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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table,
February 11, 1896
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other
parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may
copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
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located before using this eBook.

Title: Harper's Round Table, February 11, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: October 11, 2016 [eBook #53255]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, FEBRUARY
11, 1896 ***
 AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL VALENTINE.
THE SEA-URCHIN.
ODDITIES IN BICYCLES.
THE SPORTSMAN'S CODE.
PLASTER-OF-PARIS FISH.
THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
THE CHANGED VALENTINE.
AN IRISHMAN'S PATIENCE.
FROM CHUM TO CHUM.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
STAMPS.
BICYCLING.
THE CAMERA CLUB.
THE PUDDING STICK.
AN OBLIGING TRAVELLER.

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

published weekly. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1896. five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 850. two dollars a year.
 AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL VALENTINE.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
A very strange old room it was, in a very strange old house, part of which was brick, and
part of which was wood. The wood had been cut from the neighboring hill-sides, and the
brick had traversed many thousands of miles from across the Atlantic in a little ship with
a strange Dutch name. There was but one older house in the street, and from the corner
window of the room one could just catch a glimpse of the spires of the college chapel; on
winter days when the leaves were off the trees the college buildings could be seen.
The Professor, when he came in, announced his arrival by noisily scraping the soles of his
boots against the metal foot-scraper that had been worn down to a thin blade, like an
aged razor. The Professor was tall and angular, but it was impossible to tell his age within
a dozen years, for his thin hair was very dark, and his face was always very smooth
shaven. His position in college was a most peculiar one. He had an endowed
professorship, which, odd to relate, he had endowed himself, and there was a term in
college parlance that was often applied to the Professor's course in the electives (Sanscrit
and archæology), it was known as a "snap." But the Professor was a very interesting and
well-liked man. He had taken honors at Oxford in the early fifties, and had spent a great
deal of money making deep researches into the great libraries of Europe.
But to come back to the room.
It was not dark or dingy, as one might suppose the room of a student would be, but was
very bright, with a number of windows. The pattern of the oil-cloth that covered the floor
was worn out in regular paths before the big shelves that reached up to the ceiling.
There were two large oaken cupboards and a long desk. The only thing that could be
called an attempt at ornament was a china figure on the top of one of the cupboards.
The Professor had picked this up in France. It was an unmistakable likeness to Benjamin
Franklin, but, nevertheless, it had the name "George Washington" on it in gold lettering.
The Professor had bought it as an example of humor in French pottery, which showed
that he had a sense of humor himself.
A fat old negro woman was dusting off the table. As she lifted anything—a paper, or a
book, or an inkstand, for instance—she would replace it exactly on the same spot. In
fact, the desk was a perpetual tableau, and the Professor never got the mucilage and the
inkstand mixed up; he could have found anything on that table in the dark.
Hearing the sound of prolonged scraping at the front door, the old colored woman knew
two things. First, that the Professor had arrived, and, secondly, that it was a muddy day.
She dusted off Benjamin Franklin Washington, and opened the door in time to meet the
Professor at the head of the stairs.
"Do you think, Hannah," began the Professor, "that the spare room could be kept warm
in cold weather?"
Hannah looked quite frightened; no one had slept in the spare room since the Professor
had been in the house.
"I never heerd no one complain, sir," she said, which was non-committal in Hannah.
"Make up the bed to-night there," said the Professor. "I'll sleep in it myself." It struck him
this was a brilliant way to find out.
"Youse spectin' some folks, sir?"
"Yes, Hannah," returned the Professor. "My two nephews are going to spend a fortnight
with me."
"Is dey youn' gen'lemen?" inquired the old negress.
"I hope so," answered the Professor, with a smile.
"I means is dey youn'?" corrected Hannah.
"Let me see. Upon my soul, I have forgotten." The Professor wrinkled his forehead.
"One's twelve, and one's thirteen years of age," he said, after a mental calculation.
Hannah left the room, and the Professor seated himself at the desk.
"I reckin we's gwine hab some trubble," said the old woman, as she waddled into the
kitchen. "Twelve and thirteen is a rampanxious age for boys."
On the second day of February Bill Alton and Todd, his younger brother, were met by the
Professor at the station. They had seen him only once or twice before, but seeing they
were the Professor's only nephews, their mother had insisted upon their making this
long-promised visit, frankly to state, much to their disgust.
The Professor had decided, after his trial of the spare bedchamber, that it would be very
cold; so when the youngsters arrived at their room, they found it presided over by a very
small and very hot stove that ticked and snapped like a hard-worked bit of machinery.
Much to their agreeable surprise, the two Alton boys now for the first time found
themselves enjoying absolute freedom. In the first place, they had succeeded in getting
into the attic, where they had found an old single-barrelled fowling-piece. They had
asked the Professor if they could have it to "play with," and, upon his acquiescence, had
purchased powder and shot at the hardware-store, and had gone out and bagged a
rabbit and a hen in one afternoon. It was well known that the rabbit was tame, and the
hen might not have been free from suspicion, as they had stalked her close to Farmer
Belknap's chicken-yard back on the hill.
The Professor met the boys at breakfast and at supper. His mid-day meal was generally
neglected; he carried it off with him to the college building in a tin box, like a school-boy.
At the end of the first week two rainy days came in succession. Billy and Todd were in the
Professor's attic. That morning, for the first time, the Professor had taken the boys into
his study. He knew so little about youths of this age in general that he was quite
embarrassed. He thought they were very well behaved youngsters, because they
apparently gave him no trouble, and the story of the hen and the rabbit, and several
escapades of like character, had never reached his ears, but he felt it incumbent upon
himself to make up for the lack of attention to his guests.
"Now, boys," he said, opening one of the cupboards, "I am going to show you some very
wonderful things. This is an illuminated MS. of the fourteenth century, very rare and fine,
done by the Franciscan monks, you see." The Professor read the Latin inscription with an
air of triumph. "And this is an old cryptogram. This is an old copy of one of the early
saint's lives in Hebrew, and here is another—both very old and very valuable."
It was not very interesting, but the boys listened politely. The college bell ringing at this
moment, their uncle closed a most interesting description of how one of the valuable
parchments had come into his possession, shut the cupboard, locked the door of the
