capture the signal post and guard the gate on the road, and the same length of time for the small flanking force to engage the attention of "White's" rear guard. The instant that the firing in "White's" rear announced that the skirmish at the bridge (3) had commenced, the main assault at 2 would be made, and, if everything went as Colonel Camp expected, it could not fail. It was indeed a good plan, and reflected much credit upon the strategic ability of the commander of the "Black" forces.

It was twelve o'clock, and nothing in particular had happened to change the situation of affairs. "Black's" artillery had occupied "Sebastopol," and had opened a hot fire on the "Cardinal's Nob," but the "Whites," protected by their intrenchments, had suffered but little. The mythical bullets from the "Black" sharpshooters in the edge of the woods were, according to the plan, directed against 1, and one or two false sorties had been made in that direction without result. Both commanders were waiting for the real development of the struggle.

At ten minutes after twelve the signal officer on the "Nob" reported to Colonel Howard that communication with the signal-station (7) had suddenly been broken off. Colonel Howard looked grave, for he realized at once that with the bicycle corps out of the action he could hardly hope to defend the "Nob" against an attack at 2. There was but one thing to be done, and that was to send a messenger by the wood road to order up the bicycles to the signal-station at 7, with instructions to use their own discretion in making any further advance.

A moment later Jack and his crew of three were pedalling down the wood road on the "quad." Another message was despatched to Captain Jones at the bridge (3), ordering him to send back every man whom he could possibly spare to assist in repelling the expected assault. And then Colonel Howard lit a fresh cigar and waited.

In the mean time Fred and his force had occupied the wooded knoll (6), taking care to keep well under cover. The trees cut off their view of the battle-field, but the signal-station at 7 was plainly visible, and all they had to do was to wait for the waving of the white flag. But would the signal ever come? Fred could hear the booming of Colonel Camp's artillery and the sharp crackle of the rifle-firing. Could it be possible that Colonel Howard had forgotten about them, and that the real fight was already in progress? He was half inclined to steal forward under cover of the woods and see what was going on. And then he remembered that he was a soldier, whose first duty is to obey.

Nearly an hour had gone by, and the boys were beginning to feel the nervous strain. They had examined the breech mechanism of their carbines and counted over the cartridges in their belts a score of times, and they were anxious for active service. A half-suppressed murmur arose.

"Silence in the ranks!" commanded Fred, sternly, as he gazed eagerly over at the signal-station. It was odd, but certainly some kind of a struggle was going on there. Could anything have gone wrong? "Steady!" he said to himself. "Your business, Fred March, is to wait for that white flag, and then we'll see who holds the trumps."

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more, and then—surely there was something waving, and it was white. The signal! It was a queer kind of motion, too; the signal-man was acting as though he had suddenly been afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. But it must be the signal. What else could it be?

"By column of fours!" shouted Fred, as he sprang to his saddle. "Attention! Charge!" and as one man the bicycle corps swept down the little hill and out upon the short grass of the golf course.

Fred remembered that his instructions were to regulate his advance by the signal-flag; but surely that frantic waving could mean but one thing, and that was to go on. A moment later and they had swept around the point, and the battle-field was before them. And just in the nick of time, for the "Blacks" were charging across the open, and were already within fifty yards of the "Nob."

"Fire!" shrieked Captain Fred, and a destructive volley was poured in upon the astonished "Blacks," while a cheer went up from the gallant defenders on the "Nob."

The boys could all ride without their hands, and again and again the rifles spoke as the line dashed on. Fred with a squad of twenty of the fastest riders had already made good his position in the rear of "Sebastopol," and before the bewildered artillerymen could turn to meet them the battery had been captured and the guns silenced. The rest of the corps, under command of Alec Jordan, had dismounted, and were firing over their wheels into the broken masses of the "Blacks." In another instant Fred had brought the machine-gun mounted on the "Happy Thought" into action, and the "Blacks," huddled together at the entrance to "Deadman's Hollow," were under three destructive fires.

It was only a question of five minutes, and Colonel Camp's force had been pronounced annihilated by the umpires. The battle was over, and the honors of war rested with Colonel Howard and his gallant "Whites."

Of course they fought the battle all over again at the armory that night, and Lieutenant-Colonel Camp demanded an explanation.

"My dear fellow," said Colonel Howard, soothingly, "it was very clever of you to capture my signal-station; but you forgot that it was possible for me to send a messenger by the wood road."

"But I did think of that," retorted the defeated warrior. "The road was ambuscaded by my men, and the 'quad' was stopped and captured at the gate."

It was Colonel Howard's turn to look mystified. "How, then—" he began, looking at Fred.

"But, indeed Colonel," said that young gentleman, eagerly, "I only obeyed orders. I did get my signal."

"Lieutenant Young," said Colonel Camp, "you captured the signal-station by my orders, and held it to the end. Have you any explanation to offer of this extraordinary affair. And, by-the-way, what is the matter with your face?"

Lieutenant Young blushed and stammered.

"Well, Colonel, if you must know—it—it was the hornets."

"Hornets!"

"You see, while we were waiting, one of the men undertook to explore an old hornets' nest, and, the weather having been rather warm for the last week, why—er—they—er—proceeded to resume business."

"Exactly," said Colonel Camp, grimly. "And I suppose you used your handkerchief to protect yourself, and the boys mistook it for the signal."

"Well, it was something white," said Fred, apologetically, "and it was waving as though it meant business. I thought I'd better go on."

"You did exactly right," said Colonel Howard; "it was the turning-point of the whole affair."

"That fellow Young ought to be court-martialled," growled the irate Camp.

"Never mind, Camp," laughed Colonel Howard; "you out-generalled me fairly enough, and the rest was simply the fortune of war. By-the-way, what became of Jack and the 'quad'?"

Now it happened that there was an interesting answer to Colonel Howard's query about this "quad"; but that is another story.

THE CARE OF A WHEEL.

BY DUDLEY D. F. PARKER.

It is astonishing, considering the number of riders of the wheel at present, the comparatively small percentage that know really anything about their "mounts." A visit to any bicycle repair-shop will conclusively dispel all doubts as to the truth of this assertion. Here you will find long lines of wheels awaiting repairs, some of the damages, of course, being serious, but the majority are unruly valves, punctures, and bearings out of adjustment. It is particularly noticeable the number of wheels in which a slight knowledge of their construction would have enabled the repairs to be made at home.

How frequently one sees a rider, wrench in hand, dubiously surveying his wheel at arm's-length, now tightening a nut here or loosening one there, in a vain endeavor to fix in this manner something that is out of order and prevents his wheel from running properly! But beyond the fact that something is wrong, he has not the slightest idea of the nature of the trouble.

Or again, another enthusiast is deluging every visible chink in his bicycle with oil, in the hopes of finding some mysterious squeak, the location of which would be an easy matter if the position of the different bearings were understood. It is conceded without exception by all wheelmen that a fair knowledge of the construction of a wheel is essential to its proper care.

SECTION OF BALL-BEARING.

Perhaps the most important thing to be considered is the care of the bearings. In the advanced stage which bicycle construction has reached to-day there are a large number of ball-bearings in a machine—in fact, there are balls wherever there is friction, however light. These bearings should have careful adjustment. Perhaps a glance at the sketch of a wheel bearing will make the construction clearer. Of course the bearings of different makes of wheels vary, but the principle is the same in all. The little steel balls are the only medium by which the weight on the bearing is transmitted between the rim and the cone (hub and axle). To have the bearing work properly and with least possible friction, the cone must not be screwed in so tightly as to jam the balls in the rim, or the wheel will run hard; at the same time it must not be unscrewed so as to allow too much play of the balls, or the wheel will "wobble." Most bearings have a flattening on the projection of the cone, between the hub of the wheel and the fork, that can be caught by a wrench, enabling the cones to be tightened or loosened by screwing this one only. Some have a thumb-screw in place of the device mentioned, and other makes adjust the cones by screwing the axle.

In the adjustment of a wheel's bearings, whether front or rear, a good test to use against too tight a cone is to raise the wheel clear of the ground, and, turning it so that the valve of the tire is on top or nearly so, see if the weight of the valve will cause the wheel to rotate so that the valve will describe an arc, like a pendulum, each swing gradually diminishing in length. If the cone is properly adjusted, the valve should swing back and forth for some time. Of course the rear wheel will not swing as long as the front, the valve having to impart motion to the sprocket and pedals. If the cones are too loose, by gripping the wheel by the rim you will be able to slide it back and forth on the axle. The most important bearings in the whole wheel are those of the crank-axle. Here the whole strain of the propelling power comes. The adjustment of these cones is on the same principle as those of the wheels; the same test may be used as for the rear wheel. The two bearings in the steering-head may be adjusted by screwing the cone of the top one, and, of course, the wheel may be made hard steering or easy, to suit the taste of the rider. This is not a matter of material importance. The adjustment of the pedal bearings is not of so great importance, but it should be seen that they run evenly and quietly, as it is at this point that the propelling force is applied. This is usually accomplished by tightening or loosening the outside cone, which may be gotten at by removing the dust-cap.

Perhaps it would be as well to speak here about the quite frequent mishaps of a broken ball in the bearings. As soon as one is found broken, waste no time in removing it; a ball less will do no harm; but if the wheel is ridden with a broken one, it will soon cut the cone and rim all to pieces.

A word about oiling. Do not go to the excess of either too little or too much oil. In the first case the cones and rim will wear more quickly and the bearings run hard; and in the latter, the oil will gum, causing hard running, or, if it does not do this, it will ooze out of the joint, and, collecting the dust, will become gritty and mar it. The amount and frequency of the oiling, of course, depend on the use of the bicycle. For a wheel moderately used, a fair oiling once a week I should deem amply sufficient. Most of the bearings have openings in which to apply the oil, and the oil should not be applied at any other place than this. In the case of the head-bearings, unscrewing the cone of the upper one will expose it, and will permit the head to be raised so as to expose the one on the crown for oiling. The pedals may be lubricated by removing the dust-cap and applying the oil on the outside bearing, tilting the machine so as it will run down to the inside one.

PARTS OF THE WHEEL.

A. Crank-axle. B. Front Sprocket. C. Crank. D. Barrel. E. Pedal. F. Head. G. Upper Cone. H. Lower Cone. I. Handle-bars. J. Grips or Handles. K. Front Hub and Axle. L. Handle-bar Clamp. M. Saddle. N. Saddle-post. O. Saddle-post Clamp. P. Rear Sprocket. Q. Rear Hub and Axle. R. Chain. S. Rear Fork. T. Tire. U. Rim. V. Valve. W. Front Forks. X. Crown.

To have the bearings in "tip-top" condition, they should be cleaned every month or six weeks. In cleaning them the cone should be taken out, carefully wiped, the balls put in kerosene oil to remove all possible grit, and the rim wiped clean of all remains of previous oilings. The easiest ones to get at are those of the front wheel and pedals. In the former case, all that is necessary is to undo the nuts and spring the wheel out of the fork, unscrewing the movable cone, and taking out the axle. In the pedals, remove the dust-caps and the outside cone, and slip the pedal off. The rear wheel is a little more troublesome, the chain having to be removed from the rear sprocket before the wheel can be taken out. To remove the chain, unscrew the small screw-bolt that holds two of the links together. The bearings in the head will also be a little troublesome, having to remove the handle-bars and top cone, and take out the front fork. The only remaining bearings to be spoken of—those of the crank-axle—are in some respects the most important to have clean, and at the same time the most difficult to get at, as it is necessary to take off the cranks before the axle can be removed or the bearings exposed. After the cranks are removed, the rest is usually an easy matter.

METHODS OF FASTENING CRANKS TO CRANK-AXLES.

To give any general rule for the cranks removal is impossible, as there are so many manners in use for attaching them to the axle; but, however, the way to remove the several prominent patterns might be useful. We will select four of the general methods, and these will suffice to cover most of the ground. These may be best understood from a study of the accompanying sketches. First, the most common way of putting the cranks on, with a key or pin (No. I). To remove these, unscrew the nut on the pin and drive it out. This might be done at home, but as a rule the pins are put in or become wedged in so tightly that it is frequently advisable to have them driven out at a shop. In the absence of proper punches, there is a great chance of badly mutilating the pin in removal. The second general class is the clamp attachment. There are several patterns in use, but the one described below is most commonly seen (No. II). To free it from the axle the bolt is removed, and it is frequently necessary to insert a wedge to spring the clamps free from it. In the third class the crank fits in a continuation of the axle, usually projecting a little, so as to permit locking with a nut (No. III). Sometimes it passes a little to one side of the centre, and, again, exactly through it. The fourth and last general class is where the axle and cranks are made in two forgings, as shown by No. IV (sketch represents a cross-section of barrel), the part shown being half, and the two sections fitting together by teeth. These cranks are removed by unscrewing in the opposite direction to which they revolve in the propulsion of the machine.

DEVICES FOR TIGHTENING CHAIN BY MOVING REAR AXLE.

The next part of the wheel we will turn our attention to is the chain—the medium through which the motion is imparted from the driving-gear to the rear sprocket. Frequently after a long ride on rough roads, or perhaps a few days of usage, the chain will be found to have slackened up considerably. There are many devices in use for taking up this slack—all of them, however, working on the principle of moving the rear axle back and forth, and being more or less improvements of a few general patterns. In device "x" in the sketch, after loosening the nut, the axle is moved backward or forward by turning the screw in the proper direction. If it is desired to move the axle back in "y" the screw is tightened, or if it is desirable to move it forward (nearer the cranks), the screw is unscrewed, and the axle pushed forward by gentle taps with a wrench. In "z" the whole bar swings with the axle. This adjustment is tightened or loosened in the same manner as the preceding one, with the exception that the nut on the bolt holding the upper end of the bars has to be loosened a trifle. In "w" the axle is adjusted without the aid of a screw. When in the right place, it is held by the tightening of the nuts, teeth in the washer engaging others around the edge of the slot.

No part of the machine collects the dirt more quickly than the chain, it being found liberally sprinkled with grit after every ride. As long as it runs smoothly and quietly it does no harm, though when it gets rather thick it would be best to wipe it lightly with a rag or a stiff brush. When a chain is dry or very dirty it shows a tendency to kink, at the same time producing a rattling noise, joined with sharp snappings. When in this condition, it should have a thorough cleaning. First wipe with a rag, and then remove the chain from the sprockets; put it in kerosene oil to soak, wiping dry with a rag. The only troublesome part of the cleaning operation will be to replace the chain. This is effected by passing one of the ends of it over the rear sprocket, joining them with the screw-bolt, then, catching some of the links on the top teeth of the front sprocket, revolve it, and this will spring the chain on.

The mentioning of a "dry" chain brings up the subject of chain lubricants. There are a great many on the market, and as to their relative values riders differ in opinion. Two facts are clear, however. If a lubricant is too liquid it collects grit very quickly; on the other hand, if too dry, it does not work in the joints of the chain properly. Oil is obviously, from the above, very bad, and should only be used on the road when a chain unexpectedly runs dry or hard. The prominent constituent of most lubricants is graphite, the different makes varying usually in the amount of oil or other dissolving agent contained. Some wheelmen recommend powdered graphite alone, but my experience has found a mixture of graphite and oil having about the constituency of vaseline to be very satisfactory. Whatever the lubricant, they should all be applied in the same manner. Rest the step of the bicycle on a box or anything, so that the rear wheel may revolve freely, and apply lubricant rather sparingly; too much will only serve to collect dirt. Spin the wheel rapidly for a minute so as to permit it to work into the joints, and then, slowly revolving, wipe the waste off the top of the chain.

We have now reached in our discussion of the bicycle a part just as essential to the running ability as anything previously mentioned—the tires. On account of the wear and tear upon the tires, from one cause or another, they require much care. It is the tires that take up the jolts from the inequalities of the road, and upon their proper degree of inflation depends the easy running of the wheel. Quite a study may be made of this, the pressure varying for the different uses the wheel is to be put to. Without exception the rear tire should be harder than the front; if the latter is more tightly inflated than need be, it creates unnecessary jarring, which manifests itself in a numbing of the wrists. For riding over city pavements the softer the tires, without endangering the rims, the less jolting; but on good roads hard tires are best, as there is less friction, due to a smaller surface presented to the ground. From the inflation we will turn to the valve, the most important part of the tire. This is frequently a source of much annoyance from leakage. Whenever in doubt as to the valve's effectiveness, immerse it in water, and the air-bubbles will soon show the size and location of a leak, if there is one.

TIRE VALVE.

In all experiences with pneumatic tires you will find water the greatest enemy of leaks, and in all cases where one is of sufficient size to be an annoyance, water will surely locate it. The weak point in most valves seems to lie in the plunger that closes the opening through which the air is admitted. Most valves work on the principle explained in the sketch. When the air is forced in, the plunger A is pushed down, admitting the air into D, and so into the tire; and when the downward stroke of the pump ceases, the spring B, assisted by the pressure of the air in the tire, is supposed to push A tightly up against the partition E, and so close the opening. Right here the trouble occurs. For various reasons the spring sometimes does not push the plunger up, and if the pressure is not sufficient to do it, when the pump is removed the air forced in with so much labor blows out in a few seconds. In this case, first drop a little benzine in, as perhaps the valve may be dirty or stuck in some manner, and if this has not the desired effect, it will be necessary to remove the valve. The most common cause of the above annoyance is the spring becoming too much compressed, this being remedied by removing and stretching a little. Frequently the plunger becomes jammed against E, and in pushing it in it disappears entirely within the body of the valve. Here also it is often necessary to take the valve apart.

Puncture.—That is a word that makes every wheelman wince. A little hole in the tire makes the bicycle, that a few seconds ago was a means of travelling, a useless encumbrance. But in this case it does not always follow that it is an encumbrance, for if a pocket repair kit is carried, or the rider can make the best use of things at his disposal, some kind of stoppage of the escape of wind can frequently be accomplished. The single tube, or "hose-pipe," is the easiest to patch up on the road. The leakage can usually be stopped by cementing a piece of rubber over the puncture and binding it on securely with tire tape. Perhaps if the rider is skilled he may effect a permanent repair by plugging it. Now a hint to the rider who goes on the road with only a wrench in his pocket; and if he is given to the chewing-gum habit, it may be of use. A very novel and effective repair for a single-tube tire may be made by a little chewing-gum and some bandages. After locating the opening, apply some freshly chewed gum and work it in, leaving a fair-sized piece on the tire, and binding it with a handkerchief if nothing better offers.

