It was on the floor, and, when lighted, revealed a disorderly heap of stuff collected about a big carpet-bag, open, and partly packed. Without further ado Mr. Grigsby picked it up by the corners and emptied it upon the floor. At the very bottom were the missing lace and handkerchiefs, and, rolled up carefully in a white silk handkerchief, Mr. Tayloe's watch and chain. A roll of pillow-cases and towels was near by. Beyond was a stout sack of oznaburg containing four hams. A roll of homespun flannel, a box half full of candles, a bag of corn and one of oats, with articles of lesser value, were piled in the corners of the cabin. The haunted house was the cleverly chosen hiding-place of the booty collected during several weeks, perhaps for months.
"I wonder how long this has been going on?" said the Major, giving a long whistle as he stared about him. "No need of a search-warrant now for the Fogg house. They were too smart to store their plunder there. They are a sharp set! Not a negro would come within gun-shot of this place after sunset. Did you get a glimpse of the rascal who played us such a shabby trick?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Grigsby was busy with the lantern that just at that moment went out, leaving them in total darkness but for the dying daylight that found entrance through the open door. When the candle in the lantern was rekindled, the blaze made the overseer's face look ghastly, and his high cheek-bones threw his eyes into shadows. They seemed to have sunken further back into his head. When he spoke his voice was husky, as if the yellow fog without had settled there.
"If you will take charge of the watch I'll ram the laces and linen into the bag and carry it to the gig"—stooping to gather them while he talked. "Then I'll prop up the door for to-night. The rest of the things can be sent for to-morrow."
After the place was closed he strolled on ahead of the Major and tucked the carpet-bag under the seat of the gig, making no reply to Mr. Tayloe's impatient queries.
"Have you any other orders for me to-night, Major?" he asked, looming up tall and dark in the twilight when his employer was in his seat.
"Nothing more, thank you, Grigsby," said the Major's lively, hearty voice. His good humor was thoroughly restored by the excitement of the adventure. "We may well be satisfied with our evening's work. And, I say, Grigsby, if there's anything any of us can do for the little girl, you know how gladly we would do it. Emily will be down in the morning to see her."
"Thank you, sir."
The reply came back as he was moving toward his horse, and was hardly audible.
"An uncivil cur!" commented Mr. Tayloe, "I wonder that you keep him."
"I might go further and fare a million times worse. It's natural he should be sore and surly just now. If any man had said one-tenth of one of my girls that I said of that bright little daughter of his I'd be as savage as a bear."
"I submit that there is some difference between your daughters and his," observed Mr. Tayloe, dryly. "But what have you found?"
"For one thing, your watch and chain."
The schoolmaster heard the story to the end without interrupting the narrator. Then he sneered openly.
"I'll wager my head against a turnip that that impudent vixen put the watch there herself. I'm not sure that she isn't responsible for the laces and handkerchiefs too. Doesn't it strike you as rather odd that her father should ferret out the stolen goods on this particular evening?"
"Oh, come, now, Tayloe, that is carrying your detective genius too far! Grigsby is an honest man if ever there was one. It is more odd that this nest of thieves was not unearthed before. Grigsby only needed to be put upon the scent. A canny Scot has a nose like a pointer-dog's if once you wake him up."
The canny Scot was wide awake at this present moment, rolling his horse up in a part of the road where the banks shut him away from possible observation, he struck a match and examined more closely a piece of paper he had picked up, unnoticed by the Major, in the hut. It had lain open, the written side up, in the middle of the floor. At the first glance he had read nothing but his daughter's name, yet had recognized instantly the lost report, and instinctively secreted it. The match burned long enough for him to verify his first impression.
"October 31, 184-.
"Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct—room for improvement! James Tayloe."
The date was the day before yesterday, when her mother had scolded the girl for loitering on the way home. He recalled the haste and heat with which Flea had answered, while confessing that she had lost the report—she could not say where.
How came she to be inside of that locked door? He had vowed to get at the bottom of this matter. Was he there now?
Flea was worse when her father got home. Her cheeks were purple and glazed with fever, her eyes wild and sightless. Her head rolled restlessly on the pillow; her fingers picked tufts of wool from the blanket while she crooned over and over what her mother described as "outlandish stuff." Her aunt, who had established herself as head nurse, had learned the lines by heart already:
"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray:
Gnarled apple-branches shade the door,
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er.