study, and left the boys to play in the attic.
"I say, Todd," remarked the elder Alton, "let's see if there's anything in here." He lifted
the lid of an aged trunk and disclosed a lot of papers and old worn books that filled the
garret with a musty odor. It was a collection of stuff that the Professor had designated as
"rubbish," but yet had been loath to feed into the fire. There's not a professor's attic in
the world that does not possess this same sort of a trunk, I verily believe. None of the
books appeared very interesting, and a great many of the papers were very
commonplace in appearance.
Todd picked up a tightly rolled bit of very aged vellum, and spreading it out, looked over
an imaginary pair of spectacles at his brother, and began:
"This is a very old and rare specimen of a kickograph. You can see how beautiful it is."
As there was nothing apparent on the blank sheet of parchment, his brother burst into
mock rhapsodies.
"How much will you take for it?" he inquired.
"One million dollars," said Todd.
The idea seemed to take, and he sold the rest of the contents of the trunk at fabulous
prices, an old copy of Fox's Christian Martyrs going at enough to pay the national debt,
for the simple reason that it had pictures in it.
"Hold on," said Billy at last; "let's stop this. I have an idea."
"What is it?" said Todd.
"Let's send Uncle Passmore" (the Professor's name was Passmore Webster Bibby) "a
valentine. To-morrow's Valentine day, you know. Let's write him out a kickogram."
"Kickograph," corrected the other.
"Do you know he says he can read all those things?" said Todd. "So let's make him a
'sticker.'"
"And here's the very thing to write it on," exclaimed Billy, flourishing the roll of
parchment.
They procured a pen, and diluting the ink with water to make it faint, they spread the
valentine out upon the floor.
"Let's get a book and copy those funny-looking words out of it," suggested Todd.
"Why not make 'em up?" answered Billy. "They look just like this." He made some weird
hieroglyphics on the top of the parchment. It was most interesting when it was once
started, and it was completed by drawing largely upon the characters in a Greek
Testament, taking some few words from an old Xenophon, and interspersing freely and
frequently wiggles and cabalistic signs of their own manufacture. When they had covered
the vellum they made it look quite aged by means of dirty finger-marks, and then
regarded the work of art with eyes of admiration.
"It's a sort of an April-fool valentine," said Todd. "I wonder what he will think of it? I
suppose he'll read it right off; looks just like the others."
But how to send it—that was the question. If they gave it to him themselves, there would
be no fun in it at all.
Suddenly there came a whoop from Billy, who was delving once more into the trunk.
"Here's the thing to wrap it in!" he said, triumphantly.
It was a roll of thick brown paper that had once been sealed with sealing-wax. It had the
Professor's address on it, and some very foreign looking stamps. They rolled the MS.
inside of it, and, securing some sealing-wax, sealed it up tightly.
"Now," said Billy, "won't he be tickled when he reads it—eh?"
Professor Bibby's mail was always placed upon the newel-post at the bottom of the
stairway, and he gathered it on his return from his first class in the morning. The boys
placed the long package with one or two letters which were already there. The next
morning, as we remarked, was St. Valentine's day.
The Professor came in, and when he saw the long package, he left the other letters, and
bounded up the stairway two steps at a time. The boys heard him hurriedly unlock the
door of his study. He broke open the seals nervously, and spread out the parchment. As
he had not closed the door behind him, the boys could see everything very plainly
through the banisters. The Professor wrinkled his forehead; he turned the package
sideways and upside down; he looked off into space with a curious expression; he
followed a line with his finger, and made a note (evidently of some of the puzzling
characters) on a bit of paper. Then he walked to the window, and held the parchment up
to the light with the wrong side to him. Suddenly he peered closer and closer, until it
looked to the boys, as Todd expressed it, as if he were "trying to bore holes through it."
All at once he whirled to the table again; he reached into one of the cupboards and
brought out a large magnifying-glass. As the Professor spread out the young Alton's
masterpiece, his hand was trembling. What did it mean? thought the boys from their
hiding-place. They had never seen anything so strange in all their lives, for, after reading
for a few minutes, their uncle sank back, or, better, collapsed, into the arm-chair. There
was an ecstatic look on his face, and the boys caught the words he was repeating. It was
a very plain and homely expression, but, under the circumstances, Uncle Passmore felt
that he must give vent to his feelings. "Well, by gum!" he repeated.
Todd coughed at this moment; the Professor heard the sound and came to the door.
"Boys," he said, "I have made a most remarkable discovery." The success of their
valentine hoax was almost overwhelming to the two young Altons. They had never
suspected that they were to be successful, and, in fact, their position was most
embarrassing. "Come here, young gentlemen," continued the Professor. "Do you see that
aged manuscript?" He stroked it with an affectionate touch. "That, my dear nephews, has
been sent to me from some strange source. It is a palimpsest."
Billy looked at Todd. Had their uncle gone crazy? He shook the wrapping-paper in which
the boys had rolled the valentine and looked at it. For some reason the post-mark was
Constantinople, and, to all appearances, it might really have come through the mails that
very day, instead of, as the case was, a dozen years before.
"Strange," said the Professor. "It came from Constantinople. Now who could have sent
it?" Then he heaved a sigh. "Some dear and most beloved friend."
The boys were becoming frightened now, but Todd plucked Billy by the sleeve.
"Don't let on," he said, in a whisper. "He's an old fraud, that's what he is." They walked
out into the hallway. "He can't read those words at all."
"Maybe he can," said Billy. "I wonder what it was we wrote?"
But the Professor had called them back. "Nephews," he said, "let me read you what this
says."
The boys, hand in hand, came back, and the Professor, waving a finger in gesticulation,
translated slowly, using all the time, the magnifying-glass. What he said sounded to the
boys like what they had often heard in church.
"He's making up as he goes ahead," whispered Todd.
Then an idea came from Billy. "He's just trying to fool us; that's what he's doing," replied
the latter.
But the Professor was much in earnest. "Well," he at last remarked, "I am going to take
this right up to the president of the college. It's a most important discovery. It's a
palimpsest letter, probably one of the earliest transcriptions of the Epistles. Boys, this
wonderful parchment is eighteen hundred years of age, perhaps."
Billy whistled, and Todd, seeing that his uncle did not object, whistled also. But when
they were left alone, and their uncle had hurried out into the rain without an umbrella,
they again held a consultation.
"We'd better tell him," said Todd, "that we only meant it for a valentine."
"He'll be awful mad," said Billy, quietly; "but I guess we had better tell him, as you say."
So they waited until their uncle returned. At supper he was still elated, and when the
table had been cleared Todd opened the subject.
"Uncle Passmore," he inquired, "what is a palimpsest?"
"A palimpsest is a parchment that has once been written on, then used a second time;