Sometimes a difficult part of a puncture on the road is its location. After examining the tire and noting the likely places, apply saliva at these spots, and when the right one is found, bubbles will be noticed.

The permanent repair of a double-tube tire is to patch the inner one. Let the air out, and if the tire is "cemented" pull it off, and, if the "clincher," spring off, being careful in pushing the valve through the hole in the rim. If it is the "clincher" pattern the inner tube may be readily removed, but if a "cemented" tire, it is a trifle more difficult. In the latter there is a slit about eight inches long in the outer tube, where the valve comes through, which is held together with lacing. Cut this lacing, and the two ends of the inner tube will be seen to come together here. Fasten a string to one end, and catching hold of the other end, pull the tube out, being careful to leave the string in the casing. When removed inflate tightly, and grasping firmly a section between your hands about a foot long, immerse in water and stretch to the utmost; and if the puncture is in this section this will sufficiently enlarge it to permit the free escape of bubbles. Continue this way throughout the whole tube, and when the puncture is located, bite a little piece of the rubber out from around it so that it may be more readily found; let the air out, and cut a piece of rubber to fit over the hole, covering the edges of the puncture and this piece with a rubber cement made for this purpose; and when a trifle dry, place the patch on and put a weight on top. Inflate and test in water for leaks, and if all is right let the air out and fasten one end to the string, which was carried into the outer tube on the removal of the inner one, and by this haul it in place again, lacing up the slot with string. Inflate again, and, after covering the rim of the wheel with cement, place it on and let it dry, revolving the wheel with the rim and tire in water so as to make the cement set.

The method of making permanent repairs in a hose-pipe or single-tube tire is simple—namely, by plugging. A rubber plug with a head like a rivet is covered with cement and inserted in the puncture, head within the tire, and when it sets, the projecting part on the exterior is trimmed off evenly.

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER IX.

"CHINKS" AND "DOPE."

The dark passage into which the lads had just been ushered was short, and ended at another door of heavy planking before Alaric found a chance to ask his companion why they had come to such a very queer and mysterious place. The opening of that second door admitted them to another passage equally narrow, but well lighted, and lined with a number of tiny rooms, each containing two bunks arranged like berths one above the other. By the dim light in these rooms Alaric could see that many of these berths were occupied by reclining figures, most of whom were Chinamen, though a few were unmistakably white. Some were smoking tiny metal-bowled pipes with long stems, while others lay in a motionless stupor.

The air was heavy with a peculiarly sickening odor that Alaric recognized at once. He had met it before during his travels among the health resorts of Continental Europe, in which are gathered human wrecks of every kind; of them all none had seemed to the lad so pitiable as the wretched victims of the opium or morphine habit, which is the most degrading and deadly form of intemperance.

This boy, so ignorant of many of the commonest things of life, and yet wise far beyond his years concerning other phases, had often heard the opium habit discussed, and knew that the hateful drug was taken in many forms to banish pain, cause forgetfulness of sorrow, and produce a sleep filled with beautiful dreams. He knew, too, of the sad awakening that followed.

Knowing these things, Alaric was filled with horror at finding himself in a Chinese opium den, and wondered if Bonny realized the true character of the place. In order to find out he gained his comrade's side, and asked, in a low tone, "Do you know, Bonny, what sort of a place this is?"

"Yes, of course. It is Won Lung's joint."

"I mean do you know what the men in those bunks are doing?"

"Certainly," replied Bonny, cheerfully. "They're hitting the pipe."

Perplexed as he was by these answers, Alaric still asked another question.

"But do you know what they are smoking in those pipes?"

"To be sure I do," answered the other, a trifle impatiently. "It's dope. Most any one would know that. Didn't you ever smell it before?"

"Dope!" Once before had Alaric heard the word during that eventful day, and he had even used it himself, without knowing its meaning. Now it flashed across him. Dope was opium, and it was to form the sloop's cargo.

The passage they had been traversing ended in an open court, so foreign in its every detail that it appeared like a bit from some Chinese city lifted bodily and transported to the New World. The dingy buildings surrounding it were liberally provided with balconies, galleries, and odd little projecting windows, all of which were occupied by Chinamen gazing with languid interest at the busy scene below. From most of the galleries hung rows of gayly colored paper lanterns, which gave the place a very quaint and festive aspect.

On the pavement were dozens of other Chinamen, with here and there a demure-looking little woman and a few children. Heaps of queer-looking luggage, each piece done up in matting and fastened with narrow strips of rattan, were piled in the corners. At one side was an immense stove, or rather a huge affair of brick, containing a score or more of little charcoal stoves, each fitted for the cooking of a single kettle of rice or pot of tea. About this were gathered a number of men preparing their evening meal. Many of the others were comparing certificates and photographs, a proceeding that puzzled Alaric more than a little, for he was so ignorant of the affairs of his own country that he knew nothing of its Chinese Exclusion Law.

He began to learn something about it right there, however, and subsequently discovered that while Chinese gentlemen and scholars are as freely admitted to travel, study, or reside in the United States as are similar classes from any other nation, the lower grades of Chinese, rated as laborers, are forbidden by law to set foot on American soil.

Many thousands of Chinese laborers had come to the United States before the exclusion law was passed, and these, by registering and allowing themselves to be photographed for future identification, obtain certificates which, while not permitting them to return if they once leave the country, allow them to remain here undisturbed. Any Chinaman found without such a protection is liable to be arrested and sent back to his own land.

These certificates, therefore, are so valuable that there are plenty of Chinamen who want to buy them, and thus get into the United States.

This, then, is what many of those whom Alaric and Bonny now encountered were doing, for the place into which they had come was a Chinese hotel in which all newly arrived Chinamen found shelter while waiting for work or for a chance to smuggle themselves into the United States, which is what ninety-nine out of every one hundred of them proposed to do if possible.

As the lads stood together on the edge of this novel scene, while their guide went from group to group making a brief announcement, Alaric, seizing this first opportunity for acquiring definite information, asked,

"What on earth are we here for, Bonny?" asked Alaric.

"To find out how many passengers are ticketed for to-night's boat and get them started," was the reply.

"You don't mean that our passengers are to be Chinamen?"

"Yes, of course. I thought I told you so first thing this morning when you asked me what the sloop carried."

"No. You only said passengers and freight."

"I ought to have said 'chinks.' But what's the odds? Chinks are passengers, aren't they?"

"Do you mean Chinamen? Are 'chinks' Chinamen?"

"That's right," replied Bonny.

"Well," said Alaric, who had been on the coast long enough to imbibe all a Californian's contempt for natives of the Flowery Kingdom, "if I'd known that chinks meant Chinamen, and dope meant opium, I should have been too much ashamed of what the Fancy carried ever to tell any one about it."

"I hope you won't," responded Bonny. "There isn't any necessity for you to that I know of."

"But I have already. There was a man on the wharf while I was getting aired who asked me what our cargo was. Just to see what he would say I told him 'chinks and dope,' though I hadn't the slightest idea of what either of them meant."

"My! but that's bad!" cried Bonny, with an anxious look on his face. "I only hope he wasn't a beak. They've been watching us pretty sharp lately, and I know the old man is in a regular tizzy wizzy for fear we'll get nabbed."

Before Alaric could ask why they should be nabbed, Won Lung, the proprietor of the establishment, who also acted as interpreter, came to where they were standing, greeted Bonny as an old acquaintance, looked curiously at Alaric, and announced that thirty-six of his boarders had procured tickets for a passage to the sound on the Fancy.

"We can't take but twenty of 'em on this trip," said the young mate, decidedly. "And with their dunnage we'll have to stow 'em like sardines anyway. The others must wait till next time."

"Mebbe you tlake some man in clabin, some mebbe in fo'c's'le," suggested Won Lung, blandly.

"Mebbe we don't do anything of the kind," replied Bonny. "The trip may last several days, and I know I for one am not going to be crowded out of my sleeping quarters. So, Mr. Lung, if you send down one man more than twenty he goes overboard. You savey that?"

"YEP, ME SABBY. ALLEE SAME, ME NO LIKEE."

"Yep, me sabby. Allee same me no likee."

"Sorry, but I can't help it. And you want to hustle 'em along too, for we are going to sail in half an hour. Got the stuff ready?"

"Yep, all leddy. Two hun'l poun'."

"Good enough. Send it right along with us."

A few minutes later our lads had left Won Lung's queer hotel and were out in the quiet streets accompanied by two Chinese coolies, who bore heavy burdens slung from the ends of stout bamboo poles carried across their shoulders.

As Bonny seemed disinclined to talk, Alaric refrained from asking questions, and the little party proceeded in silence through unfrequented streets to the place where their sloop lay. Here the burdens borne by the coolies were transferred to the cabin, where this part of the cargo was left with Captain Duff, and Alaric had no knowledge of where it was stowed.

While the Captain was thus busy below, Bonny was giving the crew his first lesson in seamanship by pointing out three ropes that he called jib, throat, and peak halyards, showing him how to make them fast about their respective belaying-pins, and impressing upon him the importance of remembering them.

Shortly after this the score of long-queued passengers arrived with their odd-looking packages of personal belongings, were taken aboard in silence, and stowed in the hold until Alaric wondered if they were piled on top of one another like sticks of cord-wood.

Then the mooring-lines were cast off, and the Fancy drifted noiselessly out of the slip with the ebbing tide. Once clear of it the jib was hoisted, and she began to glide out of the harbor before a gentle off-shore breeze.

CHAPTER X.

PUGET SOUND SMUGGLERS.

The great landlocked body of salt water known as Puget Sound, penetrating for nearly one hundred miles the northwestern corner of Washington, the Northwest State, is justly termed a smuggler's paradise. It pierces the land in every direction with a perfect net-work of inlets, channels, and bays lined with endless miles of forest, frowning cliffs, and snugly hidden harbors. The upper end of the sound, where its width entitles it to be called a gulf, is filled with an archipelago of rugged islands of all sizes and shapes, thinly settled, and offering innumerable secure hiding-places for small boats. Here and there along the shores of the sound are Indian reservations uncleared and unoccupied save by dwindling remnants of the once populous coast tribes. These Indians, though retaining their tribal names among themselves, are all known to the whites under the one designation of "Siwash," a corruption of the French sauvage.

On the eastern side of the sound are the important American cities of Seattle and Tacoma; while at its extreme southern end stands Olympia, Washington's capital. On its western side, and just north of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that connects the sound with the ocean, is located the Canadian city of Victoria, from which all the smuggling operations of these waters are conducted.

From Victoria to the American island of San Juan on the east, the largest of the archipelago already mentioned, the distance is only twelve miles, while it is but twenty miles across the Strait of Fuca to the American mainland on the south. These two points being so near at hand, it is easy enough to run a boat-load of opium or Chinamen over to either of them in a night. For such a passage each Chinaman is compelled to pay from $15 to $20, while opium yields a profit of four or five dollars a pound. Smuggling from Victoria is thus such a lucrative business that many men of easy conscience are engaged in it.

Both the island route and that by way of the strait present the serious drawbacks of having their landing-places so remote from railroads and cities, that though the frontier has been passed, there is still a dangerous stretch of territory to be crossed before either of these can be reached. In view of this fact it occurred to one of the more enterprising among the Victoria smugglers to undertake a greater risk for the sake of greater profits, and run a boat nearly one hundred miles up the sound to some point in near vicinity to one of its large cities.

He had just the craft for the purpose, and finally secured a captain who, having recently lost a schooner through seizure by the American authorities for unlawful sealing in Bering Sea, was reckless and desperate enough for the new venture. As this man undertook the run for a share of the profits, he was inclined to reduce all expenses to their very lowest limits, and had already made a number of highly successful trips. Although the fare to each Chinaman by this new line was $25, it offered such superior advantages as to be liberally patronized, and the boat was always crowded.

In the mean time the American authorities had discovered that much illegal opium and many illegal Chinamen were entering their country through a new channel that seemed to lead to the vicinity of Tacoma. The recently appointed commander of a United States revenue-cutter determined to break up this route, and capture, if possible, these boldest of all the sound smugglers. For some weeks he watched in vain, overhauled and examined a number of innocent vessels, and with each failure became the more anxious to succeed. At length he sent his third Lieutenant to Victoria, of course out of uniform, to gain what information he could concerning any vessel that seemed likely to be engaged in smuggling.

This officer, after spending several days in the city without learning anything definite, was beginning to feel discouraged, when one afternoon, as he was strolling near the docks, he noticed two lads walking ahead of him who looked something like sailors. One of them had evidently just purchased a new outfit of clothing, and carried a canvas bag on which his name was painted in black letters. Making a mental note of this name, the officer followed the lads out of curiosity to see what kind of a craft they would board.

When he saw the Fancy he said to himself: "Tough-looking old packet. I wonder if that young chap with the bag can be one of her crew?"

Without approaching the sloop so closely as to attract attention, he lingered in her vicinity until Alaric went uptown to procure supplies, when the officer still kept him in sight. He even entered the store in which the lad was dealing, and here his curiosity was stimulated by the young sailor's varied and costly order.

"That sloop must make an extraordinary amount of money somehow," he reflected.

So interested had he now become that he even followed Alaric while the lad made his subsequent purchases. Finally he found himself again near the sloop just as the lad who had excited his curiosity was ordered to the wharf to air himself after his unfortunate experience with the bottle of cologne. At length the officer addressed him, and by dint of persistent questions became confirmed in his suspicions that the dingy old sloop cruised to the sound with Chinamen and opium.

Having gained the information he wanted thus easily and unexpectedly, the officer returned to his hotel for supper and to write a despatch that should go by that night's boat. After delivering this on board the steamer he determined to take one more look at the suspected sloop; and strolling leisurely in that direction, reached the wharf just in time to see her glide out from the slip and head for the open sea.

Here was an emergency that called for prompt action, and running back to the hotel, the young man paid his bill, secured his bag, and gained the steamer just as that fine American-built vessel was about to take her departure for ports of the upper sound. Shortly afterwards, a little beyond the harbor mouth, the big brilliantly lighted steamer swept past a small dimly outlined craft, on whose deck somebody was waving a lantern so that she might not be run down.

Of course it has been understood long ere this that the sloop Fancy was a smuggler. She was not only that, but was also the boldest, most successful, and most troublesome smuggler on Puget Sound. The one person at all acquainted with the shabby old craft and as yet unaware of her true character was Alaric Todd. His slight knowledge of smugglers having been gained through books, he thought of them as being only a sort of half pirates, either Spanish or French, who flourished during the last century. Thus, although he did not approve of either the sloop's passengers or cargo, it did not occur to him that they were being carried in defiance of law until about the time that steamer's lights were disappearing in the distance.

The boy's hands were still smarting from an unaccustomed hauling on ropes that had resulted in hoisting the big mainsail, and now he lay on deck well forward, where he had been told to keep a sharp lookout and report instantly any vessel coming within his range of vision. Before a fresh beam wind the Fancy was slipping rapidly through the water, with Captain Duff steering, Bonny doing odd jobs about deck, and the passengers confining themselves closely to the hold. After the young mate had waved his signal lantern to the steamer, he extinguished both it and the side lights that had been burning until now, leaving the binnacle lamp carefully shaded as the only light on board. With nothing more to do at present, he threw himself down beside Alaric, and the boys began a low-voiced conversation.

"What made you put out those lights?" asked the latter. "I thought all ships carried lights at night."

"We don't," laughed Bonny. "They'd give us away to the cutters, and we'd be picked up in less'n no time. I'm mighty glad that steamer isn't a revenue-boat."

"Why?"

"Because she's so fast. There's only one craft in the sound can beat her, and that's the Flyer, running between Tacoma and Seattle. The City of Kingston is a good one, though. She used to be a crack Hudson River boat, and came out here around the Horn; or rather not exactly that, but through the Strait of Magellan. That's a tough place, I can tell you."

"I suppose it is," replied Alaric. "But, Bonny, tell me something more about those cutters. Why should they want to catch us?"

"For running 'chinks' and 'dope.'"

"What harm is there in that? Is it against the law?"

"I should rather say it was. There's a duty of ten dollars a pound on one, and the others aren't allowed in at any price."

"Then I don't see how we are any different from regular smugglers."

"That's what some folks call us," replied Bonny, with a grin. "They are mostly on the other side, though. In Victoria they call us free-traders."

"It doesn't make any difference what anybody calls us," retorted Alaric, vehemently, "so long as we ourselves know what we are. It was a mean thing, Bonny Brooks, that you didn't tell me this before we started."

"Look here, Rick Dale! do you pretend you didn't know after seeing the 'chinks' and the 'dope' and all that was going on? Oh, come, that's too thin!"

"I don't care whether it's thin or thick," rejoined Alaric, stoutly. "I didn't know that I was shipping to become a pirate, or you may be very certain I'd have sat on that log till I starved before going one step with you."

"What do you mean by calling me a pirate?" demanded Bonny, indignantly. "I'm no more a pirate than you are, for all your fine airs."

In his excitement Bonny had so raised his voice that it reached the ears of Captain Duff, who growled out fiercely, "Stow yer jaw, ye young swabs, and keep a sharp lookout for'ard—d'ye hear?"

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the young mate, rising as though to end the conversation, and peering keenly into the gloom.

But Alaric was not inclined to let the subject drop; and, with an idea of continuing their talk in so low a tone that it could not reach the Captain's ears, he too started to rise.

At that moment the sloop gave a quick lurch that caused him to plunge awkwardly forward. He was only saved from going overboard by striking squarely against Bonny, who was balancing himself easily in the very eyes of the vessel, with one foot on the rail. The force of the blow was too great for him to withstand. With a gasping cry he pitched headlong over the bows and disappeared from his comrade's horrified gaze.

[to be continued.]

BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.