The sumac whispers, with its tongues of flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"
At the fourth repetition, in her father's hearing, the girl laughed aloud—the hollow, mirthless peal of madness.
"I made that poem! It's all about the haunted house, you know. Mrs. Fogg says nobody but just we two dares to go there. She says the devil has been seen there. I say he lives in the school-house. Eighteen hundred and forty-four into three thousand six hundred and eighty-eight. Why, father, that's just twice and none over. Now I've got to climb to the top of the haunted house on a ladder made of noughts, noughts, noughts!"
Her rambling subsided into whispers. She fell to tracing figures and drawing lines upon the counterpane, her brows knitted, her lips moving fast.
"That is worse than the singing," said Mrs. McLaren, aside, to her brother. "She will work at that sum for an hour at a time. It is wearing her out. Heaven forgive that teacher!"
The father did not say "Amen."
"Where did you get that baseball?" asked Bonny Brooks, referring to one that Alaric was unconsciously tossing from hand to hand as they walked up town together.
At this the latter stopped short and looked at the ball in question, as though now seeing it for the first time.
"Do you know," he said, "I have been so excited and taken up with other things that I actually forgot I had this ball in my hands. It belongs to the fellow who gave me that breakfast and your dollar, besides telling me where to look for something to do. Not only that, but I really believe if it hadn't been for this ball he would never have paid any attention to me."
"Who is he? I mean, what is his name?"
"I don't know. I never thought to ask him. And he doesn't live here either, but has just come down from Alaska, and was going off on the one-o'clock train. I do know, though, that he is the very finest chap I ever met, and I only hope I'll have a chance some time to pay back his kindness to me by helping some other poor boy."
"It is funny," remarked Bonny, meditatively, "that your friend and my friend should both have just come from Alaska."
"Isn't it?" replied Alaric; "but then they are travelling together, you know."
"I didn't know it, though I ought to have suspected it, for they are the kind who naturally would travel together—the kind, I mean, that give a fellow an idea of how much real goodness there is in the world, after all—a sort of travelling sermon, only one that is acted out instead of being preached."
"That's just the way I feel about them," agreed Alaric; "but I wish I hadn't been so careless about this ball. It may be one that he values for association's sake, just as I did the one we left in that Siwash camp."
"Let me have it a moment," said Bonny, who was looking curiously at the ball.
Alaric handed it to him, and he examined it closely.
"I do believe it is the very one!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I am sure it is. Don't you remember, Rick, the burned place on your ball that came when Bah-die dropped it in the edge of the fire the first time you threw it to him, and how you laughed and called it a sure-enough red-hot ball? Well, here's that place now, and this is certainly the very ball that introduced us to each other in Victoria."
"How can it be?" asked Alaric, incredulously.
"I don't know, but it surely is."
"Well," said Alaric, finally convinced that his comrade was right, "that is the very most unexplainable thing I ever came across, for I don't see how it could possibly have come into his possession."
While thus discussing this strange happening, the lads approached the hotel in which one of them had been made to suffer so keenly a few hours before. He dreaded the very thought of entering it again, but having made up his mind that he must, was about to do so, when his attention was attracted to a curious scene in front of the main entrance.
A small wiry-looking man, evidently a foreigner, was gesticulating, stamping, and shouting to a group of grinning porters and bell-boys who were gathered about him. As our lads drew near they saw that he held a small open book in his hand, from which he was quoting some sentence, while at the same time he was rapidly working himself into a fury. It was a French-English phrase-book, in which, under the head of instructions to servants, the sentence "Je désire un fiacre" was rendered "Call me a hansom," and it was this that the excited Frenchman was demanding, greatly to the amusement and mystification of his hearers.
"Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom!" he repeated over and over at the top of his voice. "C'est un fiacre—fiacre—fiacre!" he shouted. "Oh, là, là! Mille tonnerres! Call me a hansom!"
"He must be crazy," said Bonny; "for he certainly isn't handsome, and even if he were, he couldn't expect people to call him so. I wonder why they don't send for the police."
Instead of answering him, Alaric stepped up to the laughing group and said, politely, "Pardon, monsieur. C'est Monsieur Filbert, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, oui. Je suis Filbert! Call me a hansom."
"He wants a carriage," explained Alaric to the porters, who stared open-mouthed at hearing this young tramp talk to the foreigner in his own "lingo." "Vous voulez une voiture, n'est-ce pas?" he added, turning to the stranger.