after the erasure of the first copy, however, very often the original shows through. It is
the case with this."
"But what do those letters mean?"
"Oh, that is a hodgepodge," replied the Professor, pedanticly, "of Greek, Hebrew,
Sanscrit, and something resembling Arabic. It means nothing; evidently some scribbles to
pass away the time."
The boys looked relieved, and cast an admiring glance at the old gentleman, who was
continuing:
"Of course it was not sent to me on account of this latter inscription; it was sent to me
merely because it was a palimpsest. But I wonder who indulged in all that scribbling?"
"We did," said the boys, in chorus.
Again the Professor appeared quite astonished, but not in the least angered. He listened
to the story of how they found the screed in the old trunk in the attic, and commented
upon this fact.
"So-so," he said. "I remember keeping that bit when I was in Turkey. I thought it blank,
but a very aged sheet. Why did you send it to me?" he inquired.
"Oh, for a valentine," replied Todd.
"Well," said the Professor, smiling, "I'd give a great deal for another one." Then he
paused. "There's a minstrel show in town to-night, boys," he added. "Let's go down to
it."
 THE SEA-URCHIN.
Strolling along the sea-shore at low tide probably many of you have noticed more or less
numerous small circular excavations in the sand containing a dark substance, which at
first glance might be taken for sea-weed deposited there by the retreating tide. Probably
some of you have been tempted to a closer examination, and lifting one, quickly dropped
it again, sorrier although not wiser, for this insignificant parcel of needles and pins has a
most interesting history to tell.
To naturalists it will introduce itself under the name of Echinoids; to the laymen as sea-
urchin or sea-hedgehog, related to the crinoids, star-fishes, and sea-cucumbers, and
representing with them the Echinodermata—one of the most distinct types of the animal
kingdom.
An animal is this seemingly unmovable ball, although it is difficult to associate it with
what is generally implied by that name.
For a closer examination, of course, it is necessary to remove the spines with which it is
covered. There are about 4000 of them on every specimen, each one movable at the will
of the owner, and difficult to dislodge from the flesh of the hand, so that a little caution is
required in dealing with them. You will thus have accomplished a good hour's work, but
will not yet have reached the animal proper, for its upper parts are further protected by a
kind of shell—the armor of the sea-urchin. This shell is well worthy of a closer
examination. It is formed of a number of separate plates, fitted together, one by one, like
the steel plates protecting our men-of-war.
On a full-grown specimen there are about 300 of them. They grow in number and size
with the age of the sea-urchin, without alteration of the general shape of the shell, since
fresh deposits of the calcareous matter that constitute it are made upon the interior
edges of each plate.
Sea-urchins are not sociable creatures. They prefer solitude to company, and rarely more
than one occupies one dwelling. In earliest infancy they dig for themselves a home in the
quiet surf or in the sand, where the retreating tides leave enough moisture to make them
comfortable. There they live and prosper, enlarging their homes as their increased growth
makes them uncomfortable, and mostly without enlarging the entrances themselves.
In this manner can be explained the fact of some large specimens having been found in
dwellings with entrances through which it does not seem possible that they could pass.
Sea-urchins may not be very palatable, yet they are edible, and in some countries are
extensively consumed by the poorer population, eaten boiled in the shell like an egg. In
certain coast towns of Italy they even form quite an article of commerce with the more
interior country, and accordingly large is the number of those engaged in the pursuit of
collecting and diving for sea-urchins. This method of diving is very picturesque and
amusing, and, as may be imagined, requires some skill.
More simple is the way the Chinese proceed about it. There the fisherman provides
himself with a bundle of slender wooden rods, tapered to a little round knob at one end.
With these he proceeds to the surf at low tide, and drops one of these rods into each
burrow where he suspects a tenant. There it is left for about twelve hours. During this
time the sea-urchin is sure to swallow the button, and as the elastic tissues contract, it is
unable to release itself again, so that when the fisherman returns he can easily extract
the rod with the victim attached. Palates differ with localities. So do the Chinese stew the
sea-urchins like a turtle soup.
Of the rest of the family of the Echinodermata, the crinoids and sea-cucumbers have
many interesting characteristics; yet especially worthy of mention is the star-fish.
You all know that clammy mass that dangles so hopelessly from the hand. Innocent as it
looks, it is quite fierce company to the mollusks and even larger inhabitants of the sea,
upon which it feeds. Destitute of any jaws or levers, and with the mouth located in the
very centre of the star, its method of nourishment is highly interesting. Its first process is
to lie prone upon its prey, folding its arms over it to hold itself in position. Then it applies
the mouth closely to the victim, and deliberately pushing out its own stomach through its
mouth, wraps the mollusk in its folds, and then calmly draws back the stomach, and is
ready for digestion.
As the star-fish is the enemy of mollusks, so it is also of fishermen; and, confidentially, it
is the fish which usually gets the best of the fisherman. Able to scent its prey at a long
distance, it will seek and make itself familiar with the bait held out for its more noble
kinsmen. In reprisal, the fisherman seeks to destroy the fish, and often tears it in halves,
flinging the pieces back into the sea. This, however, suits the star-fish exactly, for it is
wonderfully tenacious of life, and can bear the loss of one or all its rays without being
inconvenienced. The two halves simply heal their wounds, and become two star-fishes
instead of one. In time they put forth fresh growth, or remain as happy in the possession
of two or three stars as with all.
 ODDITIES IN BICYCLES.
It is probable that the great Madison Square Garden in New York never was so full as it
was during the Bicycle Show of a fortnight ago. Twenty thousand people filled the great
theatre on the last night of the show, and all through the week the throng proved how
popular bicycling and bicycles are now. Those who were in the city and could go saw
many wheels and many queer inventions in seats, pedals, frame, tires, and all the other
parts of the machine. Each bicycle-maker had his own little compartment, with samples
of his bicycles, and a big sign with his name in electric lights upon it for the evening.
Even if you knew nothing at all about a wheel you were intensely interested in all you
saw, and the more intimately you knew bicycles the greater was your interest. There
were thousands of bicycles of all kinds, besides wheels for girls and boys of six and eight
years of age; and there was one wheel, perfect in every way, with its pneumatic tires and
ball-bearings, which was just large enough for a baby two or three years old, if only
some one could have found a baby that age capable of riding it. The little pedals were
about an inch and a half wide, and the diameter of the wheels was not over eight or nine
inches. This was hardly what could be called a model, for it was too large for that. Yet
many a boy and girl thought of "little brother" at home when he or she saw that tiny
wheel.
Some ingenious "farmer's boy"—so the sign attached