Wheeling has become such a universal matter now that it may prove of interest to give some practical hints to riders who have not yet realized what health and enjoyment, as well as experience, may be gained by taking something more than a day's ride in the vicinity of home and daily work. By far the greater number of those who own wheels are, or rather have been up to the present, satisfied to take afternoon runs of from ten to fifty miles in length, or, at most, to ride out of town to some friend's house, returning the next day. In those cities and towns of the United States which admit of it hundreds of men, young and old, ride every day to school or college or business, but until this year there has been comparatively little of the two weeks' or two months' touring—that is the best use to which a wheel can be put. Naturally one of the reasons for this has been that but few people have time to go off on fortnightly trips. The chief reason probably has been the difficulty of getting good accommodations, good roads, and good opportunity for repairs in case of accidents. It has become the custom to ride through England or France, and thus combine a sight-seeing tour with a long bicycle ride, rather than make similar runs at home, and why not here?

If a tour is possible in Europe, it certainly is possible in America, and to him who has eyes to see there is much to see and learn about his own country, if he goes on a wheel, that never can be seen in any other way. Now, too, the facilities for such a trip are greatly improved over anything in the past. There is not a village of any size, to say nothing of towns and cities, that has not one repair shop at least, and in New England and the Middle States, and all along the northern part of the United States, out beyond Chicago, a wheelman can get to one within an hour, except, perhaps, in some isolated instances where there are long stretches of woodland. A five or ten mile walk with a badly broken wheel is an unpleasant job; but if you are on any reasonably important thoroughfare you are sure to get a chance to ride on some passing wagon, and then, once the repair shop is reached, the wheel can either be repaired, or another one hired until your own is in good order again.

Hotels are now accustomed to bicyclists. There was a time when many a hotel had a regulation that no one in bicycle costume was permitted to enter the dining-room, but such inns are fast getting behind the times. All hostelries are in existence to make money, and the moment—which is now arrived—that a sufficiently large number of men and women ride to them on bicycles they will open dining-rooms and the whole hotel to them. Then, again, the League of American Wheelmen is doing a great deal for this touring of the bicyclist. The League is not a money-making affair in any way; most of its officials give their services free, and the endeavor is merely to pay expenses, while the object is to unite wheelmen and make them a sufficiently strong body to urge the different governments of the States, cities, etc., to build good roads and pass reasonable laws for the bicyclist. If you join this L.A.W. you secure for your initiation a ticket which in most large towns and cities admits you to at least one hotel for a somewhat reduced price. At any rate, on a two weeks' tour the wheelman will get his initiation fee back again half a dozen times over. Besides his ticket the member also is presented with a road-book of his State, which not only gives the best routes all over the State, but tells him also the hotels which give reduced rates, gives distances from one place to another, and other information of this kind. It also suggests good runs from 50 to 500 miles in length. With the improvement in the strength, durability, and lightness of the bicycle itself, the information of L.A.W. road-books, and the increase in repair shops, the great difficulties of touring have vanished. It turns out, therefore, that the facilities for touring are really better in the United States than in Europe, the one real disadvantage being that English and French roads are in better condition than those in America.

The difficulties to be overcome, then, are those of the bicyclist himself. How shall he fit out? Where shall he go, at what rate, and by what route? These questions, hard to answer as they may seem to any one who has not travelled much, are not difficult if they are taken up in detail. The real objects of such a trip should be amusement, comfort, sight-seeing, and out-door exercise. The speed at which you go should be comfortable to you, and you yourself must therefore settle that. Some men want to do seventy or eighty miles a day. Others are tired if they do more than ten. The distance, however, is or should be absolutely of no importance. If you feel like doing a good bit one day, it is possible. If you feel like staying abed the next day, or taking a walk, that is possible, too. In either case the idea of bicycle-touring does not or should not be concerned with distance at all. One man will have quite as good a time on a two weeks' tour covering a hundred miles as another will in covering a thousand.

In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo, Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts, and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday, is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.

At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done, take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay, and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and they will even save money.

Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson—a trip that it will be difficult for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached; thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest, combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one night by rail.

There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however, how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail, besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or slippers—moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the wheel than on your back.

The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit, which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel. The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel. They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in again.

Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its place.

All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing, extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away, or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next, or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."

It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore interesting detour to your programme.

From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After another hour's rest—sometimes including a nap—start out again, going slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and very warm.

When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau, or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip—a little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man to take you in—and so on.

One man can enjoy such a trip hugely. Two, if they are congenial, can, also; but never go with three, and usually not with four or more. Somebody is always getting punctured, or falling ill, or not waking up, or wanting to rest. If you are alone you can usually agree with yourself, though sometimes that is hard work, and even two make the agreeing more difficult.

The best trips in the northern and eastern part of the United States are briefly: 1. The tour already mentioned. 2. The run from New York city, up the east bank of the Hudson, crossing at Albany; thence through the highly interesting and historic valley of the Mohawk, through Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, and so on to Buffalo; thence to Niagara, Detroit, and Chicago. 3. From New York city or Albany or Boston (in the latter cases reaching New York city as described), across Staten Island to Tottenville and Perth Amboy; thence through Princeton, Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, to Washington. 4. From Boston, northward through Lowell, Concord (New Hampshire), Manchester, and on to the White Mountains, or through Portsmouth, Portland, and out along the Maine coast towards Bangor or Bar Harbor or Eastport. Most of these trips have been given in the Round Table Bicycle Department, and can be had by any one from the publishers, by ordering the numbers in the foot-notes accompanying that Department. They can practically all be secured by purchasing the different road-books issued by the L.A.W.

Of course there are hundreds of other tours, and, indeed, each man can make up a good tour for himself by merely studying his road-books. These trips are comprehensive in many ways, and as they are much more ridden, and therefore more accurately described, it is wiser to take one of them for your first tour than to begin exploring on your own account at once.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

EASTER FROLIC.

Drop Cap I

s it true that the sun dances Easter morning, and that all the stones turn upside down, and that if I will climb to the top of that hill"—pointing to a high hill that was in the immediate neighborhood—"I can see it all?"

"Sure an' ye can, miss. It's meself that has seen 'em many's the time, only ye must be up airly, for the sun niver dances after five in the mornin'."

The getting up was indeed a difficult task, for I was a regular "lie-a-bed"; but I had never seen the sun dance or stones turn over, and, being a credulous child, I resolved to try. The only question was, "How was I to waken?" for my head, once on the pillow, lay there generally, without even turning over, for a stretch of twelve hours. Bridget suggested that I tie my hand to the bedpost, but not thinking this a very safe precaution, I settled the matter by giving her an order to wake me at half after four o'clock. This she consented to do, provided I would "niver tell me mither." And I did not until breakfast-time, which was my very first opportunity, and at the moment I was so annoyed at the dolt this Irish cook had made of me, that I would have told a dozen mothers, had I only had the chance. Instead of waking me at half past four, she woke me at four o'clock. Oh, how sleepy I was! I remember dreaming of a short red-faced fairy shaking me and saying, "Hurry, child! stones turning, sun dancing! Hurry-scurry, or you'll be too late!" And on opening my eyes there stood our old red-faced Bridget.

I dressed as fast as I could, begging her to button my shoes. I was all in a quiver of excitement for fear of being late, and as soon as it was light enough to see my way, without waiting for hat or jacket, I rushed wildly along and up the lane, unto the hill and so on, never pausing until reaching the very top.

There I sat down on a big stone, so making sure of that one at least, and with an occasional turning of my head to watch all the other stones lying around, and especially one big rock over which the apple boughs swayed, I awaited the sun's rising.

It finally rose, much after the fashion, I suppose, of any other spring morning. I thought maybe it danced, but my mother didn't agree with me; she said I was faint and dizzy because I was unaccustomed to rise so early and go out without breakfast. But the stones never turned, not even the smallest one; of that I was assured. And so at a quarter before eight o'clock a very disappointed, tired child wandered down the hill and along the lane, so reaching home.

That the Irish serving-maid had been making fun of me I did not dream until I heard a loud, hard laugh, accompanying the words, "What a fool that child is!" Therefore it was no strange thing I was angry enough to make full confession.

And now that I have older grown, I have learned how fraught with superstitions the beautiful Easter day is. Not alone in Ireland, but in almost every country some qualities of the miraculous or uncanny may be discovered.

The time for Easter amusement is during the week which follows Easter day, and it would be a pretty idea at such a season to give a short tableau entertainment in connection with music and games, the tableaux indicating the superstitions of various countries.

When the tableau is shown, announce what it is intended to represent; for example, in Russia the Easter festival might almost be termed the "kissing festival," for beginning with the Emperor, who on Easter day kisses various generals and even privates in his army, the singular contagion spreads throughout the empire, apparently affecting both aristocrat and plebeian.

Tableau.—A boy representing the Russian Emperor kissing a member of the army.

In the olden days of France it was the custom for a Christian to give a Jew an Easter box.

Tableau.—Two boys, one representing the Christian, the other the Jew. The Christian must be in the act of boxing the Jew's ear.

Follow this with the France of to-day.

Tableau.—An interior of a church, extravagantly trimmed with flowers, and brilliant with lighted candles. It should be crowded with boys and girls, mothers and fathers, all in brand-new clothes.

Show Spain as a dark-haired girl, with a mantilla over her head, kneeling in a church before a mammoth candle—the Paschal candle, nine feet long. In order to make it seem taller, stand it on a marble pedestal.

Rome, with a procession of gayly attired children, and a boy representing the Pope, in the most elegant of robes, carried in a crimson chair, over which is a canopy. This chair must be preceded by two other boys, each carrying white ostrich-feather fans.

Germany, with a group of dancing girls and boys, the girls wearing small close-fitting white caps, full white aprons over dark gold-braided skirts and white sleeves; the boys with knee-breeches, white stockings, showy vests, and gold buttons. Or show a hare running from a nest filled with colored eggs, before which two little children kneel. The nest should be placed under a bush, and one of the children should wear a laughing face, for she holds up an egg.

England, with a crowd of boys and girls returning from Hampton Court, Kew Garden, or Stoke Pogis, with their arms literally filled with willow-boughs and branches of blossoms—yellow, pink, and white—with which they will decorate the church for Easter Sunday. Switzerland, with a band of musicians carrying guitars, and going from house to house singing some sweet carol, their hats and caps wreathed with flowers.

A very pretty way to amuse children of all ages is to hide eggs in the grass or under bushes, and then have an egg-hunt. All eggs found may, of course, be carried home. Give five minutes for the hunt, and it will prove great sport for lookers-on also.

For another game, raise a tent decorated with flags, cheese-cloth streamers, or ribbons. Opposite the tent in which the guests are to be seated, and ten feet distant, is a post or tree on which to put the prize. At the base of the post put a basket of thin glass balls, and also one at the tent door, only fill this basket with excelsior. The game is to find the person that will throw the largest number of eggs from one of the baskets into the other and not break them. Whoever wins is rewarded by the prize.

For little children, form a ring, and pitch to the centre of the ring a hard-boiled egg, and let them scramble for it. For larger children, let them pair off, a boy and girl; thus alternating, they form a ring. Then start thirteen china or glass eggs, one after the other, from hand to hand, taking the egg in the right hand, passing it to the left, and so on around the ring. If an egg drops it must stay where it falls until the other eggs have gone around the ring three times. It may chance by that time that all the eggs have dropped. When the third time around is complete, immediately a grand chain is formed, and the children dance, and go back to position, picking up the eggs as they dance. If the egg is not picked up, keeping time to the music, which is being played throughout the game, that person cannot retain it, but must give it to the one following. Sometimes no eggs fall, then the game is kept up until all the eggs have passed rapidly around three times. But when dropped and picked up, they must then go around once, and after this final circuit the game is concluded.

Boil a dozen or more eggs in logwood of different strengths of dye; they will then be colored violet or purple. Give these eggs, with a large pin or pen-knife, to young people to decorate. Offer a prize for the best decoration within fifteen minutes.

Still another game is to knock eggs. Hold an egg so that the small end is shown between the forefinger and the thumb. Sit or stand opposite to the person with whom you are playing. Then knock each other's eggs. The knock should be swift and hard, and whosesoever egg is the first to crack must now be given to the opponent. When starting, each should have equal number. Whoever has the most eggs after playing ten minutes has won.

The Game of Cluck.—Perhaps this is the jolliest game of all, and it is essentially for boys. Whoever gives the party should ask each of his friends to bring a chicken—a real live chicken—and if he is sure he would not recognize her when with a barnyard of others, he must tie a ribbon around her neck; he must also bring some hard-boiled eggs. The court used should be surrounded with a high netting, and the centre of the court marked with a cross.

At a signal all the players, each with his fowl in his arms, must enter the court, and the host, going to the centre, now becomes auctioneer, and taking each offered fowl in turn, he loudly calls, "How many eggs am I bid for this chicken?"—two eggs, three, or whatever the number may be; no one must bid what he cannot pay, and the chicken is given to the boy offering the largest number, and the eggs are given to the previous owner of the chicken. He may put them wherever he pleases, only they must be somewhere within the netting.

The sale being over, the "cluck" commences, for it is now each one's aim to recover his chicken, which can only be done by finding the requisite number of eggs given for her. This is much easier said than done, for the boys will have hidden them in their pockets and other peculiar places. Meanwhile, the chickens, running in every direction, are very apt to "cluck" loudly.

The Bird's Nest.—Put a bird's nest in a room; hunt for it as you "Hunt the Slipper," only instead of saying "warm, warmer," and so on, you cluck, cluck, cluck soft or loud as the party goes toward or from the nest. Only one person hunts at a time; everybody else clucks.

Never rob a bird's nest, no matter how much the pretty eggs may tempt you. Think of the sorrow of the mother bird when she returns and sees it empty. Think, too, of the time when these little shells would break, and a blue or yellow bird, or maybe an oriole, would rise out and sing sweetest song to you.

Have you ever seen among the variety of confectioners' eggs those trimmed with roses—the kind that seems near of kin to the Æolian-harp?—for blow on the roses ever so softly, listen, and you'll hear a bird.

LEARNING BY DEGREES.

Any out-door or vigorous exercise to which a girl is unaccustomed it is best she should be content to learn by degrees. This is the best rule for pleasure as well as for health. If you take so long a tramp to-day that you cannot walk again for a week because you became "tired to death," the walk was of no benefit to you, but a positive injury. You have overstrained your muscles, you feel exhausted, and you conclude that walking for pleasure is hard work. There is "no fun in getting played out," you say.

Surely not. But you have mistaken the cause of your failure to find "the fun." You began by trying to do too much at first. If you have heretofore been lazy, and have ridden everywhere, when you should have used the means of locomotion which nature has given you, you had better begin by doing only a short distance—perhaps only a mile a day—at first. Do not take any risk of tiring yourself. The distance can be gradually increased, and this course will so harden and develop the muscles used that no sense of fatigue need be felt at any time. Instead, you feel the pleasure that comes of being able to do what you undertake.

The same rule holds with regard to rowing, riding, or any form of sport or bodily training. "Begin with a moderate amount, and keep it up persistently until you become used to it;" this is what all common-sense authorities say on the subject. One's muscles are usually tired after an exercise, just because they are unused to it and don't understand their work. They are like lazy little servants, who need to be taught their duty and forced to do it.

TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE BOX

I.

To tell about Tom Chist, and how he got his name, and how he came to be living at the little settlement of Henlopen just inside the mouth of the Delaware Bay, the story must begin as far back as 1686, when a great storm swept the Atlantic coast from end to end. During the heaviest part of the hurricane a bark went ashore on the Hen-and-Chicken Shoals, just below Cape Henlopen and at the mouth of the Delaware Bay, and Tom Chist was the only soul of all those on board the ill-fated vessel who escaped alive.

This story must first be told, because it was on account of the strange and miraculous escape that happened to him at that time that he gained the name that was given to him.

Even as late as that time of the American colonies, the little scattered settlement at Henlopen, made up of English, with a few Dutch and Swedish people, was still only a speck of life upon the vast frontier of the great American wilderness that spread away, with swamp and forest, no man knew how far to the westward. That unfathomed wilderness was not only full of wild beasts, but of Indian savages, who every fall would come in wandering tribes, no man knew whence, to spend the winter along the shores of the fresh-water lakes below Henlopen. There for four or five months they would live upon fish and clams and wild ducks and geese, chipping their arrow-heads, and making their earthenware pots and pans under the lee of the sands hills and pine woods below the capes.

Sometimes on Sundays, when the Rev. Hillary Jones would be preaching in the little log church back in the woods, these half-clad red savages would come in from the cold, and sit squatting in the back part of the church, listening stolidly to the words that had no meaning for them.

SUCH A WRECK WAS A GODSEND TO THE POOR AND NEEDY SETTLERS.

But about the wreck of the bark in 1686. Such a wreck as that which then went ashore on the Hen-and-Chicken Shoals was a godsend to the poor and needy settlers in the wilderness where so few good things ever came. For the vessel went to pieces during the night, and the next morning the beach was strewn with wreckage—boxes and barrels, chests and spars, timbers and planks, a plentiful and bountiful harvest to be gathered up by the settlers as they chose, with no one to forbid or prevent them.

The name of the bark, as found painted on some of the water-barrels and sea-chests, was the Bristol Merchant, and she presumedly hailed from England.

As was said, the only soul who escaped alive off the wreck was Tom Chist.

A settler, a fisherman named Matt Abrahamson, and his daughter Molly, found Tom. He was washed up on the beach among the wreckage, in a great wooden box which had been securely tied around with a rope and lashed between two spars—apparently for better protection in beating through the surf. Matt Abrahamson thought he had found something of more than usual value when he came upon this chest; but when he cut the cords and broke open the box with his broadaxe, he could not have been more astonished had he beheld a salamander instead of a baby of nine or ten months old lying half smothered in the blankets that covered the bottom of the box.

Matt Abrahamson's daughter Molly had had a baby that had died a month or so before. So when she saw the little one lying there in the bottom of the chest, she cried out in a great loud voice that the Good Man had sent her another baby in place of her own.

The rain was driving before the hurricane storm in dim, slanting sheets, and so she wrapped up the baby in the man's coat she wore, and ran off home without waiting to gather up any more of the wreckage.

It was Parson Jones who gave the foundling his name. When the news came to his ears of what Matt Abrahamson had found, he went over to the fisherman's cabin to see the child. He examined the linen clothes in which the baby was dressed. They were of fine linen and handsomely stitched, and the reverend gentleman opined that the foundling's parents must have been of quality. A kerchief had been wrapped around the baby's neck and under its arms and tied behind, and in the corner, marked with very fine needlework, were the initials T. C.