"Oh, my friend!" cried M. Filbert in his own language, flinging away the perplexing phrase-book as he spoke, and embracing Alaric in his joy at finding himself once more comprehended. "It is as the voice of an angel from heaven to hear again my own language in this place of barbarians!"
"Have a care, monsieur," warned Alaric, "how you speak of barbarians. There are many here who can understand perfectly your language."
"I care not for them! I do not see them! They have not come to me! You are the first! Can it be that I may engage you to remain and interpret for me this language of distraction?" Here the speaker drew back, and scanned Alaric's forlorn appearance hopefully.
"That is what I came to see you about, monsieur," answered Alaric. "I am looking for employment, and shall be happy—"
"It is enough!" interrupted the other, vehemently. "You have found it. I engage you now, at once. Come, the carriage is here. Let us enter."
"But," objected the lad, "I have a friend whom I cannot leave."
"Let him come! Let all your friends come! Bring your whole family if you will, but only stay with me yourself!" cried the Frenchman, impetuously, "I am distracted by my trouble with this terrible language, and but for you I shall go crazy. You are my salvation. So enter the carriage, and your friend. Après vous, monsieur. Do you also speak the language of beautiful France? No? It is a great pity."
"Does his royal highness take us for dukes?" questioned the bewildered Bonny, who, not understanding one word of the foregoing conversation, had, of course, no idea why he now found himself rolling along the streets of Tacoma in one of its most luxurious public carriages.
"Not exactly," laughed Alaric; "but he takes us for interpreters—that is, he wants to engage us as such."
"Oh! Is that it? Well, I'm agreeable. I suppose you told him that I was pretty well up on Chinook? But what language does he talk himself?"
"French, of course," replied Alaric, "seeing that he is a Frenchman."
"Are you a Frenchman too?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, I didn't know but what you were, seeing that you talk the same language he does, and just as well, for all that I can make out. Really, Rick Dale, it is growing interesting to find out the things you know and can do."
Under Alaric's direction, the carriage first bore them to the railway station, where a number of strange-looking boxes and packages, all belonging to M. Filbert, were gathered in one place, and given in charge of a porter, who was instructed to receive and care for any others that might come marked with the same name. Then the carriage was again headed up town, and driven to shop after shop until it seemed as though the entire resources of the city were to be drawn upon to supply the multitudinous needs of the mysterious Frenchman.
Among the things thus purchased and ordered sent down to the station were provisions, cooking utensils, axes, medicines, alcohol, tents, blankets, ammunition, and clothing.
Of course Alaric accompanied M. Filbert into each store, where his knowledge of languages was invaluable in conducting the various negotiations; but the Chinook interpreter, as he called himself, finding that his services were not yet in demand, was content to remain luxuriously seated in the carriage.
During the whole afternoon M. Filbert talked incessantly with his new-found interpreter, and Alaric seemed almost as excited as he. At length the former, casting a dubious glance at the lads, asked, with an apologetic manner, if they were well provided with clothing.
"Only what you see, monsieur," answered Alaric. "Everything else we have lost."
"Ah! Is it so? Then must you be provided with the habiliments necessary. If you will kindly give the instructions?"
So the carriage was ordered to a shoe-shop and an outfitting establishment, where both lads, to Bonny's further bewilderment, were provided with complete suits of rough but warm and serviceable clothing, including two pairs of walking boots, one of which was very heavy and had hob-nailed soles.
These last purchases were not concluded until after sunset, and with them the business of the day was ended. With many parting injunctions to Alaric, and a polite bonne nuit to both lads, M. Filbert was driven back to the hotel, leaving his newly engaged assistants to their own devices for the time being.
"Now," said Bonny, "if you haven't forgotten how to talk United States, perhaps you will explain what all this means—what we are engaged to do, what our wages are to be, and where we are bound? Are we to turn gold-hunters or Indian-fighters, or is it something in the exploring line?"
"I expect," laughed Alaric, "it is to be more in the climbing line."
"Climbing?"
"Yes. Do you see that mountain over there?" Here Alaric pointed to the lofty snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier, still rose-tinted with sunlight, and rising in awful grandeur high above all other summits of the Cascade range, nearly fifty miles from where they stood.
"Certainly. I can't help seeing it."
"Do you think you could climb it?"