informed the spectator—in New Jersey must have been
very anxious to ride a wheel some time ago, for he had
made a wooden machine, with solid wheels and a
wooden seat, which he rode as a bicycle. It was on
exhibition at the show, and was an interesting bit of
workmanship, standing by the side of a '96 model, as well
as an interesting exhibition of what a boy in New Jersey
can do if he has the inclination. The most extraordinary
part of this extraordinary wheel was the barn-door hinge
which attached the forks and handle-bars to the rest of
the wheel. The seat was hard, but it must have given that
New Jersey boy a great deal of satisfaction to feel that he
was riding on a machine made entirely by his own hands
MADE BY THE FARMER'S
and from designs out of his own bright brain. On the card
BOY.
which was attached to the machine was a statement that
this was a "spokeless bicycle," made by a farmer's boy in
Monmouth County, New Jersey; that it had "hose-pipe tires" (these are pieces of ordinary
lawn hose nailed on the outer edges of the wheels, but sadly wanting in wind), and that
it was "actually ridden by him and apparently enjoyed."
This bicycle, however, as you can see in the accompanying illustration, is old style, for the
cranks act on the front instead of the rear wheel. In fact the whole machine is like the tall
bicycle first used in this country. Another wooden affair which was also on exhibition was
 much more elaborate, and was really an interesting
piece of work. It was made by an Indiana boy, and
used by him for a long time. He has covered over
1000 miles on it in riding to and from school, and in
making short trips in the vicinity of his home. The
bicycle is entirely of wood, so far as its frame and its
wheels go. Old carriage-wheel hubs have been used,
and the wheel rims are wide, strong pieces of wood.
Even the lantern is "home made," for it was
constructed from old tin cans. The seat has a
RIDDEN A THOUSAND MILES. wonderful spring arrangement which allows the solid
shaft of wood on which it rests to sink in the hollow
"tubing" of the frame as far as the steel spiral will permit, and the young builder has
made the seat itself comfortable by covering the wood with a leather cap over some hair
taken out of a mattress. Any one who can build such a bicycle as this deserves to have a
fine new one presented to him, and that was precisely what happened, for the company
gave him a new '96-model wheel in exchange for his own crude but serviceable machine.
Turning from these two pieces of Young America's
ingenuity, you could easily find some remarkable
examples of the skill of older Americans at the show.
There was one wheel that looked like a huge
grasshopper. It had a system of cranks which
permitted a man to ride with a gearing of 100 as
easily as the ordinary wheel carries him along with a
60 gear, but of course he covered much more ground
at every revolution. Still another machine had a
frame in the shape of a triangle, instead of a THE ICECYCLE.
diamond, with the seat at the apex, and one wheel
at each end of the base. It was a strange-looking affair, but, of course, it could be built
much lighter than the ordinary bicycle, while the frame is said to be stronger. Still another
and very interesting novelty was a bicycle for use on the ice. Everything about it is much
like any bicycle of to-day, except that runners instead of wheels are used. There is a rear
wheel which is fitted with a tire of spikes that catch the ice through a slit in the rear
runner, and in this way the "icecycle" is sent ahead. When a good velocity has been
attained the rider can shift this spiked wheel by a movement of his foot in such a manner
as to raise it off the ice and allow the machine to coast. But an icecycle must be a very
slippery affair, and rather inclined to slide in any direction, as easily sideways as forward.
Further on in the show was the giraffe bicycle, which looked about as much like a giraffe
as it did like a bicycle. It is used only in trick riding, and would naturally be useless as an
ordinary roadster. It is 9 feet 3 inches high from ground to the top of the handles. But if
the giraffe is useless as a practical affair, the cannon bicycles certainly are not. These
wheels are made to carry a Maxim gun or a howitzer on a "duplex," or double bicycle,
and a single bicycle can carry one of the Colt's new automatic guns. There seems to be
no reason why this use of the bicycle in war should not be feasible. At any rate, the
armed wheels looked very symmetrical and ship-shape.
 A still more practical use of the
pneumatic tire and other
bicycle features, especially for
a city paved with asphalt, were
demonstrated by some of the
tricycles for delivering parcels
or carrying baggage of any
light kind. One, a picture of
which is given with this article,
was for invalids—for use in the
parks of a city. Indeed, why
should not nursery girls ride A MAXIM GUN ON A DUPLEX.
around on tricycle baby-
carriages, with places for the babies in front or behind? And why
THE GIRAFFE.
should not old ladies who are timid about horses go out in little
bicycle landaus and broughams? But all these will come in time.
A dozen other novelties might be enumerated, but
we have space for only two more. One of these was
a bicycle on which six men can ride at once. We have
all seen tandems and "quads," but bicycles with six
saddles are not common, even at a national bicycle
show. The first man does the steering, and the gear
on his chain is very small. The second man's gear is
larger, the third's larger still until the sixth man has a
THE COLT AUTOMATIC GUN huge gear, something like 125 or 150. The speed
ON A BICYCLE. that can be obtained on this wheel, or rather the
speed that is said to be obtainable, is something too
great to set down in type until it is actually recorded as having been done; but there is a
story afloat that a wager has been made to build a track alongside the New York Central
road, in order that one of the six-man bicycles may race with the Empire State Express.
Another interesting and possibly very useful
development of the bicycle is the power to change
the gear. This wheel has a rod under the right
handle-bar, very much like a brake handle. When you
are riding along level ground, and do not touch the
"brake," the gear is at 80. Soon you come to a hill.
Then by pulling the "brake" handle up half-way the
gear of the wheel is changed from 80 to 60, and thus
you can go up hill, slower, to be sure, but much
easier. After reaching the top of the hill you pull this
rod up close to the handle-bar of the wheel, and the
gearing is thrown off entirely, so that the bicycle will INVALID'S TRICYCLE.
coast down hill without turning the cranks. Of course
the rider can keep his feet on the pedals all the time.
This bicycle will be of great practical service if its machinery is solid and durable, for there
are many bad places along a country road where a change of twenty in the gearing
would save a large amount of strength in the total of a day's work, and at the same time,
on level ground, much more distance can be covered by changing back to eighty. Then
also with the ability to keep your feet on the pedals, you can feel sure of not losing the
control of the machine when coasting.
Meantime the great bicycle show had many another novelty, for the description of which
there is not space enough in this periodical. Taken altogether, the show was an enormous
success, and though many of the novelties were covered up by thousands of ordinary '96
machines, still they were there, and could be found by any one who was looking for them
carefully.
THE SPORTSMAN'S CODE.
Now these are the laws of the athlete,
That stretch the length of the field,
They make the code of the runner fleet
Who has never yet learned to yield.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.