"What d'ye call him, Molly?" said Parson Jones. He was standing, as he spoke, with his back to the fire, warming his palms before the blaze. The pocket of the great-coat he wore bulged out with a big case-bottle of spirits, which he had gathered up out of the wreck that afternoon. "What d'ye call him, Molly?"

"I'll call him Tom, after my own baby."

"That goes very well with the initial on the kerchief," said Parson Jones. "But what other name d'ye give him? Let it be something to go with the C."

"I don't know," said Molly.

"Why not call him 'Chist,' since he was born in a chist out of the sea? 'Tom Chist'—the name goes off like a flash in the pan." And so "Tom Chist" he was called and "Tom Chist" he was christened.

So much for the beginning of the history of Tom Chist. The story of Captain Kidd's treasure-box does not begin until the late spring of 1699.

That was the year that the famous pirate Captain, coming up from the West Indies, sailed his sloop into the Delaware Bay, where he lay for over a month waiting for news from his friends in New York.

For he had sent word to that town asking if the coast was clear for him to return home with the rich prize he had brought from the Indian seas and the coast of Africa, and meantime he lay there in the Delaware Bay waiting for his reply. Before he left he turned the whole of Tom Chist's life topsy-turvy with something that he brought ashore.

By that time Tom Chist had grown into a strong-limbed, thick-jointed boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age. It was a miserable dog's life he lived with old Matt Abrahamson, for the old fisherman was in his cups more than half the time, and when he was so there was hardly a day passed that he did not give Tom a curse or a buffet or, as like as not, an actual beating. One would have thought that such treatment would have broken the spirit of the poor little foundling, but it had just the opposite effect upon Tom Chist, who was one of your stubborn, sturdy, stiff-willed fellows who only grow harder and more tough the more they are treated ill. It had been a long time now since he had made any outcry or complaint at the ill-treatment he suffered from old Matt. At such times he would shut his teeth and bear whatever came to him, until sometimes the boozy old Abrahamson would be driven almost mad by his stubborn silence. Maybe he would stop in the midst of some ill-treatment that he was administering, and, grinding his teeth, would cry out: "Won't ye say naught? Won't ye say naught? Well, then, I'll see if I can't make ye say naught." When things had reached such a pass as this Molly would generally interfere to protect her foster-son, and then she and Tom would together fight the old man until they had wrenched the stick or the strap out of his hand. Then old Matt would chase them out of doors and around and around the house for maybe half an hour until his anger was cool, when he would go back again, and for a time the storm would be over.

Besides his foster-mother, Tom Chist had a very good friend in Parson Jones, who used to come over every now and then to Abrahamson's hut upon the chance of getting a half-dozen fish for breakfast. He always had a kind word or two for Tom, who during the winter evenings would go over to the good man's house to learn his letters, and to read and write and cipher a little, so that by now he was able to spell the words out of the Bible and the almanack, and knew enough to change tuppence into four ha'pennies.

This is the sort of boy Tom Chist was, and this is the sort of life he led.

In the late spring or early summer of 1699 Captain Kidd's sloop sailed into the mouth of the Delaware Bay and changed the whole fortune of his life.

And this is how you come to the story of Captain Kidd's treasure-box.

II.

Old Matt Abrahamson kept the flat-bottomed boat in which he went out fishing some distance down the shore, and in the neighborhood of the old wreck that had been sunk on the Shoals. This was the usual fishing-ground of the settlers, and here old Matt's boat generally lay drawn up on the sand.

There had been a thunder-storm that afternoon, and Tom had gone down the beach to bale out the boat against the morning's fishing.

It was full moonlight now, as he was returning, and the night sky was full of floating clouds. Now and then there was a dull flash to the westward, and once a muttering growl of thunder, promising another storm to come.

All that day the pirate sloop had been lying just off the shore back of the Capes, and now Tom Chist could see the sails glimmering pallidly in the moonlight, spread for drying after the storm. He was walking up the shore homeward when he became aware that at some distance ahead of him there was a boat drawn up on the little narrow beach, and a group of men clustered about it. He hurried forward with a good deal of curiosity to see who had landed, but it was not until he had come close to them that he could distinguish who and what they were. Then he knew that it must be a party who had come off from the pirate sloop. They had evidently just landed, and two men were lifting out a chest from the boat. One of them was a negro, naked to the waist, and the other was a white man in his shirt sleeves, wearing petticoat breeches, a Monteray cap upon his head, a red bandanna handkerchief around his neck, and gold ear-rings in his ears. He had a long plaited queue hanging down his back, and a great sheath-knife dangling from his side. Another man, evidently the captain of the party, stood at a little distance as they lifted the chest out of the boat. He had a cane in one hand and a lighted lantern in the other, although the moon was shining as bright as day. He wore jack-boots and a handsome laced coat, and he had a long drooping mustache that curled down below his chin. He wore a fine feathered hat, and his long black hair hung down upon his shoulders.

All this Tom Chist could see in the moonlight that glinted and twinkled upon the gilt buttons of his coat.

They were so busy lifting the chest from the boat that at first they did not observe that Tom Chist had come up and was standing there. It was the white man with the long plaited queue and the gold ear-rings that spoke to him. "Boy, what do you want here, boy?" he said, in a rough hoarse voice. "Where d'ye come from?" And then dropping his end of the chest, and without giving Tom time to answer, he pointed off down the beach, and said, "You'd better be going about your own business, if you know what's good for you; and don't you come back, or you'll find what you don't want waiting for you."

Tom saw in a glance that the pirates were all looking at him, and then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. The man who had spoken to him followed him threateningly for some little distance, as though to see that he had gone away as he was bidden to do. But presently he stopped, and Tom hurried on alone, until the boat and the crew and all were dropped away behind and lost in the moonlight night. Then he himself stopped also, turned, and looked back whence he had come.

There had been something very strange in the appearance of the men he had just seen, something very mysterious in their actions, and he wondered what it all meant, and what they were going to do. He stood, for a little while thus looking and listening. He could see nothing, and could hear only the sound of distant talking. What were they doing on the lonely shore thus at night? Then, following a sudden impulse, he turned and cut off across the sand humps, skirting around inland, but keeping pretty close to the shore, his object being to spy upon them, and to watch what they were about from the back of the sand hummocks that fronted the beach.

He had gone along some distance in his circuitous return when he became aware of the sound of voices that seemed to be drawing closer to him as he came toward the speakers. He stopped and stood listening, and instantly, as he stopped, the voices stopped also. He crouched there silently in the bright glimmering moonlight, surrounded by the silent stretches of sand, and the stillness seemed to press upon him like a heavy hand. Then suddenly the sound of a man's voice began again, and as Tom listened he could hear some one slowly counting. "Ninety-one," the voice began, "ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one"—the slow monotonous count coming nearer and nearer to him—"one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four," and so on in its monotonous reckoning.

"AND TWENTY-ONE, AND TWENTY-TWO."

Suddenly he saw three heads appear above the sand hill, so close to him that he crouched down quickly with a keen thrill, close beside the hummock near which he stood. His first fear was that they might have seen him in the moonlight; but they had not, and his heart rose again as the counting voice went steadily on. "One hundred and twenty," it was saying—"and twenty-one, and twenty-two, and twenty-three, and twenty-four," and then he who was counting came out from behind the little sandy rise into the white and open level of shimmering brightness.

It was the man with the cane whom Tom had seen some time before—the Captain of the party who had landed. He carried his cane under his arm now, and was holding his lantern close to something that he held in his hand, and upon which he looked narrowly as he walked with a slow and measured tread in a perfectly straight line across the sand, counting each step as he took it. "And twenty-five, and twenty-six, and twenty-seven, and twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and thirty."

Behind him walked two other figures; one was the half-naked negro, the other the man with the plaited queue and ear-rings whom Tom had seen lifting the chest out of the boat. Now they were carrying the heavy box between them, laboring through the sand with shuffling tread as they bore it onward.

As he who was counting pronounced the word "thirty," the two men set the chest down on the sand with a grunt, the white man panting and blowing and wiping his sleeve across his forehead. And immediately he who counted took out a slip of paper and marked something down upon it. They stood there for a long time, during which Tom lay behind the sand hummock watching them, and for a while the silence was uninterrupted. In the perfect stillness Tom could hear the washing of the little waves beating upon the distant beach, and once the far-away sound of a laugh from one of those who stood by the boat.

One, two, three minutes passed, and then the men picked up the chest and started on again; and then again the other man began his counting. "Thirty and one, and thirty and two, and thirty and three, and thirty and four"—he walked straight across the level open, still looking intently at that which he held in his hand—"and thirty and five, and thirty and six, and thirty and seven," and so on, until the three figures disappeared in the little hollow between the two sand hills on the opposite side of the open, and still Tom could hear the sound of the counting voice in the distance.

Just as they disappeared behind the hill there was a sudden faint flash of light; and by-and-by as Tom lay still listening to the counting he heard, after a long interval, a far-away muffled rumble of distant thunder. He waited for a while, and then arose and stepped to the top of the sand hummock behind which he had been lying. He looked all about him, but there was no one else to be seen. Then he stepped down from the hummock, and followed in the direction which the pirate Captain and the two men carrying the chest had gone. He crept along cautiously, stopping now and then to make sure that he still heard the counting voice, and when it ceased he lay down upon the sand, and waited until it began again.

Presently, so following the pirates, he saw the three figures again in the distance, and, skirting around back of a hill of sand covered with coarse sedge-grass, he came to where he overlooked a little open level space gleaming white in the moonlight.

The three had been crossing the level of sand, and were now not more than twenty-five paces from him. They had again set down the chest, upon which the white man with the long queue and the gold ear-rings had seated to rest himself, the negro standing close beside him. The moon shone as bright as day and full upon his face. It was looking directly at Tom Chist, every line as keen cut with white lights and black shadows as though it had been calved in ivory and jet. He sat perfectly motionless, and Tom drew back with a start, almost thinking he had been discovered. He lay silent, his heart beating heavily in his throat; but there was no alarm, and presently he heard the counting begin again, and when he looked once more, he saw they were going away straight across the little open. A soft sliding hillock of sand lay directly in front of them. They did not turn aside, but went straight over it, the leader helping himself up the sandy slope with his cane, still counting, and still keeping his eyes fixed upon that which he held in his hand. Then they disappeared again behind the white crest on the other side.

So Tom followed them cautiously until they had gone almost half a mile inland. When next he saw them clearly it was from a little sedgy rise which looked down like the crest of a bowl upon the floor of sand below. Upon this smooth white floor the moon beat with almost dazzling brightness.

The white man who had helped to carry the chest was now kneeling, busied at some work, though what it was Tom at first could not see. He was whittling the point of a stick into a long wooden peg, and when, by-and-by, he had finished what he was about, he arose and stepped to where he who seemed to be the Captain had stuck his cane upright into the ground as though to mark some particular spot. He drew the cane out of the sand, thrusting the stick down in its stead. Then he drove the long peg down with a wooden mallet which the negro handed to him. The sharp rapping of the mallet upon the top of the peg sounded loud in the perfect stillness, and Tom lay watching and wondering what it all meant. The man, with quick repeated blows, drove the peg further and further down into the sand until it showed only two or three inches above the surface. As he finished his work there was another faint flash of light, and by-and-by another smothered rumble of thunder, and Tom, as he looked out toward the westward, saw the silver rim of the round and sharply outlined thunder cloud rising slowly up into the sky and pushing the other and broken drifting clouds before it.

The two white men were now stooping over the peg, the negro man watching them. Then presently the man with the cane started straight away from the peg, carrying the end of a measuring-line with him, the other end of which the man with the plaited queue held against the top of the peg. When the pirate Captain had reached the end of the measuring-line he marked a cross upon the sand, and then again they measured out another stretch of space.

So they measured a distance five times over, and then, from where Tom lay, he could see the man with the queue drive another peg just at the foot of a sloping rise of sand that beyond swept up into a tall white dune marked sharp and clear against the night sky behind. As soon as the man with the plaited queue had driven the second peg into the ground they began measuring again, and so, still measuring, disappeared in another direction which took them in behind the sand dune, where Tom no longer could see what they were doing.

The negro still sat by the chest where the two had left him, only now he was looking all about him, and so bright and strong was the moonlight that from where he lay Tom could see the glint of it twinkling in the whites of his eyeballs.

Presently from behind the hill there came, for the third time, the sharp rapping sound of the mallet driving still another peg, and then after a while the two pirates emerged from behind the sloping whiteness into the space of moonlight again.

They came direct to where the chest lay, and the white man and the black man lifting it once more, they walked away across the level of open sand, and so on behind the edge of the hill and out of Tom's sight.

III.

Tom Chist could no longer see what the pirates were doing, neither did he dare to cross over the open space of sand that now lay between them and him. He lay there speculating as to what they were about, and meantime the storm cloud was rising higher and higher above the horizon, with louder and louder mutterings of thunder following each dull flash from out the cloudy cavernous depths. In the silence he could hear an occasional click as of some iron implement, and he opined that the pirates were burying the chest, though just where they were at work he could neither see nor tell.

Still he lay there watching and listening, and by-and-by a puff of warm air blew across the sand, and a thumping tumble of louder thunder leaped from out the belly of the storm cloud, which every minute was coming nearer and nearer. Still Tom Chist lay watching.

THE PIRATE CAPTAIN LOOKED IMPASSIVELY ON.

Suddenly, almost unexpectedly to him, the three figures reappeared from behind the sand hill, the pirate Captain leading the way, and the negro and white man following close behind him. They had gone just about half-way across the white sandy level between the hill and the hummock behind which Tom Chist lay, when the white man stopped and bent over as though to tie his shoe.

This brought the negro a few steps in front of his companion.

That which then followed happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so swiftly, that Tom Chist had hardly time to realize what it all meant before it was over. As the negro passed him the white man arose suddenly and silently erect, and Tom Chist saw the white moonlight glint upon the blade of a great case-knife which he now held in his hand. He took one, two, silent catlike steps behind the unconscious negro. Then there was a sweeping flash of the blade in the pallid light, and a blow, the thump of which Tom could distinctly hear even from where he lay stretched out upon the sand. There was an instant echoing yell from the black man, who ran stumbling forward, who stopped, who regained his footing, and then stood for an instant as though rooted to the spot.

Tom had distinctly seen the knife enter his back, and even thought that he had seen the glint of the point as it came out from the breast.

Meantime the pirate Captain had stopped, and now stood with his hand resting upon his cane looking impassively on.

Then the black man started to run. The white man stood for a while glaring after him; then he too started after his victim upon the run. The black man was not very far from Tom when he staggered and fell. He tried to rise, then fell forward again, and lay at length. At that instant the first edge of the cloud cut across the moon, and there was a sudden darkness; but in the silence Tom heard the sound of another blow and a groan, and then presently a voice calling to the pirate Captain that it was all over.

He saw the dim form of the Captain crossing the level sand, and then, as the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, he saw the white man standing over a black figure that lay motionless upon the sand.

OVER THE NEXT RISE HE RAN, AND SO ON OVER THE SLIDING, SHIFTING GROUND, PANTING AND GASPING.

Then Tom Chist scrambled up and ran away, plunging down into the hollow of sand that lay in the shadows below. Over the next rise he ran, and down again into the next black hollow, and so on over the sliding, shifting ground, panting and gasping. It seemed to him that he could hear footsteps following, and in the dreadful terror that possessed him he almost expected every instant to feel the cold knife-blade slide between his own ribs in such a thrust from behind as he had seen given to the poor black man.

How he ran the distance he never could tell, but it was almost as in a dream that he found himself at last in front of old Matt Abrahamson's cabin, gasping, panting, and sobbing for breath, his feet dragging behind him like lumps of lead.

As he opened the door and dashed into the cabin there was a flash of light, and as he slammed to the door behind him there was an instant peal of thunder as though a great weight had been dropped upon the roof of the sky, so that the doors and windows of the cabin rattled.

IV.

In Tom Chist's after recollections of that terrible time there was always a memory of a dreadful night of waking dreams mingled with the flashing lightning and the thunder of the storm that broke over the cottage, a downpour and beat of the rain upon the roof that lasted in an uproar of sound almost until morning.

Then came the dawning of a broad, wet daylight of sunshine that brought no relief.

As soon as he was up he went out of doors into the young day wet with the night's rain, and gazed out toward the offing where the mysterious sloop had been lying the day before.

It was no longer there.

It was some comfort to Tom to know that it was gone, and that it had taken those dreadful men with it. Were it not so he could not have walked a step through the day without a horrible fear that he might meet that dreadful man with the long shining knife.

He shuddered and gasped as a sudden keen memory of it all came upon him.

If he could only tell it to some one, he felt that it would be easier for him to bear; but then there was no one to whom he dared tell it; he could not tell it even to his foster-mother.

There was something especially trying to his troubled soul in his having to go out fishing with old Abrahamson that day, and it seemed to him that he suffered far more in the narrow, confined space of the little boat than he would have done upon the wide land, where he could walk about. His thoughts did not quit him for an instant. Even when he was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling fish at the end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would suddenly come upon him, and he would writhe and twist in spirit at the recollection. If he could only tell about it, even to old Abrahamson, it would be some relief. But when he looked at the old man's leathery face, at his lantern jaws cavernously and stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, he felt that it was not possible for him to confide his terrible secret to him.

When the boat touched the shore again he leaped scrambling to the beach, with a feeling of unutterable relief.

As soon as his dinner was eaten he ran away to find the Dominie Jones, and to pour out his troubles to those friendly ears.

He ran on, all the way from the hut to the parson's house, hardly stopping once in all the way, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and sobbing for breath.

The good man was sitting on the back-kitchen door-step smoking his long pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was rattling around among the pans and dishes in preparation of their supper, of which a strong porky smell already filled the air.

Tom Chist never could tell how he got his story told, but somehow, in convulsive fits and starts, panting and gasping for breath, he did manage to tell it all.

Parson Jones listened with breathless and perfect silence, broken only now and then by inarticulate ejaculations.

"And I don't know why they should have killed the poor black man," said Tom, as he finished his narrative.

"Why, that is very easy enough to understand," said the good reverend man. "'Twas a treasure-box they buried, Tom. A treasure-box! A treasure-box!"