"Of course I could, if it came in my line of business."
"Would you undertake it for thirty dollars a month and all expenses?"
"Rick Dale, I'd undertake to climb to the moon on those terms. But you are surely joking. The Frenchman will never pay that just for the fun of seeing us climb."
"Yes he will, though, and I have agreed that we shall start with him for the top of that mountain to-morrow morning."
Monsieur Jean Puvis Filbert was a Frenchman of wealth, a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, an enthusiastic mountain-climber, and had for an especial hobby the making of botanical collections from high altitudes. He was now on a leisurely tour around the world, and had recently arrived in Tacoma on one of the Northern Pacific steamships from Japan. This was his first visit to America, and he was filled with enthusiasm by the superb mountain scenery that greeted him on all sides as his ship steamed through the Strait of Juan de Fuca and up the glorious waterways of Puget Sound.
As his knowledge of English was very limited, our mountain-climber began his preparations for this arduous undertaking by engaging an interpreter. The only one whom he could find was a Canadian, who spoke French nearly as badly as he did English, and whom his employer was quickly obliged to discharge for drunkenness and utter incompetence. Then it seemed as though the expedition on which M. Filbert had set his heart must be given up, and he was in despair. At this critical moment Alaric Todd appeared on the scene seeking employment, though never dreaming that it would come to him through his knowledge of French, and was received literally with open arms.
Of course he was engaged at once, and was able to secure a situation for Bonny Brooks as well, though the precise nature of the young sailor's duties were not defined. Thus Bonny was allowed to regard himself as also holding the rank of an interpreter, whose services would be invaluable in the event of an encounter with Indians, who, for all he knew, might contest every foot of their way up the great mountain.
M. Filbert wished the boys to spend the night with him at the hotel, but Alaric was still so sore over his morning's experience that he begged to be excused. So when they were left to themselves they carried their recently acquired belongings down to the railway station, and persuaded the agent to allow them to sleep in that corner of the baggage-room devoted to their employer's collection of chattels. Here they put on their new suits, and then, feeling once more intensely respectable, and well content with their own appearance, each invited the other to dine with him. Had they not two whole dollars between them, and was not that enough to make them independent of the world?
They procured a bountiful dinner in the restaurant where Alaric had breakfasted, and with it ate up one of their dollars. The place was so associated in their minds with the fine young fellow to whom they owed all their present good fortune that they thought and talked much of him during the meal. Recalling what he had said concerning his father reminded Alaric of his own parent, and caused him to wonder if he were yet aware that his younger son was not travelling around the world with the Sonntaggs as he had planned.
"If the dear old dad has heard of my disappearance," reflected the boy, "he must be a good deal worried, for he has no idea of how well I can take care of myself. I'll write to Cousin Esther, and ask her to tell dad all about me. She is sure to see him on his way home, for he always visits Uncle Dale's when he is in Boston."
So after supper, Alaric, who was beginning to have a lively appreciation of the value of money, as well as of fathers, cautiously invested four cents in a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp, all of which he was able to procure from the proprietor of the restaurant. The boy smiled, as he carefully pocketed his one cent of change, to think on what a different scale he would have made a similar purchase less than a month before. Then he would have ordered a box of note-paper, another of envelopes, and a whole sheet of stamps. As for the change, why, there wouldn't have been any, for he would simply have said, "Charge it, please," and it would have been charged to his father's account.
When Bonny saw that Alaric was about to write a letter he decided to write one to his aunt Nancy at the same time, "For," said he, "she probably imagines that I am in China by now, and would never think of sending word to me here in case she got any news of father." So Bonny also invested four cents in stationery; and the restaurant man good-naturedly allowing them to use a table, besides loaning them pens and a bottle of ink, they sat down to compose their respective epistles. When Alaric's letter was finished it read as follows:
"Dear Cousin Esther,—I have taken your advice and run away—that is, I have done what amounts to the same thing, for I just sat still and let the other folks run away. By this time I expect they are in China, while I am here in the very place you said you would be if you were a boy. I wish you were one so you could be here with me now, for I think you would make a first-class boy. I am learning to be one as fast as I can, a real truly boy, I mean, and not a make-believe. I have already learned how to smuggle, and catch a baseball, besides a little batting, and to swim, sail a boat, paddle a canoe, talk some Siwash, and have had a good deal of experience besides.