You shall give the foeman all his due,

And let him win if he can;
But keep all rights that belong to you,
For that is the law of man.
You shall hold the ground that is yours by right,
And yield not a foot you have trod.
But grant his right in a stand-up fight,
For that is the law of God.

If you row with the crew in the boat,

It's a wretched thing to spy.
There's plenty of work when you leave the float,
But little to do for the eye.
There's plenty to do to swing and slide,
And steady the fragile shell,
But to gain your strength from the other side
Is a method sent from hell.

No man shall yield on the football field

Till the final whistle sounds.
No man shall show by a single blow
That he has no place on the grounds.
But when the foe is in racking pain
And cannot move or fight,
You shall help him up to his feet again,
And chafe his bruise and bind his strain,
To show the make of your own good grain,
For that is fair and right.

The strength of the team, or nine, or crew

Is not the strength of the "star."
'Tis what the body together can do
 That carries the victory far.
So you shall give your mite to the rest
To bring the whole team through,
And then at the time of your single test
They shall give their strength to you.

And these are the laws of the athlete.

You can heed them or not, as you like,
But they make the code of the runner fleet,
And they check a man when he'd strike.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.
 PLASTER-OF-PARIS FISH.
BY BARNET PHILLIPS.
When you want to make a mixture of plaster of Paris and water, never put the plaster in
the bowl first and then pour on the water, for that is the way not to succeed. Pour the
cold water into the bowl first, and after that, little by little, add the plaster. Take the
plaster in pinches, crumble it with your fingers, and use it that way. When the plaster is
just below the level of the water, you can stir it with a clean spoon or a spatula. If it
seems too thin you can add more plaster. You ought to make a mixture of about the
consistency of a thick batter. You stir it in order to get rid of the air bubbles. To make
good casts is a regular business. The ornamentations of ceilings are made with plaster;
and asking some of the workmen what they did when mixing the plaster, they said, "the
great secret is to mix the composition slowly."
When I worked away as a boy, making casts of medals, I knew nothing about taking
casts of fish. In the United States National Museum at Washington there are many casts
taken from the actual fishes. No matter what may be their size, from a minnow to a
halibut, there they all are. The modellers who do this kind of work go very far with these
casts, for they paint them the exact color of the fish.
I remember having seen a Chinese of rank, attached to the Chinese Legation, who was
looking in a kind of indifferent manner at the many objects in the National Museum.
Nothing seemed to interest him particularly. Presently, however, he saw the fish. Then he
became very much excited, and said in English, "That fiss in my countly, and that fiss
too." The painted plaster casts were so lifelike that they recalled the fish in his own
Chinese waters. The Museum was to that Chinaman an object-lesson.
Now I am certain that if boys or girls knew how to make plaster-of-Paris fish look like the
real ones, it would not alone be an interesting occupation, but an instructive one.
I have explained how the plaster is to be mixed. It is better to buy the plaster in small
quantity, not more than a pound at a time. It should be kept in a well-closed glass
preserving jar. Some books will tell you to warm your plaster in an oven before using it so
as to expel the moisture. I say do no such thing. If you warm it, it will set slowly—that is
to say, it will take a long time to harden. Then you never will know, if you heat the
plaster, how hot you get it, and it will set differently every time you use it.
Here are the things you want: A plate of common window glass somewhat bigger than
your fish; a bit of wood, which will vary according to the size of your fish; two small
screws; some potter's clay; a few pins; some shellac varnish; a brush; a little alum; and,
of course, your fish.
Do not be too ambitious at the start, but take a small fish, as a shiner, a perch, or a
sunfish. Do not try to make the cast of a catfish at the beginning, because the barbules
or head appendages of a catfish are hard to take. Do not try, either, an eel, for eels and
snakes present some difficulties. With practice, however, a snake or an eel is not hard to
make a cast of.
You have caught your fish. Wash it so as to get rid of the slime or mucus. Sometimes this
slime will not come off readily; then put a pinch of alum in the water you wash the fish
in, and the fish will become perfectly clean. Dry the fish rapidly with a bit of paper or a
towel. Now you are ready for work.
Place your fish on the plate of glass, and prop up his tail and his back fin, or fins, with
little bits of potter's clay. Sometimes the back fin, or the dorsal fin, as it is called, will
become contracted. Stretch out the fin as the fish ought to look, and with pins hold it in
place, running the pins through the fin into the clay supports. Having laid your fish
straight and in a natural position, now build a little wall around the fish. This is to prevent
the flowing of the plaster. This dike should be, say three-fourths of an inch higher than
the fish.
You mix your plaster and pour it in carefully on the fish. Now let it all stand awhile, and
exercise patience. It ought to be set and hard in an hour, but that depends on the plaster,
the batter, and the temperature. You cannot try it with a straw, like you would bread, to
see if it is properly baked. When it sets, however, take the plate of glass, hold the cast
downwards, and remove the whole thing. If you have worked properly you will have a
perfect matrix. The fish being supple, you take it by the tail and get it out.
Your mould may be dry, but you want it drier. It may be left twenty-four hours and put in
the sun, or, if you want to hurry it up, you can place it in an oven, but not in too hot a
one.
You have now gone as far as I used to go when I began to take the casts of medals. You
want to go beyond that, and get a perfect fish, and you have the mould. It would never
do to pour liquid plaster into a plaster mould. The new mixture would stick fast to the old
one.
The shellac varnish now comes into use. You can buy the shellac varnish ready made, but
it is too thick, and you must thin it with alcohol so that it will flow readily. A very little
shellac goes a long way. Take a soft brush, and give your mould a coating of varnish. Use
a light hand. When the first coat of varnish is dry give it a second coat. Not a bad way is
to pour some varnish into the mould if the varnish be thin enough, and drain off the
surplus. But remember, if the varnish is too thick, you fill up all the fine lines the fish itself
has made.
You want to bear in mind now the piece of wood. This bit of wood should be a little less
in length than that part of the fish starting back of the head to the beginning of the tail,
and it should have a screw sticking out at each end at right angles to the direction of the
stick itself. When your mould is full take this bit of wood with the screws in it, and push it
or put it into the soft plaster.
The use of this wood is double. It will help, by means of the screws—which, of course,
are firmly embedded in the plaster when it becomes solid—to draw the perfect plaster
cast out of the mould, and if you want to hang up the model you can pass a bit of wire
through the eyes or the head, of the screws.
Let the plaster set just as before, and when it is dry draw it out by means of the bit of
wood and the screws.
You can go, if you want to, much further than this, and paint your fish. Here not so much
art as careful study and knowledge of mixing and preparing colors comes into play, which
is foreign to the subject.
I know of some lads who were clumsy at first, and speckled themselves all over with
plaster, but who after a while made many splendid casts of fish, and worked on big fish,
and hard ones too, like eels. Their casts of squirming and twisting eels were first rate.
One of the boys took a fishing-pole and put on the hook a plaster-of-Paris eel which he
had painted olive green and silvered, and it looked just like a live one. What they did
which was worthy of praise was to take casts of all the different kinds of fish which swam
in a New York lake near the house where they lived, and they had a little museum of
their own.
 THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.[1]
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TOWER-ROOM.
As time went on, Grace surely did not have to share a third part of her sisters' room, did
she? For nothing is so much prized by most girls as a room of their very own, and a
middle daughter, particularly such a middle daughter as Grace Wainwright, has a claim to
a foothold—a wee bit place, as the Scotch say—where she can shut herself in, and read
her Bible, and say her prayers, and write her letters, and dream her dreams, with nobody
by to see. Mrs. Wainwright had been a good deal disturbed about there being no room