In his excitement Mr. Jones had got up from his seat and was stamping up and down, smoking out great clouds of tobacco smoke into the hot air.

"A treasure-box?" cried out Tom.

"Ay, a treasure-box! And that was why they killed the poor black man. He was the only one, d'ye see, beside they two who knew the place where 'twas hid, and now that they've killed him out of the way, there's nobody but themselves knows. The villains— Tut, tut, look at that, now!" In his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his tobacco-pipe in two.

"Why, then," said Tom, "if that is indeed so, 'tis indeed a wicked, bloody treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!"

"'Tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it," said Parson Jones; "and it may be a blessing to him who finds it. But tell me, Tom, do you think you could find the place again where 'twas hid?"

"I can't tell that," said Tom. "'Twas all in among the sand humps, d'ye see, and it was at night into the bargain. Maybe we could find the marks of their feet in the sand," he added.

"'Tis not likely," said the reverend gentleman, "for the storm last night would have washed all that away."

"I could find the place," said Tom, "where the boat was drawn up on the beach."

"Why, then, that's something to start from, Tom," said his friend. "If we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from there."

"If I was certain it was a treasure-box," cried out Tom Chist, "I would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and Henlopen for to find it."

"'Twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack," said the Reverend Hillary Jones.

As Tom walked away home, it seemed not only as though a ton's weight of gloom had been rolled away from his soul, but as though he could hardly contain himself with the prospect of treasure-hunting the next day to look forward to.

V.

The next day, early in the afternoon, Parson Jones and Tom Chist started off together, Tom carrying a spade over his shoulder, and the reverend gentleman walking along with his cane. As they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only thing they could talk about—the treasure-box. "And how big did you say 'twas?" quoth the good gentleman.

"About so long," said Tom Chist, measuring off upon the spade, "and about so wide and this deep."

"And what if it should be full of money, Tom?" said the reverend gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly. "Suppose it should be full of money, what then?"

"By Moses!" said Tom Chist, hurrying to keep up with his friend, "I'd buy a ship for myself, I would, and I'd trade to Injy and to Chiny to my own boot, I would. Suppose the chist was all full of money, sir, and suppose we should find it; would there be enough in it, d'ye suppose, to buy a ship?"

"To be sure there would be enough, Tom; enough and to spare, and a good big lump over."

"And if I find it 'tis mine to keep, is it, and no mistake?"

"Why, to be sure it would be yours!" cried out the parson, in a loud voice. "To be sure it would be yours!" He knew nothing of the laws, but the doubt of the question began at once to ferment in his brain, and he strode along in silence for a while. "Whose else would it be but yours if you find it?" he burst out. "Can you tell me that?"

"If ever I have a ship of my own," said Tom Chist, "and if ever I sail to Injy in her, I'll fetch ye back the best chist of tea, sir, that ever was fetched from Cochin Chiny."

Parson Jones burst out laughing. "Thankee, Tom," he said; "and I'll thankee again when I get my chist of tea. But tell me, Tom, didst thou ever hear of the farmer girl who counted her chickens before they were hatched?"

It was thus they talked as they hurried along up the beach together, and so came to a place at last where Tom stopped short and stood looking about him. "'Twas just here," he said, "I saw the boat last night. Ay, I know 'twas here, for I mind me of that bit of wreck yonder, and that there was a tall stake drove in the sand just where yon stake stands."

Parson Jones put on his barnacles and went over to the stake toward which Tom pointed. As soon as he had looked at it carefully, he called out: "Why, Tom, this hath been just drove down into the sand. 'Tis a brand-new stake of wood, and the pirates must have set it here themselves as a mark, just as they drove the pegs you spoke about down into the sand."

Tom came over and looked at the stake. It was a stout piece of oak nearly two inches thick; it had been shaped with some care, and the top of it had been painted red. He shook the stake and tried to move it, but it had been driven or planted so deeply into the sand that he could not stir it. "Ay, sir," he said, "it must have been set here for a mark, for I'm sure 'twas not here yesterday or the day before." He stood looking about him to see if there were other signs of the pirates' presence. At some little distance away there was the corner of something white sticking up out of the sand. He could see that it was a scrap of paper, and he pointed to it, calling out, "Yonder is a piece of paper, sir. I wonder if they left that behind them?"

If he had only known the miraculous chance that placed that paper there, he would not have walked over to it as careless as he did to pluck it up out of the sand. There was only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for his sharp eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. The next wind-storm would have covered it up, and all that afterward happened never would have happened. "Look, sir," he said, as he struck the sand from it, "it hath writing on it."

"Let me see it," said Parson Jones. He adjusted the spectacles a little more firmly astride of his nose as he took the paper in his hand and began conning it. "What's all this?" he said; "a whole lot of figures and nothing else." And then he read aloud, "'Mark—S. SW. by S.' What d'ye suppose that means, Tom?"

"I don't know, sir," said Tom. "But maybe we can understand it better if we read on."

"'Tis all a great lot of figures," said Parson Jones, "without a grain of meaning in them so far as I can see, unless they be sailing directions." And then he began reading again: "'Mark—S. SW. by S. 40, 72, 91, 130, 151, 177, 202, 232, 256, 271'—d'ye see, it must be sailing directions—'299, 335, 362, 386, 415, 446, 469, 491, 522, 544, 571, 598'—what a lot of them there be—'626, 652, 676, 695, 724, 851, 876, 905, 940, 967. Peg. S.E. by E. 269 foot. Peg. S. SW. by S. 427 foot. Peg. Dig to the west of this six foot.'"

"What's that about a peg?" exclaimed Tom. "What's that about a peg? And then there's something about digging too!" It was as though a sudden light began shining into his brain. He felt himself growing quickly very excited. "Read that over again, sir," he cried. "Why, sir, you remember I told you they drove a peg into the sand. And don't they say to dig close to it? Read it over again, sir—read it over again!"

"Peg?" said the good gentleman. "To be sure it was about a peg. Let's look again. Yes, here it is. 'Peg. SE. by E. 269 foot.'"

"Ay!" cried out Tom Chist again, in great excitement. "Don't you remember what I told you, sir, 269 foot? Sure that must be what I saw 'em measuring with the line."

Parson Jones had now caught the flame of excitement that began to blaze up so strongly in Tom's breast. He felt as though some wonderful thing was about to happen to them. "To be sure, to be sure!" he called out in a great big voice. "And then they measured out 427 foot west by south, and then they drove another peg, and then they buried the box six foot to the west of it. Why, Tom—why, Tom Chist! if we've read this aright, thy fortune is made."

Tom Chist stood staring straight at the old gentleman's excited face, and seeing nothing but it in all the bright infinity of sunshine. Were they indeed about to find the treasure-chest? He felt the sun very hot upon his shoulders, and he heard the harsh, insistent jarring of a tern that hovered and circled with forked tail and sharp white wings in the sunlight just above their heads; but all the time he stood staring into the good old gentleman's face.

It was Parson Jones who first spoke. "But what do all these figures mean?" And Tom observed how the paper shook and rustled in the tremor of excitement that shook his hand. He raised the paper to the focus of his spectacles and began to read again. "'Mark. 40, 72, 91—'"

"Mark?" cried out Tom, almost screaming. "Why, that must mean the stake yonder; that must be the mark." And he pointed to the oaken stick with its red tip blazing: against the white shimmer of sand behind it.

"And the 40 and 72 and 91," cried the old gentleman, in a voice equally shrill; "why, that must mean the number of steps the pirate was counting when you heard him."

"To be sure that's what they mean!" cried Tom Chist. "That is it, and it can be nothing else. Oh, come, sir—come, sir; let us make haste and find it!"

"Stay! stay!" said the good gentleman, holding up his hand; and again Tom Chist noticed how it trembled and shook. His voice was steady enough, though very hoarse, but his hand shook and trembled as though with a palsy. "Stay! stay! First of all, we must follow these measurements. And 'tis a marvellous thing," he croaked, after a little pause, "how this paper ever came to be here."

"Maybe it was blown here by the storm," suggested Tom Chist.

"Like enough; like enough," said Parson Jones. "Like enough, after the wretches had buried the chest and killed the poor black man, they were so buffeted and bowsed about by the storm that it was shook out of the man's pocket, and thus blew away from him without his knowing aught of it."

"But let us find the box!" cried out Tom Chist, squirming in his excitement.

"Ay, ay," said the good man; "only stay a little, my boy, until we make sure what we're about. I've got my pocket-compass here, but we must have something to measure off the feet when we have found the peg. You run across to Tom Brooke's house and fetch that measuring-rod he used to lay out his new byre. While you're gone I'll pace off the distance marked on the paper with my pocket-compass here."

VI.

Tom Chist was gone for almost an hour, though he ran nearly all the way and back, upborne on the wings of his exuberant excitement. When he returned, panting, Parson Jones was nowhere to be seen, but Tom saw his footsteps leading away inland, and he followed the scuffling marks in the smooth surface across the sand humps and down into the hollows, and by-and-by found the good gentleman in a spot he at once knew as soon as he laid his eyes upon it.

It was the open space where the pirates had driven their first peg, and where Tom Chist had afterwards seen them kill the poor black man. Tom Chist gazed around as though expecting to see some sign of the tragedy, but the space was as smooth and as undisturbed as a floor, excepting where, midway across it, Parson Jones, who was now stooping over something on the ground, had trampled it all around about.

When Tom Chist saw him, he was still bending over, scraping the sand away from something he had found.

It was the first peg!

Inside of half an hour they had found the second and third pegs, and Tom Chist stripped off his coat, and began digging like mad down into the sand, Parson Jones standing over him watching him. The sun was sloping more than half-way toward the west when the blade of Tom Chist's spade struck upon something hard.

If it had been his own heart that he had hit in the sand his breast could hardly have thrilled more sharply.

It was the treasure-box!

Parson Jones himself leaped down into the hole, and began scraping away the sand with his hands as though he had gone crazy. At last, with some difficulty, they tugged and hauled the chest up out of the sand to the surface, where it lay covered all over with the grit that clung to it.

It was securely locked and fastened with a padlock, and it took a good many blows with the blade of the spade to burst the bolt. Parson Jones himself lifted the lid.

Tom Chist leaned forward and gazed down into the open box. He would not have been surprised to have seen it filled full of yellow gold and bright jewels. It was filled half full of books and papers, and half full of canvas bags tied safely and securely around and around with cords of string.

Parson Jones lifted out one of the bags, and it jingled as he did so. It was full of money.

He cut the string, and with trembling, shaking hands, handed the bag to Tom, who, in an ecstasy of wonder and dizzy delight, poured out with swimming sight upon the coat spread on the ground a cataract of shining silver money that rang and twinkled and jingled as it fell in a shining heap upon the coarse cloth.

Parson Jones held up both hands into the air, and Tom stared at what he saw, wondering whether it was all so, and whether he was really awake. It seemed to him as though he was in a dream.

There were two and twenty bags in all in the chest; ten of them full of silver money, eight of them full of gold money, three of them full of gold dust, and one small bag with jewels wrapped up in wad cotton and paper.

"'TIS ENOUGH TO MAKE US BOTH RICH MEN."

"'Tis enough," cried out Parson Jones, "to make us both rich men as long as we live."

The burning summer sun, though sloping in the sky, beat down upon them as hot as fire; but neither of them noticed it. Neither did they notice hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, but sat there as though in a trance, with the bags of money piled up on the sand all around them, a great pile of money heaped upon the coat, and the open chest beside them. It was an hour of sundown before Parson Jones had begun fairly to examine the books and papers in the chest.

Of the three books, two were evidently log-books of the pirates who had been lying off the mouth of the Delaware Bay all this time. The other book was written in Spanish, and was evidently the log-book of some captured prize.

It was then, sitting there upon the sand, the good old gentleman reading in his high cracking voice, that they first learned from the bloody records in those two books who it was who had been lying inside the Cape all this time, and that it was the famous Captain Kidd. Every now and then the reverend gentleman would stop to exclaim, "Oh, the bloody wretch!" or, "Oh, the desperate, cruel villains!" and then would go on reading again a scrap here and a scrap there.

And all the while Tom Chist sat and listened, every now and then reaching out furtively and touching the heap of money still lying upon the coat.

One might be inclined to wonder why Captain Kidd had kept those bloody records. He had probably laid them away because they so incriminated many of the great people of the Colony of New York that, with the books in evidence, it would have been impossible to bring the pirate to justice without dragging a dozen or more fine rich gentlemen into the dock along with him. If he could have kept them in his own possession, they would doubtless have been a great weapon of defence to protect him from the gallows. Indeed, when Captain Kidd was finally brought to conviction and hung, he was not accused of his piracies, but of striking a mutinous seaman upon the head with a bucket and accidentally killing him. They did not dare to accuse him of his piracies. He was really hung because he was a pirate, and we know that it was the log-books that Tom Chist brought to New York that did the business for him; but what he was accused and convicted of was the killing of his own ship-carpenter with a bucket.

So Parson Jones, as he and Tom Chist sat there in the slanting light, skimmed through these terrible records of piracy, and Tom, with the pile of gold and silver money beside him, sat and listened to him.

What a spectacle, if any one had come upon them! But they were alone, with only the vast arch of sky above them and the wide white stretch of sand around them. The sun sank lower and lower, until it slanted so far in the sky that there was only time to glance through the other papers in the chest.

They were nearly all goldsmiths' bills of exchange drawn in favor of certain of the more prominent merchants of New York. Parson Jones, as he read over the names, knew of nearly all the gentlemen by hearsay. Ay, here was this gentleman; he thought that name would be among 'em. What? Here is Mr. So-and-so. Well, if all they say is true, the villain has robbed one of his own best friends. "I wonder," he said, "why the wretch should have hidden these papers so carefully away with the other treasures, for they could do him no good?" Then, answering his own question: "Like enough because these will give him a hold over the gentlemen to whom they are drawn so that he can make a good bargain for his own neck before he gives the bills back to their owners. I tell you what it is, Tom," he continued; "it is you yourself shall go to New York and bargain for the return of these papers. 'Twill be as good as another fortune to you."

The majority of the bills were drawn in favor of one Richard Chillingsworth, Esq. "And he is," said Parson Jones, "one of the richest men in the Province of New York. You shall go to him with the news of what we have found."

"When shall I go?" said Tom Chist.

"You shall go upon the very first boat we can catch," said the parson. He had turned, still holding the bills in his hand, and was now fingering over the pile of money that yet lay tumbled out upon the coat. "I wonder, Tom," said he, "if you could spare me a score or so of these doubloons?"

"You shall have fifty score, if you choose," said Tom, bursting with gratitude and with generosity in his newly found treasure.

"You are as fine a lad as ever I saw, Tom," said the parson, "and I'll thank you to the last day of my life."

Tom scooped up a double handful of silver money. "Take it, sir," he said, "and you may have as much more as you want of it."

He poured it into the dish that the good man made of his hands, and the parson made a motion as though to empty it into his pocket. Then he stopped, as though a sudden doubt had occurred to him. "I don't know that 'tis fit for me to take this pirate money, after all," he said.

"But you are welcome to it," said Tom.

Still the parson hesitated. "Nay," he burst out, "I'll not take it; 'tis blood-money." And as he spoke he chucked the whole double handful into the now empty chest, then arose and dusted the sand from his breeches. Then, with a great deal of bustling energy, helped to tie the bags again, and put them all back into the chest.

They reburied the chest in the place whence they had taken it, and then the parson folded the precious paper of directions, placed it carefully in his wallet, and his wallet in his pocket. "Tom," he said, for the twentieth time, "your fortune has been made this day."

And Tom Chist, as he rattled in his breeches pocket the half-dozen doubloons he had kept out of his treasure, felt that what his friend had said was true.

As the two went back homeward across the level space of sand, Tom Chist suddenly stopped stock still and stood looking about him. "'Twas just here," he said, digging his heel down into the sand, "that they killed the poor black man."

"And here he lies buried for all time," said Parson Jones; and as he spoke he dug his cane down into the sand. Tom Chist shuddered. He would not have been surprised if the ferrule of the cane had struck something soft beneath that level surface. But it did not do so, nor was any sign of that tragedy ever seen again. For, whether the pirates had carried away what they had done and buried it elsewhere, or whether the storm in blowing the sand had completely levelled off and hidden all sign of that tragedy where it was enacted, certain it is that it never came to sight again—at least so far as Tom Chist and the Reverend Hillary Jones ever knew.

VII.

This is the story of the treasure-box. All that remains now is to wind up the story of Tom Chist, and to tell of what came of him in the end.

He did not go back again to live with old Matt Abrahamson. Parson Jones had now taken charge of him and his fortunes, and Tom did not have to go back to the fisherman's hut.

Old Abrahamson talked a great deal about it, and would come in his cups and harangue good Parson Jones, making a vast protestation of what he would do to Tom if he ever caught him for running away. But Tom on all these occasions kept carefully out of his way, and nothing came of the old man's threatenings.

Tom used to go over to see his foster-mother now and then, but always when the old man was from home. And Molly Abrahamson used to warn him to keep out of her father's way. "He's in as vile a humor as ever I see, Tom," she said; "he sits sulking all day long, and 'tis my belief he'd kill ye if he caught ye."

Of course Tom said nothing, even to her, about the treasure, and he and the reverend gentleman kept it all to themselves. About three weeks later Parson Jones managed to get him shipped aboard of a vessel bound for New York town, and a few days later Tom Chist landed at that place. He had never been in such a town before, and he could not sufficiently wonder and marvel at the number of brick houses, at the multitude of people coming and going along the fine hard earthen sidewalk, at the shops and the stores where goods hung in the windows, and, most of all, the fortifications and the battery at the point, at the rows of threatening cannon, and at the scarlet-coated sentries pacing up and down the ramparts. All this was very wonderful, and so were the boats clustered riding at anchor in the harbor. It was like a new world, so different was it from the sand hills and the sedgy levels of Henlopen.

Tom Chist took up his lodgings at a coffee-house down close to the town wall, and thence he sent by the post-boy a letter written by Parson Jones to Master Chillingsworth. In a little while the boy returned with a message, asking Tom to come up to Chillingsworth's house that afternoon at two o'clock.

Tom accompanied the post-boy with a great deal of trepidation, and his heart fell away altogether when he found himself brought to a fine grand brick house, three stories high, and with wrought-iron letters across the front.