"Now I am an interpreter and engaged in the mountain-climbing business. We start to-morrow.
"I have a partner who is a splendid chap, about my age, and named Bonny Brooks. I know you would like him, for he is such a regular boy, and knows just how to do things.
"When you see my dear dad, please give him my warmest love, and tell him I think more of him now than I ever did. Please make him understand that it was the Sonntaggs who ran away, and not I. Tell him that when I am through experimenting with my heart, and have become a genuine boy like Bonny, I am coming back to him, to learn how to be a man—that is, I will if I can afford to pay my way to San Francisco. But you have no idea how much money it takes to travel, especially when you have to earn it yourself, and so far I haven't earned any. Still I have not starved—that is, not very often—so far, and am in hopes of having plenty to eat from this time on. Now I must say good-by because we are going to sleep in the station to-night, and it closes early.
"Ever your loving cousin, Rick."
"P. S.—The principal reason I let the Sonntaggs go was because they called me 'Allie.' Please tell this to Dad."
Bonny's letter was not so long as Alaric's, but it described the situation with equal vagueness. He wrote:
"Dear Aunt Nancy,—I am not in China, as you may suppose, having quit the sea after rising to be first mate. Have also been a smuggler, but am not any more. Am now engaged by the French as interpreter, and so far like the business very well. Have also gone into the climbing trade. We are to do our first mountain to-morrow. Have for a chum one of the cleverest chaps you ever saw. He can talk most any language except Chinook, and is a daisy ball-catcher. His name is Rick Dale, and I am trying hard to be just like him. If you have any news from father, please let me know. You can send a letter in care of Mr. P. Bear, Hotel Tacoma, which is our headquarters.
"Ever your loving nephew,
B. Brooks, Interpreter."
Both these letters were sent to Massachusetts, Alaric's being addressed to Boston, and Bonny's to Sandport. After they were posted, and our lads were on their way back to the railway station, they began for the first time to realize how very tired and sleepy they were. They were so utterly weary that as they snuggled down in their corner of the baggage-room, on a bed made of M. Filbert's tents and blankets, Alaric remarked,
"This is what I call solid comfort."
"Yes," replied Bonny, "we certainly have struck a big streak of luck. Do you remember how we were feeling about this time last night?"
"No," answered Alaric, "I can't remember. It's too long ago. Good-night." And in another minute both boys were fast asleep.
They had taken "through tickets," as Bonny would have said, and slept so soundly that they hardly stirred until the agent flung open the baggage-room door at six o'clock the following morning, and caused them to spring from their blankets in a hurry by shouting, "All aboard!" A dash of cold water from the hydrant outside drove all traces of sleep from their eyes, and so filled them with its fresh vigor that they raced all the way up town to the restaurant. Here, although their appetites were keen as ever, they managed to fully satisfy them with a ninety-cent breakfast, "and left the place with money still in their pockets," as Alaric expressed it.
"That's so," responded Bonny. "We've just one cent apiece. Let's toss up to see who will have them both."
"No," said Alaric, "for that would be gambling; and I promised my mother long ago at Monte Carlo never to gamble. She said more fortunes were lost and fewer won in that way than by any other."
"But one cent isn't a fortune," objected Bonny.
"Why not? A man's fortune is all that he has, and if you have but one cent, then that is your fortune."
"I guess you are right, Rick Dale," laughed Bonny. "I hate gambling as much as you do; but it never seemed to me before that tossing pennies was gambling. I expect it is, though, so I'll just keep my fortune in my pocket, and not risk it on any such foolishness."
As the lads hastened back to the station, where they were to meet their employer, the glorious mountain that was now the goal of their ambition reared its mighty crest, radiant with sunlight, directly before them. So wonderfully clear was the atmosphere that it did not seem ten miles away, and Bonny, shaking a fist at it, cried, cheerfully, "Never you mind, old fellow, we'll soon have you under foot."
The greatest spectacles the world ever sees are the most solemn; consequently, when a nation places upon a man, chosen by God as they often believe, the symbols of sovereignty, the occasion is celebrated with ceremonies of the most impressive character.
The last important crowning of a King occurred in Moscow on the 27th of May, 1883, and by that event Alexander III. was created Czar of all the Russias.