for Grace when she came back from Highland, and one would have been fitted up had
there been an extra cent in the family exchequer. Grace didn't mind, or if she did, she
made light of her sacrifice; but her sisters felt that they ought to help her to privacy.
Eva and Miriam came over to the Manse to consult us in the early days.
I suggested screens.
"You can do almost anything with screens and portières," I said. "One of the loveliest
rooms I ever saw in my life is in a cottage in the Catskills, where one large room is
separated into drawing-room, library, and dining-room, and sometimes into a spare
chamber, as well, by the judicious use of screens."
"Could we buy them at any price we could pay?" said Miriam.
"Buy them, child? What are you talking about? You can make them. You need only two or
three clothes-horses for frames, some chintz, or even wall-paper or calico, a few small
tacks, a little braid, a hammer, and patience."
After Grace was fairly launched on her career as teacher, mother suggested one day that
the tower-room at Wishing-Brae could be transformed into a maiden's bower without the
spending of much money, and that it would make an ideal girl's room, "just the nest for
Grace, to fold her wings in and sing her songs—a nest with an outlook over the tree-tops
and a field of stars above it."
"Mother dear, you are too poetical and romantic for anything, but I believe," said Amy,
"that it could be done, and if it could it ought."
The tower at Wishing-Brae was then a large, light garret-room, used for trunks and
boxes. Many a day have I spent there writing stories when I was a child, and oh! what a
prospect there was and is from those windows—prospect of moors and mountains, of
ribbons of rivers and white roads leading out to the great world. You could see all
Highland from the tower windows. In sunny days and in storms it was a delight beyond
common just to climb the steep stairs and hide one's self there.
We put our heads together, all of us. We resolved at last that the tower-room should be
our birthday gift to Grace. It was quite easy to contrive and work when she was absent,
but not so easy to keep from talking about the thing in her presence. Once or twice we
almost let it out, but she suspected nothing, and we glided over the danger as over ice,
and hugged ourselves that we had escaped. We meant it for a surprise.
First of all, of course, the place had to be thoroughly cleaned, then whitewashed as to
the ceiling, and scoured over and over as to the unpainted wood. Archie Vanderhoven
and all the brothers of both families helped manfully with this, and the two dear old
doctors both climbed up stairs every day, and gave us their criticism. When the cleanness
and the sweetness were like the world after the deluge, we began to furnish. The floor
was stained a deep dark cherry red; Mrs. Raeburn presented the room with a large rug,
called an art-square; Mrs. Vanderhoven made lovely écru curtains of cheese-cloth, full
and flowing, for the windows, and these were caught back by cherry ribbons.
We had a regular controversy over the bed, half of us declaring for a folding bed, that
could be shut up by day and be an armoire or a book-case, the others wanting a white
enamelled bed with brass knobs and bars. The last party carried the day.
The boys hung some shelves, and on these we arranged Grace's favorite books. Under
the books in the window were her writing-table and her chair and foot-stool. The
Vanderhovens sent a pair of brass andirons for the fire-place, and the little Hastings
children, who were taken into the secret, contributed a pair of solid silver candle-sticks.
Never was there a prettier room than that which we stood and surveyed one soft April
morning when it was pronounced finished. Our one regret was that dear Mrs. Wainwright
could not see it. But the oldest of the Raeburn boys brought over his camera and took a
picture of the room, and this was afterwards enlarged and framed for one of Mrs.
Wainwright's own birthdays.
"Mother dear," said Grace one evening, as they sat together for a twilight talk, "do you
believe God always answers prayers?"
"Always, my child."
"Do you think we can always see the answers, feel sure He has heard us?"
"The answers do not always come at once, Grace, nor are they always what we expect,
but God sends us what is best for us, and He gives us strength to help answer the
prayers we make. Sometimes prayers are answered before they leave our lips. Don't you
know that in every 'Oh, my Father,' is the answer, 'Here, my child.'"
"I used to long years ago," said Grace, "when I was as happy as I could be with dear
uncle and auntie, just to fly to you and my father. It seemed sometimes as if I would die
just to get home to Highland again, and be one of the children. Uncle and auntie want
me to go abroad with them this summer, just for a visit, and they are so good they will
take one of my sisters and one of the Raeburns; but I hate to think of the ocean between
you and me again even for a few weeks."
"You must go, dearie," said Mrs. Wainwright. "The dear uncle is part owner of you,
darling, and he's very generous; but he can never have you back to keep."
"No, indeed."
"Which of the Raeburns do you suppose they can best spare?"
"I don't know which they would choose to spare, but Amy will be the one to go. She was
born under a fortunate star, and the rest will help to send her."
"I'd like Frances myself."
"Frances is the stay-at-home daughter. She cannot be spared. It will be Amy, and I will let
Miriam go with you, and Eva, who is the youngest, can wait for her turn some other day."
"Is that Burden's cart going down the lane?" inquired Grace, looking out the window, "It's
queer how many errands Mr. Burden's had here lately. I believe he's been investing in
another cart, or else he has painted the old one. Business must be brisk. There come
papa, and Dr. Raeburn with him. Why, mother, all the Raeburns are coming! If there is to
be company, I might have been told."
"So might I," said Mrs. Wainwright, with spirit. "Hurry, Grace, bring me some cologne and
water to wash my face and hands, and give me my rose-pink wrapper. Turn the key in
the door, dearie. An invalid should never be seen except looking her best. You can slip
away and get into a tea gown before you meet them, if they are coming to supper.
Whose birthday is it? This seems to be a surprise party."
"Why, mamma—it's my birthday; but you don't think there's anything on foot that I don't
know of—do you, dearest?"
"I wouldn't like to say what I think, my pet. There, the coast is clear. Run away and
change your gown. Whoever wished to see me now may do so. The queen is ready to
give audience. Just wheel my chair a little to the left, so that I can catch the last of that
soft pink after-glow."
"And were you really entirely unprepared, Grace," said the girls later, "and didn't you ever
for a single moment notice anything whatsoever we were doing?"
"Never for one instant. I missed my Tennyson and my French Bible, but thought Eva had
borrowed them, and in my wildest imagination I never dreamed you would furnish a
lovely big room at the top of the house all for me, my own lone self. It doesn't seem right
for me to accept it."
 "AND HERE IS SOMETHING ELSE—FROM ME TO MY
DAUGHTER."
"Ah, but it is quite right!" said her father, tenderly, "and here is something else—a little
birthday check from me to my daughter. Since you came home and set me on my feet
I've prospered as never before. Eva has collected ever so many of my bills, and I've sold
a corner of the meadow for a good round sum, a corner that never seemed to me to be
worth anything. I need not stay always in your debt, financially, dear little woman."
"But, papa."
"But, Grace."
"Your father is right, Grace," said the sweet low tones of Mrs. Wainwright, even and firm.
"Through God's goodness you have had the means and disposition to help him, but
neither of us ever intended to rest our weight always on your shoulders. You needn't
work so hard hereafter, unless you wish to."
"Thank you, dear papa," said Grace. "I shall work just as hard, because I love to work,
and because I am thus returning to the world some part of what I owe it; and next year,
who knows, I may be able to pay Eva's bills at Miss L—-'s."
Eva jumped up and down with delight.
Then came supper, served in Mrs. Wainwright's room, and after that music and a long
merry talk, and at last, lest Mrs. Wainwright should be weary, the Raeburns took their
way homeward over the lane and across the fields to the Manse.
Grace from the tower window watched them going, the light of the moon falling in
golden clearness over the fields and farms just waiting for spring.
"To serve the present age
My calling to fulfil,"
she whispered to herself. "Good-night, dear ones all, good-night," she said a little later,
climbing up the tower stair to her new room.
"God bless you, middle daughter," said her father's deep tones.
Soft, hushed footsteps pattered after the girl, step by step. She thought herself all alone
as she shut the door, but presently a cold nose was thrust against her hand, a furry head
rubbed her knee. Fido, the pet fox-terrier, had determined for his part to share the tower-
room.

