He was going to enter a game of hurling on the Bowling Green, when Creakle objected.

"Why?" said Dick, in amazement.

"Because you are the friend of the son of a traitor. His father and his grandfather were traitors to the government, and he's a traitor himself," sneered Creakle.

"Who?"

"The Dane," said Creakle, with another sneer. "All the fellows have refused to have anything to do with him. He's been sent to Coventry. He's a traitor's son, and the blot of treason hangs to his name."

"It's a lie," said Dick, hotly; "he's not a traitor's son," and with a back-handed slap of his hand, he sent Creakle reeling.

"It's true," said Tenny, as he edged in among the other lads. "All the lads of his home place will tell you the same thing, and you'll be treated the same way as we are treating him, if you don't cut him."

Dick, scarcely believing his ears, hurried off to his friend, Ande, bursting into the study with a bound.

"Do ye know why the fellows have cut you and me?"

"No."

"Why, they say you are the son of a traitor. That your father and grandfather were traitors to the government. Creakle said so, and I give him a back-handed slap that sent him some feet. It was Creakle who told me."

"The contemptible dog!" exclaimed Ande, with a flash of the eye. "It's not true, though the circumstances look the other way. They were both honourable men."

"You needn't tell me," said Dick. "I believe if your father and grandfather were like you, there couldn't be a bit of treason in them. I told Creakle it was a lie, and then Tenny spoke up and said that it was true, and that if I didn't cut you the same as the rest of them are doing, they would cut me. They have sent us to Coventry."

"Dick, you 'ave been a good friend to me, and you did right in treating Creakle as you did, for I should have done the same. The old blot that drove me from my native village will drive me from here as well. It is the curse that has been on our family since my grandfather's death, but you have no hand in this. You had better cut me, or they will make your life here as unbearable as mine. I'll move into a study of my own. It is for your own interest that I am looking."

"Stuff! Let them send me to Coventry if they will. I don't believe there is any truth in the rumour, and we don't part like that. Didn't you save my life in the smugglers' battle, and I'm going to stick to you through all this Coventry business. Put it there," and Dick stretched his great hand across the study table and grasped the hand of Ande and shook it warmly. There was a grateful look in the latter's eyes.

"You have done too many things for me, to turn in with a rabble like that. You have changed old Dullhead into a brighter man, and made him Old Ironsides, and we'll let them know that Old Ironsides is going to stick to you. Why, Ande, you and I could clean out the whole crew in a personal fight on the Bowling Green, and—zounds! I'd like to do it."

"And they would gain their desires. We'd be expelled."

"Never thought of that."

"It's what would happen, though."

There was silence in the study for the space of half an hour, during which they laboured on the coming lessons. Then, it was Dick, who broke the silence.

"How did it happen that the idea of treason got out. I don't believe it, but I'm a bit curious."

"It's a long story, but I'll tell you some day, Dick, and let you see some documents that I have still in my possession. There's the gong."

A deep sound of a gong, indicating the dinner hour in the dining-room below, broke the silence, and they hurried forth to its summons.

After the discovery of Dick, and the encounter with Creakle, neither he nor Ande sought the games of the others. If they needed recreation, they took it in long walks along the sea-coast or in the country. The enmity of Creakle and Tenny was shown in many petty ways. They were not content with sending to Cov entry alone. Once, on their return, they found a placard on their study door with the sentence of, "The Home of Treason," written on it, but this did not stir the wrath of Ande as much as a later placard, a rude sketch of a soldier with red hair, hands bound, eyes blindfolded, and before him a file of soldiers with weapons presented, ready to fire, and near at hand a grave and a coffin. With a burst of passion, he tore it down and ground it under his heel.

"And how is my knight progressing in the tournament of the schools?"