For two centuries the Russian imperial coronations have taken place in Moscow, within the Kremlin, an enclosure in the heart of the holy city in which are gathered the cathedrals and palaces whose walls have witnessed all the celebrations of the great events of Russian history for centuries. The coronation programme carried out nearly one hundred and seventy-five years ago has remained unchanged in its important details. Just before the coronation the sovereign retires from public life, and spends a few days in fasting and prayer to fit and prepare him for the occasion that is to be the grandest and most solemn in all his lifetime.
On the present Czar's birthday, the 18th of May, began the official and non-official ceremonies by which Nicholas Alexandrovich will be proclaimed supreme ruler over a nation numbering one hundred and twenty millions of people.
The actual crowning of this twenty-seven-year-old monarch will take place on the 26th of May, and under conditions far happier than those which made his father's coronation, though one of the grandest spectacles in history, a festival clouded with a dreadful gloom that fell upon the Russian people at the untimely death of the second Alexander.
The royal procession starts from the palace, and, approaching the Cathedral of the Assumption, is met by a party of the clergy led by the archbishop of the realm. The latter carries a cross that is kissed by the royal pair; then the Emperor and Empress, and the road upon which they walk, are sprinkled with holy water. Entering the cathedral, where the decorations vie with the brilliant robes and uniforms of the assembled priests and officers, their Majesties tread upon the richest Persian carpets, and, passing through a balustrade of gold, seat themselves in two ancient arm-chairs beneath a scarlet canopy ornamented with golden emblems, and yellow, black, and white ostrich feathers.
The services at the cathedral are essentially of the highest religious order, and are performed by the leading ministers of the Greek Church, of which the Czar himself is the exalted head.
A banner, called the Holy Banner of Russia because the pole is surmounted by a spear-head made from a piece of the true cross, is blessed and handed to the Emperor, who waves it three times before the assembled congregation, and restores it to the primate. His Majesty kneels, and the imperial mantle of silver and ermine is thrown over his shoulders; the sword of John III., King of Poland, is fastened to his side, while in his right hand is placed the sceptre, and in his left hand the orb; rising in his place he then crowns himself with the imperial crown, which is made in two parts, representing the Eastern and Western empires. The Empress kneels before her husband, and for an instant he rests the crown upon her brow. Another and smaller crown is then given to Her Majesty by the Emperor, and at the same time the ladies in waiting cover her with a robe similar to the Czar's. While all this is going on, prayers are offered for the welfare of the new ruler, and for the land during the reign just begun, and a great company of singers chant the canticles; but as yet the people have made no demonstration—they wait until the new Czar has been anointed.
The most important part of the ceremonials is now to be performed. The Archbishop of Moscow holds a silver bowl filled with holy oil in which a fragment of the crown of thorns has been immersed, and dipping a golden palm branch into the liquid, touches the Czar's brow, his eyelids, ears, lips, and the palms of his hands. Opening the monarch's vestments, the priest traces, in holy oil, the cross upon the royal breast, pronouncing at the time sentences of the greatest solemnity. Immediately after this sacred act, cannon, trumpets, and drums announce to the people without the church that from now and forever the person of the Czar is consecrated, that he is a man anointed of God and the delegate of His power.
In the mean time the Empress comes forward and is anointed by the high-priest on the forehead only. The Holy Sacrament is then administered to both their Royal Highnesses. While the Czar and Czarina stand upon the platform of the throne a great chorus of joy is sung, after which a mass is celebrated. At the moment the Czar receives back the sceptre and globe the priest proclaims the imperial titles, and this is hailed by a great outburst of cannon and bells, and everything that can aid the people in a hearty acknowledgment of their new sovereign's absolute right and power to rule them as long as his life shall last.
This concludes the holy service, and the splendid assemblage proceeds to the Cathedral of St. Michael, where the royal pair kneel before the tombs of their ancestors, and receive more sprinklings with holy water. The procession is then formed and faced towards the Church of the Annunciation, where still further religious services close an event which is the grandest and most brilliant ever witnessed.
Up to this point all of our hitting has been free, and our one object has been to drive the ball the longest possible distance. But now, with the hole within the reach of practical politics, the problem takes on a new feature, and it is the right distance that becomes the important thing. If we know by practice that we can drive on an average 110 yards with the brassy, and the putting green is about that distance away, we will of course take that club and do our best. But supposing that it is ninety yards, it would be a great mistake to try and make an easy swing with the brassy, and the attempt would probably result in a "top" or some other form of "foozling" or missing. It would be much better to play the full cleek stroke, which is generally from fifteen to twenty yards shorter in carry. Or, again, if it is too near for the cleek, we may use the medium iron or the lofter. But when we are inside of a full stroke with the lofter or iron, we must devise some method of making a shorter shot than the full swing, for the ground is probably too rough for the putter, or there may be a bunker just in front of the green.