THE END.
 FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XVII.

A COUNTERPLOT.
So fine a time were the English officers having in New York that they chafed very little
beneath General Howe's protracted inaction. The only fighting that William saw was on
one of Tryon's foraging expeditions into Connecticut, and, if the truth may be told, he
was sickened and sorrowed in heart at the vandalism done by the forces of the King.
What was the use of applying the torch to the houses of these poor misguided farmers?
and how bravely the little band of homespun coats had resisted their advance upon a
quiet little village! One thing was firmly in his mind when he returned to the city from this
expedition of plunder—Colonel Forsythe was right. It would take England's best blood
and resources. In fact, the task of getting back the Colonies was the greatest that any
army of Great Britain had ever had laid out before it.
The fearless behavior of a farmer's lad, captured upon the march, struck William with
admiration. This was no "rebel." It was a patriot type, and the Frothingham blood boiled
at the brutality of a soldier who had insulted the young prisoner.
William had a dream one night which disturbed him more than a little. It seemed to him
that he was walking along the road through a very beautiful country. On either hand
stretched green undulating meadows, and neat white farm-houses were on the hill-sides.
The wind was waving the tassels of the corn softly. It was just such a view as he had
seen on his ride to New York with Uncle Nathan and his brother after the first excitement
at Stanham Mills.
It appeared, to him, however, as he walked along this road that was so real, that he saw
a gathering ahead of him, and caught a glimpse of the uniforms of King George and the
tall hats of the Hessians. As he approached he saw that there was great movement in
their midst, and suddenly a beautiful woman dressed in white burst from the crowd. She
was struggling to free her hands, which were tied behind her back. The soldiers and the
Hessians were pelting her with mud and stones.
"I am Liberty, Liberty!" she cried.
To his chagrin, William saw himself in all his finery gather up a large stone and hurl it at
the beautiful figure in white, and at that moment every little farm-house on the hill burst
into flame, and the corn in the fields shrivelled to the stalks, and a great voice resounded
through the air,
"Fair Liberty is dead—is dead!"
He had disliked himself very much for having had such a dream and appearing in such a
shameful character. It was some time before he could shake off the effect of it from his
mind.
It was a starlit evening after the return of the expedition, and he was walking quickly
through the street to join a small party at the headquarters of another regiment. As he
followed the narrow path in the snow a woman's figure stepped to one side.
"Where is the other uniform?" she said.
"Pardon me," said William. "I do not understand."
"No more do I," the woman answered. "But my heart
is broke."
William had smiled, but the woman had stepped out
into the snow as if to avoid him, and had hurried past.
"Poor crazy creature!" said the young officer to
himself. "She looked at me as if she knew me."
But he could not rid himself altogether of that
reproachful look for quite some time. And another
thing that puzzled him was the strange conduct of the
landlord at the City Arms.
"I had a guest at my house not long ago," said he,
upon one occasion, "who favored you most
wonderfully. His name was Blount of Albany. Know you
aught of him?" "WHERE IS THE OTHER
Two or three people had spoken of the same UNIFORM?" SHE SAID.
resemblance, and told of the disappearance of the lad
from up the river.
A suspicion had entered William's mind, but he kept it to himself. Soon, however, was it
to be confirmed beyond all doubt.
A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms at Fraunces's
Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had again recurred to the distasteful
dream.
"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton Blount, of
Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle of the young man who
disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one who had the pleasure of meeting
him has remarked the curious resemblance that you bear one another."
"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face and figure. "'Twould be
quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate nephew; but they say that relationship can
never see resemblances."
"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had the honor of
piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and well-spoken young
gentleman he was."
"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark whether he was
lame?"
"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite graceful with it all, and
his hair was black and straight."
"Like an Indian's?"
"Yes," was the answer, "very like."
"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems like witchcraft. No
trace of him to be found, although we have searched everywhere."
As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer joined him, and passed
his arm through his.
"Oh, Frothingham," he said, "I have something truly strange to tell you! I was on a visit
of inspection to the town prisons a week or so ago, and at an old sugar-house on Rose or
Vine Street I saw your very double. The resemblance has been haunting me, and I just
have placed it."
"I seem to have doubles everywhere," answered William, carelessly, though a great fear
welled up in his heart. "I had supposed you were going to tell me that I look like a Mr.
Blount."
"I know him not," answered the officer, "but I do assure you that you bear a great
resemblance to this prisoner."
When William reached his room that night he rested for a long time, wide-awake and
thinking. It might be George who was held in prison.
All the next morning he was on duty at headquarters, and in the afternoon he hastened
toward the old sugar-house, whose location he knew from the officer's description. With
little trouble he succeeded in getting permission from the jailer to look through the cells
and corridors. He had muffled part of his face in a wide silk neckerchief, and had pushed
his hat well forward on his forehead. He advanced hastily into the large hall, and his eye
ran around in a swift glance. With a sense of relief that there was no one there that
resembled the description in the slightest way, he went on until he came to the cell next
but one to the end of the corridor. He looked within. Though the light was quite dim, he
could make out a figure lying on a patchwork quilt. He placed his face close to the bars.
His heart was beating furiously. There could be no doubt about it. He grasped the iron
closer for support. It was George, his brother, fast asleep. The Virgil lay open on the floor,
and one slender finger marked the place.
With an effort William managed to compose himself. "What is this young man imprisoned
for?" he asked, in a whisper, of the jailer at his side.
"For stealing a watch," was the reply. "He tried to escape, and has been wounded slightly
in the arm. He appears to have been a likely youth, and 'tis a shame that he should have
fallen so, for he has some learning." The man shook his head pityingly.
William did not hear the last words. It appeared to him that a bright flash came and went
before his eyes, and again he grasped the bars of the doorway. His brother George a
thief. It could not be!
"Shall I wake him, sir," put in the jailer, not noticing William's perturbation.
The young officer recovered himself.
"Oh, by no means!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Pray do not disturb him."