The counting-house was in the same building; but Tom, because of Mr. Jones's letter, was conducted directly into the parlor, where the great rich man was awaiting his coming. He was sitting in a double-nailed arm-chair, smoking a pipe of tobacco, and with a bottle of fine old Madeira close to his elbow.

Tom had not had a chance to buy a new suit of clothes yet, and so he cut no very fine figure in the rough dress he had brought with him from Henlopen. Nor did Mr. Chillingsworth seem to think very highly of his appearance, but sat looking sideways at him as he smoked.

"Well, my lad," he said, "and what is this great thing you have to tell me that is so mightily wonderful? I got what's-his-name—Mr. Jones's—letter, and now I am ready to hear what you have to say."

But if he thought but little of his visitor's appearance at first, he soon changed his sentiments toward him, for Tom had not spoken twenty words when Mr. Chillingsworth's whole aspect changed. He straightened himself up in his seat, laid aside his pipe, pushed away his glass of Madeira, and bade Tom take a chair.

He listened without a word as Tom Chist told of the buried treasure, of how he had seen the poor negro murdered, and of how he and Parson Jones had recovered the chest again. Only once did Mr. Chillingsworth interrupt the narrative. "And to think," he cried, "that the villain this very day walks about New York town as though he were an honest man, ruffling it with the best of us! But if we can only get hold of these log-books you speak of. Go on; tell me more of this."

When Tom Chist's narrative was ended, Mr. Chillingsworth's bearing was as different as daylight is from dark. He asked a thousand questions, all in the most polite and gracious tone imaginable, and not only urged a glass of his fine old Madeira upon Tom, but asked him to stay to supper. There was nobody to be there, he said, but his wife and daughter.

"I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!" EXCLAIMED THE GREAT MAN.

Tom, all in a panic at the very thought of the two ladies, sturdily refused to stay for the dish of tea Mr. Chillingsworth offered him.

He did not know that he was destined to stay there as long as he should live.

"And now," said Mr. Chillingsworth, "tell me about yourself."

"I have nothing to tell, your honor," said Tom, "except that I was washed up out of the sea."

"Washed up out of the sea!" exclaimed Mr. Chillingsworth. "Why, how was that? Come, begin at the beginning, and tell me all."

Thereupon Tom Chist did as he was bidden, beginning at the very beginning, and telling everything just as Molly Abrahamson had often told it to him. As he continued, Mr. Chillingsworth's interest changed into an appearance of stronger and stronger excitement. Suddenly he jumped up out of his chair and began to walk up and down the room.

"Stop! stop!" he cried out at last, in the midst of something Tom was saying. "Stop! stop! Tell me; do you know the name of the vessel that was wrecked, and from which you were washed ashore?"

"I've heard it said," said Tom Chist, "'twas The Bristol Merchant."

"I knew it! I knew it!" exclaimed the great man, in a loud voice, flinging his hands up into the air. "I felt it was so the moment you began the story. But tell me this, was there nothing found with you with a mark or a name upon it?"

"There was a kerchief," said Tom, "marked with a T and a C."

"Theodosia Chillingsworth!" cried out the merchant. "I knew it! I knew it! Heavens! to think of anything so wonderful happening as this! Boy! boy! dost thou know who thou art? Thou art my own brother's son. His name was Oliver Chillingsworth, and he was my partner in business, and thou art his son." Then he ran out into the entry-way, shouting and calling for his wife and daughter to come.

So Tom Chist—or Thomas Chillingsworth, as he was now to be called—did stay to supper, after all.

This is the story, and I hope you may like it. For Tom Chist became rich and great, as was to be supposed, and he married his pretty cousin Theodosia (who had been named for his own mother, drowned in The Bristol Merchant).

He did not forget his friends, but managed so that Parson Jones came to New York to live.

As to Molly and Matt Abrahamson, they both enjoyed a pension of eighty pounds a year for as long as they lived; for now that all was well with him, Tom bore no grudge against the old fisherman for all the drubbings he had suffered.

The treasure-box was brought on to New York, and if Tom Chist did not get all the money there was in it (as Parson Jones had opined he would), he got at least a good big lump of it.

And it is my belief that those log-books did more to get Captain Kidd arrested in Boston town and hanged in London than anything else that was brought up against him.

EASTER.

Sing, that the winter is over,
Sing for the coming of spring,
For the showers and flowers and beautiful hours,
And the flash of the robin's wing.
Sing, for the gladness of Easter;
Lift up your voices and sing.

Deep in the heart of the forest,
Down at the roots of the trees,
There is stir of the violets coming,
And smile of anemones,
And many a kiss of fragrance
Goes out to the fragrant breeze.

Sing, for the coming of Easter,
And many a rare surprise
Of beauty and bloom awaiting
The looking of happy eyes.
Sing, for the Easter sunshine
And the blue benignant skies.

And carry the tall white lilies,
And the roses brimming sweet,
To the church where aisle and altar
Are sought by hastening feet.
Sing, to the Lord of the Easter,
Who is coming, your songs to meet.

Margaret E. Sangster.

WHAT IS A MILLION?

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

I must own up I never could wrestle much with figures; they generally threw me. I am afraid I was born without the power of appreciating what is called proportion in figures. I do not take that for an excuse. I ought to have practised more, and it is probable that I should have improved on an imperfect sense.

How my breath was taken away when I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears a young Irishman, in a great New York dry-goods house, rattle out marvellous results which had stiff calculations in multiplication and addition, and he did it all in his head, and had no slate to figure on! His ability was of use in a practical way. A salesman would say to this Irishman something like this: "Fourteen cases of prints, 22 pieces per case, 38 yards to the piece, at 6-7/8 cents per yard." The salesman had no sooner stopped calling it all out than the lightning calculator had given him the result. The advantage to the house was that before the purchaser of the goods had left the building his bill was handed to him. All day long that living calculating-machine kept on figuring just in this way, and his work never seemed to tire him.

I had a friend who possessed this marvellous mental power. He was a bookkeeper in a large Southern house dealing in cotton, and sometimes when great lots of thousands of bales of cotton were sold he figured up the results.

To come back, however, to the conception of figures and the difficulty in understanding proportions. I know what is meant by 1, or 10, or 100, or 1000, or 100,000, or 1,000,000, but when I get into a billion, and try to encompass that, my ideas are vague. When I read that the Secretary of the Treasury gave, some time ago, this figure as the money in circulation in the United States, $1,606,139,735, I got lost with that figure 1 which stood before the other nine figures.

Now who does exactly appreciate what is a million? A young friend of mine asked me to show him "a million of anything." I might have taken the grains of sand on the sea-beach, and counted and weighed out an ounce of them, but that would have been troublesome work. Had I done so, however, I could have shown him a million of grains of sand. I had, however, some No. 9 shot, just such shot as are used for snipe-shooting, and then, as luck would have it, a No. 9 shot is just about the size of the letter "o" in Harper's Round Table. The manufacturers of shot, who know exactly what are the diameters of their leaden pellets, tell me that a No. 9 drop-shot has a diameter of 8/100 of an inch, and that 568 of such shot weigh one ounce. Therefore 1,000,000 of such shot would weigh 110 pounds, and a trifle of an ounce over.

I wanted, however, to get some idea of bulk. I had a box made one inch high, one inch deep—in fact, a cubic inch. This I filled with No. 9 shot, and it held just about 2000 pellets. Now a million of these shot would be, of course, 500 times 2000 pellets, or 500 little boxes would hold the million. If, then, I had a big box made to contain the million, this receptacle would have to be about eight inches on all sides. I can get of this some idea as to the bulk of these small shot by the million.

The more ways I could look at a million, the better I thought I would understand it. I wrote to the Treasury Department in Washington, and I put two questions, which one of the leading authorities answered in the most obliging manner. All I have to do, then, is to copy this gentleman's letter.

Treasury Department, Office of the Treasurer,
Washington, D. C., March 16, 1893.

Sir,—You ask me the following questions: 1st. How long does it take, under the most advantageous circumstances, for an expert to count 100,000 silver dollars? 2d. How long does it take, under the most advantageous circumstances, for an expert to count one hundred thousand notes?

In reply to the first inquiry, permit me to state that for a continuous count of an expert it will require twenty hours to handle 100,000 standard silver dollars. Under ordinary conditions, and observing the rules and regulations of the office for count as to correctness, and at the same time keep a careful eye for the detection of counterfeits, 4500 per hour, or 27,000 per six working hours each day is about the limit of capacity of our experts in that line.

To the second inquiry I may say that it will take an expert 16-2/3 hours to count 100,000 new notes, and for a current or ordinary day's work 40,000 notes is about all that can be done.

Respectfully yours,
E. H. Nebeker,
Treasurer U. S.

Take, then, a million of silver dollars, and set an expert counting it. If he worked night and day over it, lost no time in eating, drinking, or sleeping, he would finish a fairly tough job of counting a million of silver dollars in precisely 8-1/3 days.

I asked the Washington authority to give me some general idea as to the weight of 100,000 standard silver dollars, and the Acting Assistant Treasurer wrote me, "that 100,000 standard silver dollars will weigh 7161.5 pounds troy, and will occupy a space of 10.49 cubic feet." Then a million of silver dollars would weigh 71,615 pounds troy. The silver brick takes up less room than coin in some respects, but a vault made to hold a million of dollars worth of silver bullion must have more size than an ordinary coal cellar.

If you want to get swamped with figures, supposing at least you have the conception of what is a million of dollars, the total stock of money in the world is $3,656,935,000 in gold, and $3,944,700,000 in silver, making a grand total of $7,601,635,000. Say that the population of the United States is 65,000,000, then about this amount of money, $10.47 in gold, $8.55 in silver, $6.51 in paper notes, or $25.62, suffices for each one's use. If there was not as much money as that per head—little boys and little girls and babies included—the fathers, who hold the purse-strings, would complain that money was tight or hard to get, and exchange of goods for coin would be difficult.

Certainly the Secretaries of the Treasury must understand what are the vast amounts they have charge of. Only try and appreciate how much money was taken in by the United States in 1883 for gross revenue. It was $954,230,146. But the United States wanted a great deal of money that year, and so it paid out in 1883 $885,491,968.

This is one of the big counts of the United States Treasury. On the 29th of August of 1893 the cash alone on hand was $174,770,422.97 in coin. Sixty experts began work on it, and it took three months to finish the job. The weight of mixed coin was nearly 5000 tons.

When you come to figures in their application to time most of us get quite lost. We call this year 1896—that is 1896 years since the birth of Christ. In the history of the world that is only an instant, and yet it seems so far distant as to be somewhat out of our comprehension. But what is the mental process which can span the period between to-day and the time when the pyramids were built—say 3000 years before the birth of Christ. Perhaps one way of comprehending it is to divide every 100 years by three, because 33-1/3 years may about present a generation.

Suppose we take the conquest of England by William of Normandy, and his coronation at Westminster, in 1066. That was 830 years ago. In the eight centuries there would be about three generations for each 100 years, and that would make twenty-five generations and twenty-nine years over. Let us say the event took place twenty-five generations ago—it is curious dividing time in that way—how much nearer William the Conqueror seems to be to us. There is only one trouble about this method; it is the sense of humiliation it causes, because twenty-five or thirty generations ago our forefathers must have been rather savage people. At the same time we have the consolation of knowing that we have improved since then. Why, Christopher Columbus found America only twelve generations back—and there are many people alive who have seen five generations, counting themselves. It does not do, however, to go too far back, say to the forefather who was alive when the pyramid was reared. I do not understand 1964 generations ago.

From Chum to Chum

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

VIII.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

London July — 189-.

MY DEAR JACK,—I tell you this London's a great place, and the more you see of it the more you want to see. There's only one thing that's disappointed me about it and that's Dukes and things like that. I thought Dukes went around in funny clothes with coroners on their heads and red velvet robes stirring up the dust on the sidewalks behind 'em but it ain't so. I've only seen one feller that looked real noble and he was standing on the back of a carriage on the place where American hackmen put trunks. I thought I'd spotted an Earl anyhow, but Pop said you could tell from his stockin's that he was only a Flunkey, and when I asked him if Flunkies were greater than Barons he said he guessed they were—anyhow they made other people sort of dwindle in their presence which Barons couldn't generally do. He wore red plush knee breeches, and to make him look older they'd put plaster all over his head. It's queer having a man like that getting a hitch behind on carriages and I asked Pop what they did it for and he said the Coachmen were always dropping their aitches and the Flunkey was put there so's he could get off easily and pick 'em up.

Yesterday we took a hansom and went out to see the Tower and it's a terrible place. It has motes running all around it that they fill up with water when enemies come. Pop says enemies always hates water and it gives people inside more chances of beating 'em. If they managed to get over it and scale the walls those inside could shove their ladders over backwards so that all those that fell on the land would get their backs broken and those that fell in the water would get drowned. It sort of all makes me wish that I'd lived in the old times. I'd like to have seen those old warriors trying to climb ladders in their cast-iron clothes and trying to swim ashore with tin trousers on.

Up in the Armory of this tower they've got nearly a million of these old suits and lances bigger than telegraph poles. It seems to me that when two armies dressed up in sheet-iron the way they used to be ran at each other with all their force it must have been worse than a railway collision when they met. I'd have thought they'd have telescoped like two Pullman cars, but Pop says they didn't. They just dented each other and fell back. I don't believe even our seventh regiment could have carried uniforms like that, because I don't think they weigh less than a ton, but it must have been safe. When a feller met an enemy he'd have to take an axe and crack him open like a nut before you could get at him. Maybe that's where the soldier's title of Kernel comes from. I asked Pop if it was and he got laughing so the man who was taking us around got mad and acted as if he'd put us out for ten cents. Pop told him what I'd said and he said what an extrordnery question.

Some of the iron uniforms had great spikes in the knees which must have been great when it came to shoving an enemy. Pop says that once a poor warrior with spiked-knee pants was so afraid he was going to get killed that he got down on his knees to pray before going into battle and got stuck so fast he couldn't go and his life was saved.

There's lots of other things in the tower too. They've got a block that people's heads used to be chopped off on. It has a nice comfortable little place for your neck scooped out of the middle of it, which shows that they tried to make death easy for the victims. I don't think I'd have liked it much just the same and I'm glad people can die other ways. There are screws there too to put on people's thumbs when they wouldn't confess that they'd done things. When a man said he was innocent they'd put these screws on his thumbs and give 'em a twist and ask him to guess again, and they'd keep him guessing till he remembered he was guilty after all. Then they'd take him out and chop his head off and begin on somebody else.

All the Queen's jewelry is kept in the tower in a cage like monkies. I spent about a half an hour looking at it. The diamonds are so big you'd think they were glass and somehow or other they don't dazzle you as much as you'd think. I think maybe they're not real and the Queen's just making a great big bluff with 'em, though they do say that once a man broke in here and got away with more than half of them, but couldn't get far because they shined so in the night that the police saw them through his clothes and arrested him before he'd gone a mile. The crown is kind of nice to look at. It reminds you of one of those small hall gas fixtures with lots of colored lights in 'em, and I've a notion that if it was lit up it would beat one of those colliderscope pictures all holler.

Then there were maces and great big solid gold porridge bowls for royal babies to eat their oat meal out of, till you really got tired of it all and felt as if you wouldn't mind looking at a tin cup or a pile of rusty iron tracks near a railroad for a little while. The Queen must be awful rich to own all these things, but after all I don't see what good it does her to have 'em if they've got to be locked up all the time. It's like owning a gold watch your Pop won't let you carry for fear you'll break it. I guess you've been there. I have—in fact, I am there. It's a stem-winder and came last Christmas.

Pop says that supper is ready, so I'll have to quit writing. If I have time to-morrow I'll tell you more about the tower and what I saw.

Yours affectionately
Bob.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT

The annual interscholastic indoor games of the Boston Athletic Association were held last Saturday—too late in the week to afford opportunity for detailed comment in this issue of the Department, which is consequently postponed until next week. These games practically close the indoor athletic season in and around Boston. This year that season has proved most interesting and profitable, and the standard of performance developed at school games has been considerably above the average.

Chauncy Hall School started the ball rolling early in February with an enthusiastic closed meeting. The best performances were done by Abrams, who won the 30-yard dash and the 35-yard hurdles; and Porter, who won the half-mile. This is Porter's particular distance, and he is not so strong in either the 600 or the 1000. Some good pole-vaulting was done, but only the younger boys were entered for it.

English High followed suit the next week with a closed meet. Unfortunately, spiked shoes were not allowed, as the games were held in the school armory, but nevertheless the feats were very creditable, especially the high jump, which was won by Converse, who cleared 5 feet 4 inches with little difficulty. It was evident that he can do much better than that. Dow at 1000, Purtell at 600, and Emery at 300, were the best distance-runners. Dow runs with a very graceful stride, and is a clever racer, as witness his deed in the Cambridge Latin open games, when running practically from scratch, he finished second only to Blakemore, the Harvard crack, who had five yards handicap over him. Purtell can do 600 yards in excellent form, but seems to need more experience in hard races. Emery showed his mettle by winning the open scratch 300 in the Cambridge games from a big field of starters. In the dash O'Brien and Duffy are the best men, but neither is a star. O'Brien, however, is a sure man in the shot-put, throwing it 38 feet 2 inches in the English High games.

Roxbury Latin's games were not so interesting to interscholastic enthusiasts, since most of the events were crowded with college men. Brewer and Hallowell of Hopkinson's, however, did good work in the dash and hurdles, respectively, and Warren of Cambridge put the shot 34 feet 8 inches.

The Newton High games were the most successful of the school meets. Cotting was the star of the day, winning the closed high jump, shot-put, and 300. Sever of Cambridge Latin was the best interscholastic man in the open 30, as was Martin of Hopkinson's in the 600. Martin won his heat by the cleverest kind of racing, but was unable to get through the big field of starters in the final. Carleton, Captain of Hopkinson's team, won the open 440 after a hard race. A relay race was run off between Brookline High and Newton High. Brookline led all the way, until Cotting, who ran last for Newton, pulled out the race in the last ten yards.