The books on golf go into the subject of approach-shots in a most elaborate fashion, and we are told that the three-quarter, the half, and the quarter shot must now be brought into play, and the different positions for making these strokes are described in a most minute and yet confusing and contradictory manner. As a matter of fact, although everybody talks of half and three-quarter shots, yet very few authorities will agree on what they really are, or can clearly explain how to make them. Is there any definite ground upon which to stand?
You remember that in discussing the full drive we arrived at the conclusion that it must be a swing and not a hit, and that in a swing the force is derived from velocity rather than from weight. Now the same principle applies in this case. Supposing that we use exactly the same effort of muscle for one swing that we do for another, but that the club head at one time swings back to our shoulder, and at another time only half-way. Evidently in the shorter swing it will be travelling at a lower rate of speed when it strikes the ball, and consequently with less power, and consequently again the ball will not go so far. Well, this is about as close as we can get to the secret of how to measure distance. The shorter the swing the shorter the carry, provided always that our grip is the same. And it should be always the same—that is, close and firm, particularly with the left hand. If we tighten it more than usual it means that we are about to hit instead of swing at the ball, or, in other words, we are "forcing" or "pressing." If our grip is too loose it means that we are about to flop at the ball in a feeble, uncertain way that is neither hit nor swing, and this is called "sparing." Both forcing and sparing are equally wrong, and sure to lead to unsteadiness and all kinds of misses. The grip should always be about the same, certainly always firm, and we should endeaver to reduce yards of carry to simple inches of swing. Of course this is not an easy thing to do, and in fact the "short game," as approaching is called, is generally the weak point in most people's play. These strokes that are short of a full swing are often called "wrist" strokes; but do not be deceived into thinking that the term implies a free use of those joints. On the contrary, the left wrist in particular can hardly be kept too stiff. These strokes, again, are never played with a brassy or wooden driver, their use being confined to the iron clubs, and particularly the lofter or mashie, whichever weapon you may use habitually in approaching the hole.
The stance, or position of the feet, is one point upon which all the doctors are agreed. A few players approach off the left leg, but the great majority stand half-facing the hole, with the right leg very much nearer the line of fire than the left one; in fact, the position is just the opposite of the one advised for the full driving swing. Moreover, the arms are drawn closer in, and in the case of a very short stroke the right arm should be lightly pressed against the body to insure steadiness. Get the general position right, and the rest will follow in due course.
Two strokes may be specially considered—the high lofting shot, and running the ball up with the iron. The first is used when there is some obstacle directly in front of the green which must be cleared, and at the same time there is danger on the other side. The problem, then, is to loft the ball high into the air so that it may fall dead on the putting green with little or no run. The position is still half-facing the hole, and the swing should be almost straight up and down. And in this one particular stroke you may allow the wrists to be as flexible as possible, for the problem is to describe a small ellipse with the club head, and not, as before, the segment of a circle. Of course you will use a lofter or a mashie for this stroke.
The running-up stroke is very useful when there is rough ground between you and the green, but no bunker to clear. To make this stroke the player should have his hands well in front of the ball, which tends to make the face of the lofter more upright than is its natural lie. This is called turning in the face, and the effect is to skim the ball close to the ground. The club should be carried back close to the ground, and then brought forward with a slow dragging motion, both wrists being kept perfectly stiff. It is worth while practising this stroke, for it is a very effective one in its results.
And now, after all our trials and misadventures, we are at last on the putting green, and it only remains to hole out. Putting is not particularly interesting, but you must remember that a stroke wasted at the hole counts just as much as a foozle from the tee. Carefulness and concentration are especially necessary, and although putters, like poets, are said to be born, not made, you should at least aim at going out in two strokes from any part of the green three times out of five.
Putting may be done in almost any position, but whatever stance you do adopt, stick to it, and go in for results rather than for theoretical experiments. The position shown in the illustrations is a sound one, and you cannot do better than to adopt it. You will notice that the ball is comparatively near the right foot, and that the right arm is lightly steadied on the hip. Let the stroke itself be as near to a push as you can manage it without actually committing that offence, and it will aid you in controlling your distance if the club head is allowed to "sclaff" along the turf or scrape it lightly. Remember, too, that after getting your direction you must look at the ball and not at the hole.