As he was about to release his hold from one of the iron bars, he perceived that it was
filed almost in twain from the inside! He could feel it with his fingers. The sleeper moved
slightly, and William stepped to one side out of sight.
It was quite difficult that he could affect any interest in the rest of the prisoners, his brain
was whirling so, and soon he thanked the jailer and left the gloomy shadow of the
building.
When he reached the outside air he drew down the muffler, for he felt faint and sick. The
tall soldier on guard at the gateway saluted him. William turned, and as he did so almost
ran into the arms of the little schoolmaster, who was bobbing quickly along.
"Ho, ho, Lieutenant!" was the greeting; but a glance at the young man's face told the
story. "You know it. You have seen him?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson.
"I have, and I am going to find out more. They say he stole, that my brother is a thief. I
cannot—"
"No, no, he is not," said Mr. Anderson. "On my honor no—and try to find out nothing, for
by doing so you may place a halter around his neck." Then he added, quite calmly, "Your
brother is a spy."
A sense of horror and yet of relief came over William.
"I have imperilled my own safety by befriending him," said Schoolmaster Anderson.
"Surely you, his brother, will not betray him?"
"Tell me," inquired William, "is he Richard Blount of Albany?"
"He took the young man's place at the peril of his life," answered the schoolmaster. "Now
say nothing more."
"But he is about to escape!" exclaimed the young Lieutenant.
It was the schoolmaster's time to start. "He is?" he inquired, half faltering.
"Ay," said William. "The iron bars are almost filed in two."
"Well, well," remarked Mr. Anderson. "That will never do. We will have to change that.
Sure enough. He must be moved, but his safety is the first thing to be thought of. You
agree with me?"
"I am going to make myself known to him," exclaimed William, turning as if to retrace his
steps toward the prison.
"I pray that you will do nothing of the kind," broke in the old schoolmaster. "It is only by
great good fortune that his identity has not been established. Any attention attracted to
him might be the means of accomplishing just what we wish to avoid."
"I will leave it all to you then, Mr. Anderson. Only we cannot connive at the escape of a
rebel spy, even if he is my brother."
"Your family is not the only one that is divided on this sad subject," said the
schoolmaster, shaking his head. "Just look about you everywhere."
After this there was but little said, and the two parted further down the street, William
depressed and sorrowed by the discovery and the secret that bore upon his mind.
But to return to the cell of the mysterious young prisoner who read his Virgil so
indefatigably.
He had not been asleep at all upon the occasion of William's unexpected visit. In fact, he
had been working with a small file upon the iron bars. It had to be done very carefully
indeed, by fits and starts, for a long-continued exertion might at any time bring upon him
the attention of the guard.
He had not recognized his brother in the dim light, and only thought him one of the
inspecting officers, although he had shivered when the jailer spoke in such an off-hand
manner of his being accused of theft.
In the mean time he had read his cipher note.
It told him that on a certain night, if it were possible for him to file his bars in two, a boat
with two rowers would be waiting beneath a wharf of the North River. If everything
worked smoothly on both sides, signals would be exchanged.
The note was signed by Number Two. George knew this to be friend Anderson. It stated
that Number Three was unfortunately ill, and George knew that Number Three was Abel
Norton.
He had destroyed the epistle, and recommenced the tedious work of filing away the bars.
Despite Mr. Anderson's warning, William could hardly restrain a desire to visit the sugar-
house and have a long talk with his brother, but he saw that the consequences might be
most disastrous. However, there was one thing he could do—help George's material
comfort; he would claim this privilege at least.
Meeting Mr. Anderson one day, he asked him if George needed anything that he could
procure. To his surprise, the little schoolmaster refused to discuss the question, and
William took the hint that he was not supposed to know that his brother was in New York
at all. So, pained and chagrined, he dropped the subject; he could not insist, as he had
left the matter in Mr. Anderson's hands.
He was, however, soon to undergo a great surprise.
Huddled up in his long gray cloak, he was facing a small snow-storm that whirled the
drifts around the corners of the houses, and as he emerged into Waddell Lane a tall man
who was approaching glanced at him most curiously. Just as William was passing, the
other extended his arm and grasped him by the shoulder.
"Hold! I would not go in that direction," said the man. "Don't be rash. Be cautious,
Frothingham, I do beseech you. Step to one side in the alley here; no one will see us,
and I would have a word with you."
William, to his best knowledge and belief, had never seen the person who addressed him
so readily and excitedly by name before.
Something told him at once that here was one of the persons concerned in his brother
George's intended escape. It behooved him well to listen.
"You have chosen a good night," said Mr. Abel Norton, drawing the young Lieutenant into
the shadow of the doorway of an empty house, "a splendid night. It has worked well;
but, Heavens! a full uniform! How did you procure it, in the name of mercy?"
"It was easier than you think, I suspect," said William, now speaking for the first time.
"I wish I could say it becoming," went on the older man. "It must itch you like a hair shirt
—eh?"
William said nothing.
"I met your colored servant two days ago. I remembered having seen him with your
uncle years gone by. He has returned to New Jersey with tidings of you, and the news
that you have been slightly wounded and that you will follow him. By this time they at
Stanham have learned of your intention to escape. I have been ill," continued Abel
Norton. "This is the first day that I have been out. I was on my way to the prison to see
if in some way I could learn tidings of you."
"There is no necessity of going now," said William.
"So I see, my dear boy. You never liked me when we worked together in Sir Wyeth's
office. What a proud young limb you were, and as solitary as an owl! But this is no time
for reminiscing. Is the boat prepared?"
"That's just the question," put in William, at a venture. "Everything has worked well, but
that I do not know."
"It must be arranged then at once to-night. I will see to it myself," said his mysterious
acquaintance. "I know the ferrymen and where to reach them. Shall I do it?"
"You had better," was the answer. "And let me know where I can find them."
"At Striker's wharf, then, at eleven o'clock to-night. It will be pitch-dark and a rough
passage. Where are you bound to now?"
"To a safe hiding-place," answered William.
"Take care—take care—don't be too bold," said the other, cautiously. "Well, if you will,
may good-luck wait on you. To-night, then, at eleven."
Abel Norton did not know what loyal British hands grasped his, but the pressure was firm
and hearty, for William's heart went out to this friend of his brother's.
"Schoolmaster Anderson has frustrated the attempt at escape, of course," he thought to
himself, "and the boat-men will wait in vain. I could not find it in my heart to tell the old
fellow who I was. He might have died from sheer astonishment." But it seemed quite
natural to be taken for George again. The resemblance was not lost.
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