Boston Latin held a closed meet in the school armory, and, as in the English High games, no spikes were allowed. Maguire was the star of the day, winning the dash and hurdles as well as the 300-yard run. Lincoln did well in the 1000. The shot-put and high jump were not extraordinary performances, but the 300 brought out a good field.

Cambridge High and Latin held an open meet February 29th. Only one closed event was run—the dash. Garrett and Sever divided honors in this, both running in excellent form. In the open dash, which was crowded with college men, Brewer of Hopkinson's reached the final heat, and but for the handicap he received for a couple of false starts, would probably have made a place. Seaver of Brookline won the open hurdle race. Hallowell of Hopkinson's takes the hurdles with a much better step, but seems to lack the necessary speed. The 300, which was a scratch event, was won by Emery, E.H.-S. Abrams of Chauncy Hall, and Thompson of Cambridge Manual, won their heats in flashy style, but both were unfortunate in meeting with accidents in the final. Young of C.M.T.S. was the only school-boy to get a place in the 600. As noted above, Dow, E.H.-S., got second in the 1000. No interscholastic men got placed in the high jump or pole-vault; and the performances in the shot-put were not up to the average.

Of these men, Dow of English High, and Mills of Chauncy Hall, are coming to New York to compete in the N.M.A.C. games at the Madison Square Garden next Saturday. Dow has made a good record for himself in the New England League. He made his début on the track in the summer of 1894, getting placed in five of the first six races he ran in. During 1895 and 1896 he won numerous other places in open competition, and has so far in his career of not quite two years captured three first, eight second, and six third places. Mills has achieved quite a local reputation as a long-distance and cross-country runner, his last performance being at the B.A.A. games last February, where he made a brilliant showing in the two-mile invitation run. He competes in interscholastic circles this year for the first time. He is best in the long-distance runs ranging from one to ten miles. Both Mills and Dow are but nineteen years of age.

Two Connecticut Leagues will be represented at the big indoor games. In addition to the men who are coming from the Hartford High-School and from the Hillhouse High-School of New Haven as representatives of the C.H.-S.A.A., there will be a strong team from the Black Hall School to represent the Southern Connecticut I.S.A.A., and there seems little doubt that this last aggregation will carry off the pole-vault event with ease. Paulding, who is entered for this, did 10 ft. 3 in. at the Yale games a week ago Saturday, and has done 10 ft. 7 in. out-of-doors. The N.Y.I.S.A.A. record is only 9 ft. 4 in., and that was made by Simpson of Barnard last year. The other men who are coming down from Black Hall are Cleveland in the 50 yards, who has no record for that distance, but has a record of 10-4/5 sec. in the 100 yards; Aborn in the mile, who can run in about 5 min.; Coolidge in the high jump, who has a record of 5 ft. 3½ in.; and Green in the 440, who has no record as yet, but is a promising man, and may enter also in the 50 yards.

The order of track events at the N.M.A.C. games Saturday night will be as follows: 50-yard dash, Senior, trial heats; 50-yard dash, Junior, trial heats; 440-yard run, trial heats; 50-yard hurdles, trial heats; one-mile walk; 50-yard dash, Senior, final heat; 50-yard dash, Junior, final heat; 50-yard hurdles, final heat; one-mile run; 440-yard run, final heat; 220-yard dash, trial heats; half-mile run; 220-yard dash, final heat; school relay race; college team race. The 50-yard trials will be called at 7 o'clock sharp, and will probably take up an hour's time to run off. The walk will be started promptly at 8 o'clock.

The field events will also be started at 8 o'clock, and all four of them, the jumps, the shot, and the vault, will be carried on at the same time. If any competitor is entered for two field events, he will have to take his turn at each when his name is called, or forfeit his chance. This plan has been adopted, after careful consideration, in order to avoid the long delays usually attendant upon field events. The school race will be a relay race—each man of the four entered by each school to run a quarter of a mile. The college race, however, is to be a team race, all the contestants to start together, and every man to run a mile.

The track will be of clay and loam, six inches deep and twenty feet wide, rolled hard. Consequently spike shoes will be allowed, and, as a result, there ought to be considerable record-smashing. Spike shoes will also be allowed in the jumps.

Most of the New York schools will send strong teams to the Garden. Berkeley and Barnard will be represented by their full strength, and each school will have to exert its utmost efforts to gain more points than its rivals, for several events that both might count on will no doubt go to out-of-town competitors. Drisler's team will probably be made up of Wolff, Pinkus, Curran, and Ingersoll in the sprints; Wolff, Hildburgh, and Howe in the middle distances; Ballin, Wenman, and Eakin in the shot; Katzenbach, Wenman, and Agate in the high jump; Howe and Marlin in the walk; and Katzenbach and Ingersoll in the pole vault.

Trinity will be represented by A. W. Taves and M. Page in the shot, the former with a record of 39 ft. 7 in.; C. A. O'Rourke, Jun., and E. Moran in the hurdles; L. S. Jackson in the mile run; G. McGuire in the mile walk; L. W. Maltby in the high jump; Scott Kidder, pole vault; G. R. Lemcke and W. E. Mitchell in the Junior run; Dudley Fanning, W. M. Van Zandt, and F. C. Simons in the sprint.

Pingry's School, of Newark, will send its best men; and a team made up of the following men will represent Stevens Prep, of Hoboken: R. Shippen, W. Sharkey, N. Stewart, S. McClave, N. McClave, and C. A. Colwell.

The accompanying table of indoor scholastic records of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. includes only those events that are to be contested at the N.M.A.C. games, and has been corrected to date. There is some uncertainty about the accuracy of the shot figures. Berkeley claims that T. A. Ball did 40 ft. 5 in. in 1894. On the other hand, E. Bigelow, of Wilson and Kellogg's, claims that he holds the record with a put of 39 ft. 7 in. The secretary of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. says that his books give the record to Bigelow, but for a put of 37 ft. 7 in. only, and he states that he has no record whatever of Ball's 40 ft. 5 in. put. In the constitution and by-laws of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. recently issued there is given a table of indoor scholastic records, and I have adopted the shot figures given there, 39 ft. ¾ in. for the present purposes.

N.Y.I.S.A.A. INDOOR RECORDS FOR EVENTS TO BE CONTESTED AT N.M.A.C. GAMES.

Event. | Record. | Holder.
50-yard dash | No record.
220-yard run | 25-2/5 sec. | C. R. Irwin-Martin, Berkeley, 1896.
440-yard run | 54 sec. | C. R. Irwin-Martin, Berkeley, 1896.
Half-mile run | 2 min. 5 sec. | W. S. Hipple, Barnard, 1896.
Mile run | 4 min. 54-2/5 sec. | E. W. Bedford, Barnard, 1896.
Mile walk | 7 min. 37-4/5 sec. | T. L. Bogart, Berkeley, 1892.
50-yard hurdles (3 ft.) | No record.
Running high jump | 5 ft. 8½ in. | W. Baltazzi, Harvard, 1895.
Running broad jump | No record.
Pole vault | 9 ft. 4 in. | E. W. Simpson, Barnard, 1895.
Putting 12-lb. shot | 39 ft. ¾ in. | R. Bigelow, W. and K., 1895.

At the last meeting of the Long Island I.S.A.A. the date for the annual field meeting was set for Saturday, May 23d. The events will doubtless be the same as usual, and will be run off at Eastern Park. There was some objection to the date made by the delegates from St. Paul's, whose nine was scheduled to play against Pratt Institute on that day, but this difficulty was easily adjusted by a rearrangement of the baseball committee's schedule.

The revised schedule, therefore, will go into effect as follows—the arrangement as given in this Department in the issue of January 28th being superseded:

April 18—Latin School vs. St. Paul.

April 22—High-School vs. Adelphi Academy.

April 25—Pratt vs. Poly. Prep.

April 29—High-School vs. Latin School.

May 2—Pratt vs. Latin School.

May 6—High-School vs. St. Paul.

May 6—Poly. Prep. vs. Latin School.

May 9—Pratt vs. Adelphi.

May 16—Pratt vs. High-School.

May 16—Adelphi vs. Latin School.

May 16—Poly. Prep. vs. St. Paul.

June 6—Pratt vs. St. Paul.

June 8—Adelphi vs. Poly. Prep.

The amendment offered at the previous meeting, providing that any team forfeiting a scheduled game within two weeks of the date of the contest shall pay a fine of $5, was adopted. This is a step in the right direction.

On account of the withdrawal of Woodbridge and Drisler's from the N.Y.I.S. Baseball League, the N.Y.I.S.A.A. baseball committee has likewise been obliged to revise its schedule, and the following will consequently supersede that given in this Department in the issue of February 25th:

FIRST SECTION.

April 24—De la Salle Institute vs. Cutler.

April 29—Barnard vs. Condon.

May 11—Cutler vs. Condon.

May 15—Barnard vs. De la Salle.

May 20—Barnard vs. Cutler.

May 25—De la Salle vs. Condon.

SECOND SECTION.

April 22—Columbia Grammar vs. Hamilton Institute.

April 27—Berkeley vs. Trinity.

May 1—Hamilton Institute vs. Berkeley.

May 13—Columbia Grammar vs. Trinity.

May 18—Hamilton Institute vs. Trinity.

May 22—Columbia Grammar vs. Berkeley.

The Inter-High-School Athletic Association of Washington, D. C., has set aside June 6th for its field day. I hope the National I.S.A.A. committee will call their attention to the fact that this is a late date for associations who wish to enter teams at the National meet, and urge them to hold an earlier field day so as to send representatives to the general meeting. Every effort should be made to have as wide a representation as possible on this occasion, for much will depend upon the success of the first National affair. The Washingtonians have placed the hop, step, and jump, and throwing the baseball on their card. Neither of these can be properly considered an athletic event, and the managers of the Inter-High-School A.A. will be making a stride forward if they discard them.

It is to be regretted that the Inter-Academic League of Philadelphia found it inadvisable to hold a joint athletic meeting with the new High-School League. Such a meeting would doubtless have furnished good sport, as both aggregations have strong athletes, and the extra incentive of association rivalry would certainly have developed a higher standard of performance.

At the recent meeting of the Maine I.S.A.A. the dispute between Portland and Bangor High Schools over the possession of the championship cup was referred to a special committee consisting of one representative from Bangor High-School and Bangor Y.M.C.A., one from Portland High-School and the Portland Athletic Club, these four to choose a fifth. The dispute arose last June through a misunderstanding in the scoring of the hammer-throw at the spring meet. This trouble should have been settled long before, but the inability to get a special meeting of the association has prevented.

The prospects for a good meeting of the association this spring are excellent, in spite of the fact that the Portland High-School and the Bangor High-School, the strongest contestants at last year's field day, have lost many first-class athletes by graduation. Thus it seems probable that some of the smaller schools will make a better showing this year than ever before.

Thornton Academy, of Saco, has for two years held third place in these contests, with many points to spare. This year Thornton ought to make a strong bid for the leading position. Much good material is in the school, and only needs development. Among the expected point-winners are Hodgdon, the half-miler, who will try to lower his last year's mark of 2 min. 11-4/5 sec.; Wakefield, the all-around athlete of the school, who throws the 12-pound hammer over 100 feet, puts the shot about 34 feet, pole-vaults over 9 feet, goes 5 feet 2 inches, and 20 feet in the high and broad jumps respectively, and runs the 100 in 11 seconds and a fraction.

Preble, who has a record in pole vault close to 9 feet, is also expected to do well in the hurdles and the hammer. Cole is a new acquisition, but he is not new to athletics; he throws the hammer in the vicinity of 95 feet, puts the shot a few inches over 35 feet, and runs the mile under 4 min. 50 sec. J. Dow, who got pocketed last year in the 440-yard dash, has improved and can run near to 55 seconds. In addition to these men there are a number of others of more or less experience, who are all in training, and who help to make Thornton's outlook for success a bright one.

The Graduate.

THE PUDDING STICK.

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

Margaret W—— and Jessie K—— ask me to write on the subject of chaperonage. They both take ground against being chaperoned, and they tell me plainly that they think the fashion as it now exists in our country a foreign importation and unnecessary. "Why in this world," exclaims Margaret, who writes from a village in western Illinois, "should my dear mother, who is tired enough to go to bed when her work for the day is over, have to put on her best gown, attend an evening party, and stay up hours later than she likes to, all to take care of Lottie and me, when we are fully able to take care of ourselves. Aunt Jennie, who was a great belle in her day, says that it used to be the boast of American girls that they did not need to be looked after, and, for my part," adds Margaret, "I am quite of her opinion. But we girls here in A—— are willing to leave the whole matter to your decision. Shall we or shall we not be chaperoned?"

I thank you very much, girls, for consulting me about this, and for expressing your opinion so freely and frankly. This is always a good thing to do. People cannot understand one another when they keep back a part of their thoughts, and very much always depends on the point of view from which we regard affairs, especially in the social line. Here in New York young people have learned to prefer the company of chaperons on every occasion where they meet one another for pleasure. It is not regarded as possible to leave out the mother or married friend, whose presence imposes no restraint, and who, by her tact and address and ready sympathy, makes a theatre party, or a dance, or any little meeting of girls and their friends among boys and men, pass off successfully. A chaperon need not be a withered old personage who frowns upon amusement. She would certainly be out of place if this were her character. She need not be a tired mother who feels herself a martyr to her children and their comrades. There are mothers who are not tired, whose health is excellent, whose spirits are not jaded, and who do not wish to be omitted when the roll-call of pleasure-seekers is called. But any youthful married lady may appropriately act as chaperon to a group of young people, as may a dignified spinster, still charming and elegant, though past her own early youth. And a girl's father may chaperon her, and prove most delightful when acting in that capacity.

It is not desirable that picnic parties and rowing parties and parties for riding and driving, of which Frances L—— speaks as of frequent and delightful occurrence in her country home at the far South, should consist exclusively of the young. Older people joining them will make them safer and therefore happier. Accidents sometimes happen to the best equipped parties, and at such times a woman of experience and presence of mind knows precisely what to do and to say, and where otherwise there would be awkwardness she relieves the situation. Do not be so selfish as to drag the weary and overworked mother into society against her will, but let some lady whom everybody likes and admires act in the mother's place.

Margaret E. Sangster.

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CARDS

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BICYCLING

This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain much valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

Proceeding on our journey towards Buffalo, we leave Fonda in the morning, following the railroad track to Palatine Bridge, twelve miles and a little more from Fonda. Thence, following the main route, proceed by Palatine church to St. Johnsville, finally reaching Little Falls, twenty-seven miles from Fonda. The road is level most of the way, and is in fair condition, though at times there are sandy places. A stop may be made at the Metropolitan Hotel, which gives lower rates to L.A.W. members. Leaving the Metropolitan Hotel, pass through West Main Street and run to Lock Street. Here cross the railroad, the canal-feeder, and the river; cross Hanson's Island, and make direct for the tow-path of the canal. Turning right into this, you will find a good road as far as Jacksonburg Park along the path itself. At the lock it will be necessary to dismount and walk to a road which runs across the West Shore Railroad to the main highway between Little Falls and Mohawk.

All this country, the famous Mohawk Valley, is full of historic interest; and while it is impossible here to give much detail regarding it, it will well repay the bicyclist to move slowly, either asking information or carrying with him some book pointing out the historic scenes along the way. Between Jacksonburg and Fort Herkimer there is the famous old stone church, which will repay you for a visit. Fort Herkimer itself is passed on the right, and is marked by an ordinary white house. From Fort Herkimer turn right at a brick house, pass down a somewhat steep grade, cross the canal and the river to Herkimer at Washington Street. This is a very interesting town—one of the oldest in the country thereabouts, and full of historic scenes. Passing through Herkimer, turn into Albany Street to the left, and after passing one block turn to the right up Main Street, which is macadamized, and stop at the Palmer House, which the L.A.W. road-book marks as the best hotel between Albany and Syracuse. This is thirty-six miles from Fonda.

Leaving the hotel, and running one block along Main Street to the Court-house, a turn should be made to the left into Church Street, thence to the old turnpike, where, after climbing a short hill, a good gravel road is found running towards Frankfort. The famous King Weber Tavern is the first house on the right. Across the river the village of Mohawk is seen, and further on the town of Ilion. The road most of the way is good, except at the depot, where there is some sand, but in the main it is in good condition all the way to Frankfort. From this point East Schuyler and then West Schuyler are reached over a fine turnpike-road, which is left by turning southward at Deerfield, crossing the valley, the river, and the canal, and running into Utica. The road is easily discernible by watching for the Masonic Home on the left before the canal is crossed. Turning in front of the Home, and crossing the canal, keeping to the right, the rider will come to Rutgers Street (asphalted) and to Genesee Street, where he may stop at the St. James Hotel.

Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No 855.

THE CAMERA CLUB

Any questions in regard to photograph matters will be willingly answered by the Editor of this column, and we should be glad to hear from any of our club who can make helpful suggestions.

HOW TO TRANSFER THE FILM FROM A BROKEN NEGATIVE TO ANOTHER GLASS.

When the glass to a negative has been broken, but there is no break in the film, the film may, with a little care in handling, be transferred to another glass and made as good as new. Take a glass plate the same size as the negative and lay a small bit of beeswax on each corner, and a few bits where the break in the negative will come when laid on the whole glass. Place the broken negative, with the film side up, on the plain glass, and apply a gentle heat until the wax is melted and the two glasses are stuck firmly together. This makes a support for the broken negative, and prevents the film tearing when lifted from the glass.

For the loosening solution mix 1 oz. of water, 3 oz. alcohol, and 12 mms. of hydrofluoric acid; or ½ oz. of hydrofluoric acid, 4 oz. water, and 6 oz. of alcohol. This should be put into a rubber tray. In another tray put 2 oz. of water and 6 oz. of alcohol, and place a clean glass the size of the broken negative in the tray. Immerse the broken negative (previously attached to the whole glass) in the tray containing the acid solution, and rock it gently. In a few minutes the film will be found to have become loosened at the edges. With the ends of the fingers push the film gently from the glass, keeping it beneath the liquid while stripping it from the glass. Now take a clean glass plate, and when the film is detached from the broken negative lift it by one corner and slide the glass under the film, handling it very carefully. It will not hurt it if it should not lie perfectly smooth. As soon as the film is on the glass transfer it to the other tray, sliding it off the glass to the one in the bottom of the tray. Straighten it out under the solution, lift it from the tray, and with a small soft wad of surgeon's cotton wet in the alcohol and water, press it gently to the glass, removing all air-bubbles between the glass and the film. When it is in place and adheres smoothly to the glass, set it up in the rack to dry. It will adhere as firmly to the glass as to the original glass on which it was first coated.