Putting is divided into approach puts and holing out. In the first-named the distance is the important thing. Of course you will play directly for the hole in the hope that you may go out in one; but failing in that, your ball must remain in such a position that the next stroke shall be a dead certainty. The great tendency is not to be up with the hole—i.e., you are so afraid of going too far past that your ball stops that much short. It is an old St. Andrews maxim that the hole will not come to you. Harden your heart, therefore, and play for the back of the hole rather than attempt a dribble just over the edge. In other words, use enough strength to run your ball at least a foot and a half beyond the hole in case it fails to drop in. You are in no worse position than if you had stopped that distance short, and you have had the extra chance of a "gobble."
"Holing out" is, in nine cases out of ten, simply a question of keeping your eye on the ball rather than on the hole. If you cast a glance at the promised land the fraction of an instant before the ball is struck, you will be sure to put off the line. Remember also that the precept of always being up with the hole applies with equal force to your approach-shots to the green. Always play for the hole itself the instant that it comes within practical range of any club, and you will save many a put.
The "stymie" demands just a word. In a match, or hole, game the one farthest from the hole must always play first, and this rule holds good on the putting green. If the balls are in line with the hole and within six inches of each other, the nearer ones may be lifted, to be replaced after the shot; but if more than six inches separate them, the ball farthest away must be lofted over if it is to have any chance for the hole. The stroke is not difficult with a little practice, but you must have your grip firm, and your calculations must be based chiefly on your distance from the hole. If properly hit, the club will loft your ball over the other one, and if the strength be right it will drop or run into the hole. In medal, or score, play the ball in line and nearest the hole is always holed out, and the stymie is never played.
And here and now and always—
Keep your eye on the ball.
he largest slave-holder and manager in this country in 1856 was said to be Mr. J. Hamilton Cowper, of Darien, Georgia, who was reputed as directing the labor of 1500 slaves. On our way home from Cuba, in April of that year, where we had been inspecting the system of slave labor, we had the good luck to meet Mr. Cowper on one of the sea islands of South Carolina. He was a remarkable man physically and mentally, and it was said he could throw up two apples into the air and hit both with his two single-barrelled pistols.
A few years before the date of our meeting him he had been wrecked off Cape Hatteras, an account of which we drew from him as follows: He had embarked at Charleston, South Carolina, on the paddle-wheel steamer Pulaski, bound to New York, having under his care a Mrs. Nightingale and her young baby, and another lady with a small child. Before turning in he had inspected the small boats, as was his custom in those dangerous voyages before ocean navigation by steam had been perfected, and when about midnight the boiler burst he went straight to the ladies, told them to hurry on their clothes and wait for him while he ran to explore. Seeing that the steamer was absolutely wrecked by the explosion, he took the two women to the nearest boat, lowered them and their two children into it, and, with half a dozen sailors, pushed off from the sinking ship. They pulled all next day, in company with another small boat, towards the surf-beaten shore of Hatteras, he taking command of the boat. They pulled along the surf for an opening, and saw the other boat try to land, and swamp. At last his crew, without food or water, refused to pull any further, and insisted on trying to land. After trying in vain to show them the danger, he had to submit, but made one of the best men promise to help save the women when they turned over, as he told them they were sure to do. The boat capsized, and his comrade made for the shore; but Cowper called him back. One woman Cowper gave to him; the other had sunk, but he caught her by her long hair, raised her, and the baby under her shawl smiled as she came up. It was Miss Isabella Nightingale, now a bright girl of eighteen, with whom we had just breakfasted. Mr. Cowper managed to get all of his protegées above the surf, and then fell exhausted. All this was drawn out of him without any boasting or exaggeration. It shows what a cool head and firm hand can do in an emergency.
Space will not permit me to give here Mr. Cowper's opinions on the rebellion, and of the relative value of free and slave labor. He was a man of remarkable intelligence and executive ability, and it was said that he kept a record of the work done and the produce gathered on each field of his large domain during his long life. He told me that he considered the popular notion that the white men could not work at the South a mere fallacy. He, however, believed in the economy of slavery, and doubtless, under his skilful administration, it worked better than elsewhere.