It is better to take the formula for stripping solution to the dealer in photographic supplies and have it prepared, as the acid is a dangerous chemical to handle, making quite severe sores not easily healed. The weak solution will not affect the skin, but it is well to wear rubber finger-tips when handling chemicals which are at all dangerous.

Sir Knight Earle Harrison, Knoxville, Tenn., asks for a good formula for combined toning and fixing bath. The following will be found very satisfactory: Water, 10 oz.; hypo. soda, 2 oz.; sulphocyanide of ammonium, ¼ oz.; lead acetate, 30 grs.; lead nitrate, 30 grs.; gold chloride (neutral), 2 grs. Mix the ingredients in the order named, dissolving the gold in a little water, and adding the last thing after the others are well mixed. If the gold is not dissolved separately where hyposulphite of soda is used, the gold will be precipitated.

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THE YOUNG NIMRODS IN NORTH AMERICA.

THE YOUNG NIMRODS AROUND THE WORLD.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York

Writing Letters.

I.

A few years ago, noticing that members of the Order were remiss in not a few important qualifications of good letter-writers, we gave them some helpful hints on the subject. The effect, owing to either the excellence of the hints or the aptness of the members, or both, was immediately apparent, and so marked was the improvement that we could, almost at a glance, pick out from our correspondence the letters written by old and those written by new members of the Order.

But a new assemblage has now come about the Table whose letters are not as correct as they should be. Especially is this true of the Knights, who, with a few exceptions, do not conduct their correspondence in as ideal a manner as do the Ladies.

First, good handwriting. Do not think it out of fashion. All cannot afford a typewriter. Besides, writing-machines are not essential to good correspondence. What is vastly more essential is a plain hand. There is no excuse for bad writing. All can write well. The only reason some write ill is because they themselves think their poor writing good enough. Are you in such company? Some say to us, "Excuse blots." There is no excuse for them. Others say, "Pardon my mistakes." You should not make mistakes that a pardon will cover. All pardon errors that the writer did not know he made; you ask pardon for errors you know to exist but are too shiftless to correct.

You not infrequently write your name on the very bottom of the paper. How can we tell what it is? And you wonder why you receive no reply. One member, in four successive letters, signed his name thus: "John B. Smith," "John Bertram Smith," "John Smith," and "Bertram Smith." How do you expect your correspondents to keep track of you under such a kaleidoscope as that? Always use one signature, and only one. Again, a letter comes from "J. B. Smith." The handwriting is characterless, and may belong to boy, girl, man, or woman. Your correspondent begins his reply, "Dear ——" What? Are you "Mr.," "Miss," or "Madam"? Spell out a first name—a given name, because given you at baptism.

A Touching Morsel of Armenia.

Three years ago the Table received a letter from a young friend resident in Brousse, Turkey in Asia, a city on the opposite side of the Marmora Sea from Constantinople. It was written in a funny jumble of English, German, and perhaps a few French and Turkish words thrown in, and enclosed a small handful of Turkish stamps. We replied to it, sending some Columbian stamps, and asking the writer to tell us about his home, his school, the fruits, etc. That our letter was understood we are not sure, but after three years we received a second letter, the contents of which, in so far as we are able to read them, follow. In accordance with the writer's injunction we omit his name, although he gives it to us. This secrecy vividly reveals a condition of life quite difficult for Americans to appreciate.

Brousse, 7 Janvir, 1896.

Sirs:—I have recive your lettre at 1892, with the timbers. I have recive timbres Americain, and thank you of them. You ask me somme knews of Turc. You have herd of cors that since 1893 the Turc Sultan cach many Armenians in Constantinople and kille them, and gave them very much trobles. At las' the Sultan tho't he kille alles the Armenians in Turkai. So he atak furst in Sassoun alle blerc vois, with alle kinds of badnes. Sins that time we alle hat tho't he woldn't do any more so, but this year he maik just his mind to kille alle piples.

We have in Armeni very much villeges, and much wicked soldat of Turc. The soldat herd the Sultan said alle Armens to be kille, so they kille young mens first, then children, then old piples, take alle money and maik much trobles. So many villeges burnt I don't know nemes—Harpoot, Kayseri, Abbikir, Sevaz, Trabson, and most richest citys Armen. The Turc Sultan so pleased at alle many deths, he maik new pachas of Turcs who do killing.

Somme time, soldat do not kille quick, but take Armeni to moske and say, "Pray to Mehmet," and alle time keck poor Armeni so they not tell whether prayin' or not. Then they cut nos off, and this winter blood of many Armeni was on the snow. I here my friends say sixty thousand Armeni ded.

Now that we are alle our hards broken, we have a good many (multitude) orphens, who comme to Constantinople by our Patriarch Armeni. We are oblige to feed and dress them, which a great burden on us alle is. And we must dress alle in secret from Turc, bicos he dus not wich it. The winter is very cold, and in one haus is fifty piples, alle, I am told, without dresses. We in Constantinople alle sending dresses and money to Armeni Beyble Hausse. The piples there are much kind, and we love them bicos they help our piples.

In my furst lettre I am very sorry to give you bad news, but we hope Jisus will saife us, when I shall right you good news. If you will rite the repons of my lettre, plese don't right it to Brousse, and don't send it to Turkisch post, bicos if the Turcs see my naim right by Inglich rightinks, they open the lettre, find me and put me in prisen. Send repons, plese, to Inglich post restant, or to Beyble Hausse, or direct to Mrs. T. A. Baldwin, Brousse. I think that I have much mistaiks made. Have I? Then exqus them. My love to alle yung piples.

P. S.—You must not right at alle my name in the lettre. Again I say, exqus me. I have right so (en desordre). Recive mes sinsere salutation.

Stars and Planets.

Upon inquiry, I have found the answer to the question, "Why does a star twinkle while a planet shines clear and steady?" to be as follows:

A planet is an appreciable disk, generally of considerable magnitude; it is owing to the large size of the body that we behold its reflected light clear and steady. A star, on the other hand, no matter how large it may appear, is nothing more than a self-luminous point—a point, you understand; therefore, any object floating in the air between it and the earth will intercept its light for an instant, and thereby cause a "twinkle." Again, on its way to us the light of a star passes through media of varying densities; it is refracted—bent out of its course—and turned aside for an instant from our eyes. This occurring many, many times per minute makes the star appear to twinkle to an observer on the earth. There are many other ways of explaining the phenomenon, the majority of which, however, are hypothetical and involved. One of the more commonly accepted theories is that storms occurring in the atmosphere of the star cause its photosphere, or luminous envelope, to transmit to us light of varying intensity.

Our knowledge concerning the stars, as a professor of chemistry in our college recently informed his class, has resulted in the following revision of the old nursery rhyme:

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
I know exactly what you are,
For with my spectroscopic ken
I know you're naught but hydrogen;
Twinkling there so very bright,
In the distant realms of light."

Simon Theodore Stern.
New York City.

The Game of Kinkajou.

Shuffleboard is an admirable game. It calls forth much skill, and were it not for the bad uses to which it is often put would be more generally enjoyed. The regulation shuffleboard occupies considerable space, but if you would enjoy a miniature game, dubbed Kinkajou, your board is to be found on the well-polished surface of the dining table, which, by-the-way, must be rectangular. Fourteen inches from each end draw a light line with chalk. Your "weights" are half-dollars, three for each player. Two or four may play. The prime object of the game is to so slide the pieces that (1) they will touch the chalk-line—scoring 5, or (2) reach the space within the line and the end of the table—scoring 10, or (3) overlap the end of the table or the sides within the line—scoring 25.

Two players, A and B, are at either end of the table, say. They play in turn, each sliding his pieces to his opponent's end. If A slides his first piece so that it all but reaches the line, he will try to strike the first piece with his second, and "shove" it to one of the three positions, if possible, placing the second piece also in one of them. With his third piece he may choose to try the slim chance of shoving to score 25.

With two at the table there is no opportunity for playing on one's opponent; but where four are playing there is a field for really scientific plays. Supposing A, B, C, and D are at the table, and that A and B, C and D are partners. A and C occupy one end, B and D the other. A's and B's pieces are turned "heads," C's and D's "tails," by way of distinction. A begins the game by sliding her pieces. For example, she has succeeded in placing two within and one without the line. C, who is A's antagonist, tries first to displace the latter's right-hand piece within the line, and succeeds in sending it off the table, his own piece remaining on the 10 space. C's second piece is aimed for A's outside one, with the intention of sending it also clear of the table. This is done, and C's piece remains on the line. C, for his last slide, sends his piece toward A's left-hand piece within the line, but ingloriously misses it, while his own piece falls off the table. The score of the first "slide" is now taken, resulting in 15 for C's and 10 for A's side. B and D now slide their pieces, and at the end of the tenth slide the scores are compared.

A still more elaborate game of partners may be played where the four are seated together at one end of the table. In this game a score-keeper must seat himself at the opposite end to catch the pieces and to point out by whom each is played. Partners do not sit together. The plays are made in turn, beginning at the left hand. Thus, if the order were A, C, B, D, C would have A's pieces to play on, B would have C's, with an eye to his partner's (A's) pieces, while D would have A's and B's, with D's to care for. At the end of D's play the score of each side is carefully taken.

The writer has whiled away many a half-hour with this little game, which combines in a small way billiards and "curling," and he hopes that though not a "Round" Table game, it, nevertheless, will be enjoyed by many a Lancelot or Elaine.

Vincent V. M. Beede, R.T.F.

Answers to the Antiquary Puzzle.

We hope you solved many of the riddles propounded by the Antiquary and his visitor, but if you did not you must not despair, for they were difficult ones. Here are answers to them:

1, 1779; 2, A spirit supposed to appear at the death of a member of the Prussian family of the Hohenzollerns; 3, Boston, Mass.; 4, Gibbon; 5, Cane; 6, Haydn; 7, Spar; 8, Dr. Simpson, of Edinburgh; 9, Boneset.

10, January, derived from janua, "a gate"; 11, Gneiss (nice); 12, Scarabæus; 13, A meteoric stone; 14, The British Museum; 15, Ishmonie, in Upper Egypt; 16, Palmyra; 17, An old satirical name for London; 18, The Bank of England; 19, From Morglay, "sword of death," the famous sword of Sir Bevis of Southampton; 20, Oliver Cromwell.

21, An edition of the Bible published at Oxford, in 1717, in which the title of the Twentieth Chapter of Luke was given as "The Parable of the Vinegar"; 22, Charles I, of England; 23, Democritus of Abdera; 24, Heraclitus; 25, Ruby (rue-bee); 26, Moonstone; 27, Daly, the manager of a Dublin theatre, wagered that a word of no meaning should be the talk and puzzle of the city within twenty-four hours. The word QUIZ was chalked and pasted on the walls of Dublin, and the desired effect was produced; 28, Coal; 29, Thoth; 30, The cryptogram is solved by allowing the first half of the alphabet to equal the second half, in order—that is, let A-N, B-O, C-P, etc. The verse will read:

Within this narrow portal dim,
In jewelled casket brought from far,
Has lain for thirteen centuries
King Arthur's sword Escalibar.

Who Can?

Please tell me where to find The Little Red Hen—the old-story with the song "I'm glad I'm not a duck."

Jessy Flanigen.
Woodbury, N. J.

STAMPS

This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.

The millionaire collector usually devotes his time and money to "plating" New South Wales, Tasmania, Nevis, and other stamps which were engraved separately by hand, with the result that each stamp on the sheet is different. The ordinary collector cannot afford to take these men as his standard, but it is wonderful how much can be done by true philatelists with little money. The ordinary 3c. stamps from 1851 to 1884, the 2c. stamps of 1883, '87, '90, '93, and '94 are all extremely common, and can be bought at from 10c. to 50c. per thousand, in assorted lots. Almost each issue can be found in a large number of shades, and a collection of these makes as fine a show as a plate of the rare stamps. A similar thing is frequently done with the English stamps issued between 1858 and 1887. These were usually printed in sheets of 240 stamps, each stamp bearing different letters. One gentleman in New York has gone a step farther, and is making up a complete sheet of each issue of all the English stamps, including the £5. This is a gigantic piece of work, and I doubt the possibility of success in the majority of the stamps, although this particular collector is a man of wealth, willing to spend his money on his hobby. The Philatelic Society, New York, has a number of these made-up plates of the English penny stamps, presented by Mr. Corwin, the first president of the society. I know another philatelist who is making a general collection of used stamps, taking those which have been cancelled by a date cancellation or by a post-office cancellation. This excludes all stamps bearing a smudge, such as is usual in the greater part of the postal world to-day. Still another philatelist takes stamps on the original envelope or letter. Of course no complete collection can be made this way, but a remarkably beautiful album is the result.

Laura Root.—It will pass at face value. No premium.

Brownie.—The dealers sell Confederate bonds, bills, and "shinplasters" at very cheap prices. Many millions were issued and never redeemed. One dealer in a Southern city holds a quantity weighing 8000 pounds. They are very interesting to every student of American history, and I always advise their collection, especially at present, when they can be bought cheap.

Z. Behrens.—The first U.S. stamps issued for general use throughout the country were the 5c. and 10c. 1847 issue. They are worth 70c. and $3.50 each (used) respectively.

L. Bishop.—Do not cut your envelopes to shape. Cut off the entire end of the envelope square, leaving as good a margin as possible. Entire envelopes are being collected more to-day than formerly.

A. Harding.—The "Special Delivery" stamps are not scarce, but probably the yellow one will be the least common in the near future.

B. Murphy.—The English stamp is worth 20c., if in good condition.

E. W. Greene.—The 10c. "Power of Attorney" U.S. Revenue is one of the common varieties. It is worth 75c. unperforated, 1c. perforated.

J. Smith.—The Canada 12 pence is a very scarce stamp in any condition. A used copy is worth $200 and more, according to condition.

O. W. Hall.—The 24c. U.S. 1861 issue comes in twenty or thirty different shades. They are worth from 25c. to 50c. each used, and from $1 to $2 unused. The rare 1881 green without the line under the stars is worth at least $10.

Philatus.

Ivory Soap

"A good complexion needs no artificial toning or heightening." Use a pure soap like the Ivory and leave nature to do the rest.

The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

BREAKFAST—SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL—COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.

PRINTING OUTFIT 10c.

Sets any name in one minute; prints 500 cards an hour. You can make money with it. A font of pretty type, also Indelible Ink, Type Holder, Pads and Tweezers. Best Linen Marker; worth $1.00. Mailed for 10c. stamps for postage on outfit and catalogue of 1000 bargains. Same outfit with figures 15c. Outfit for printing two lines 25c. postpaid.

Insersoll & Bro., Dept. No. 123, 65 Cortlandt St., New York.

BAKER

sells recitations and PLAYS

23 Winter St., Boston

CATALOGUES FREE.

THOMPSON'S EYE WATER

Tommy Toddles

By Albert Lee. Illustrated by Peter S. Newell. Square 16mo. Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The wonderful adventures of a small boy who wanders through a fantastic country in search of the wooden animals that have come to life and strayed away from a Noah's Ark are described in a humorous and imaginative style that will amuse older heads, while the peculiar incidents of the narrative cannot fail to bring delight to every youngster. There is a good leaven of light verse to the tale, which, with the illustrations in Mr. Newell's happiest vein, make the book a welcome addition to juvenile literature.

POEMS BY MRS. SANGSTER

Little Knights and Ladies

Verses for Young People. By Margaret E. Sangster. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

On the Road Home:

Poems. By Margaret E. Sangster. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Home Fairies and Heart Flowers.

Twenty Studies of Children's Heads. With Floral Embellishments, Head and Tail Pieces, Initial Letters, etc., by Frank French. With Poems by Margaret E. Sangster. 4to, Cloth, $6.00. (In a Box.)

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

OUT OF SIGHT, BUT—

Mr. Turtle. "Hello! What's this—ostrich eggs?"
Mrs. Turtle. "Sure enough! Let's pick to see who gets the odd one."
Mr. T. "Good. This is out of sight."

Mr. T. "Thick shells, aren't they?"

Mrs. T. "Yes; I see I'll have to hit harder."

Bang!!!

!!!!!

Johnny (watching his little brother Toddles, just learning to walk). "Oh, mamma, I'm terribly afraid of something!"

Mamma. "What's that, my dear?"

Johnny. "I don't believe Toddles can ride a bicycle next summer."

Tommy. "Say, Bob, what did you find the hardest thing in learning to ride a bicycle?"

Bob. "Trying to stay on it."

Uncle Bob. "I haven't seen you eating any candy lately, Russell. What's the matter?"

Russell. "I'm saving up. Papa says when I get twenty cents he'll put the rest of the money to it and buy me a bicycle."

"Have you got a brake on your bicycle?"

"Yes; two of 'em. That's why I'm not riding it. One break's on the sprocket, and the other's on one of the spokes of the fore-wheel."

"Let me ride your wheel, will you, Bobbie?" asked Ethel.

"No, indeed," replied Bobbie. "You're a lady, Ethel, and my bittycle hasn't got a side-saddle on it."

A NEW IDEA.

I wish I had a rubber tire
So big that it would be
An easy thing to ride a wheel
Across the raging sea.

I'd love to climb a breaker high,
To coast along a swell,
And skirt along a ripple, and
To wear a diving-bell,

So that if I a header took,
No harm would come of it!
Come, makers of ye bicycles,
Here's chance to show your wit.

Jack. "I've got the bicycle fever awfully."

Jimmie. "Well, I know a splendid cure for it."

Jack. "What is it?"

Jimmie (sadly, looking out of the window). "Snow."

"Oh dear!" sighed Billy, impatiently, gazing out at the snow-storm; "I told mamma she bought my bicycle suit too soon. It will be all worn out coasting before the bicycle weather gets here."

"Isn't it fun?" cried Jack. "You can go twice as fast on a bicycle as you can without one."

"Oh, I don't know about that," replied Wallie. "The day I took my header I beat my wheel down the hill by ten feet."

A SCORCHER.