It was in the gardens of Trembath Manor, and it was Mistress Alice who was speaking. She was clad in light spring garb that wonderfully set off her trim figure and brought out into greater prominence the wavy darkness of her hair, and depth of her eyes, that seemed deeper and brighter under the mellow sunlight without. She was standing near one of her favourite rose-beds, and near her was the tall form of Ande Trembath, the few months at school adding new dignity and age to his features. He was glad to be there, near her, and to be called "her knight," as she had called him on the last Christmas eve. He was home on a short vacation, and it seemed wonderfully pleasant to be with her in the gardens of old Trembath, especially after the dreary atmosphere of the school, rendered more dreary and wretched by the uncharitable spirit of his fellows of the fifth; to watch the dark eyes kindling and rekindling at some jest, and then the sober shadow at the recital of the escapage of the smugglers. He told her all, the merry adventure at the duck cave, the hurling game, and then the sending to Coventry. Yes, this was going to be his last year at the school. The curse of treason had followed him, and even his friend, Dick, was involved in the petty spirit of malice of the students. He was discouraged, and she knew it. His face betokened it as he related the sending to Coventry.

"Do you know that my knight has forgotten some of his pledges made last Christmas eve?" she said, and her eyes flashed once more, back from the sombreness brought into them by the Coventry recital.

"How?"

"I said that the knight that I should admire would not despair at a few difficulties, and my knight said that he would not."

"Neither am I," doubtfully.

"Your very tone indicates the contrary."

"You think it best to remain and stand all taunts and malice?"

"Assuredly; and will not that be the very best way to prepare yourself for the future battles. Is it brave to run away from a foe?"

There was a flush on the face of the youth.

"I see you are right. I shall stay and fight it out, and they will see who grows tired of the Coventry business first. You give me the same advice as Parson Trant. He said stand firm, and stick to the school."

"Parson Trant is generally right."

"And so are you."

"Of course, in this case, I am right, but at times, I suppose, I am wrong."

"For instance?"

"Well, my father has broached a plan that lies close to his heart. You know the Lanyan estate lies close to ours, and he is anxious for me to be settled in life soon."

A cold, icy hand seemed to clutch his heart and hold it in a vice-like grip. The blood forsook his features, for a moment, as he listened.

"And he?" interrogatively.

"And he was thinking how well the two would go together, and that Lady Alice would not sound so bad. Then it would place our family among the highest in the county. I thought at first that it was all foolishness, but I suppose he is right and I am wrong."

"No, no, no, you are right. You must not sacrifice yourself to a whim."

"No, I am wrong," pensively.

"You are right. It must not be," and then at the remembrance of Master Richard and Sir James, he flushed an angry hue and clenched his fists tightly.

"Must not be?" archly.

"Aye, it shall not be."

"Why?"

"Because I say it shall not be."

"Indeed, since when have I had a new master, or a master at all, for that matter?"

There was a rebellious tone in her voice, and a quick, tumultuous beating of her heart. To be told she should not do this or that was something new to her, the mistress of the Manor, and yet, his tone, his manner of speaking, that masterful way of asserting himself—she liked him better for it.

"I say it shall not be," doggedly.

"And why?"

"Because—because—because—I am your knight," he said, desperately, "and I cannot see any harm come to you, and your happiness wrecked by marrying such. If you only knew the Lanyans as I know them."

"Perhaps my happiness would not be wrecked."

"Ah, but it shall not be. It must not be."

"You have given me no reason why it should not. Should not a child obey her father?"

Her eyes were glowing mischievously.

"Alice, Alice, if you will not listen to reason, it is because I say so, and I—I—I—love you. Oh! Alice, I have wanted to tell you so long—but the stain of treason—but give me at least hope that if the stain be removed—and it shall—that I shall not love you in vain."

The hue of Mistress Alice's cheeks rivalled her own roses. She fought down the exultant, happy feeling within, and strove to be her former self; yes, even strove to be angry, but what woman is angry when told that she is loved.

"There is father. Calm yourself, or he will notice you."

Coming over the green terrace was the stout frame of old Squire Vivian, most unwelcome sight at this hour, at least to Ande. His question was doomed to remain unanswered. The squire greeted him in his bluff, cheery manner, asked him of the school and his progress. The excellent reports he had received from Master Trewan had inclined him a little more favourably to his protégé. Taking advantage of the presence of her father, Mistress Alice slipped away and hid herself in the privacy of her own rooms.

CHAPTER XX

The contest of general scholarship in the fifth was manifestly between two students,—the old and the new head, and even after it was over, none could prophesy how the judges would decide. The decision came, after a brief pause and consultation.

The Reverend Mr. Trewan arose, and after clearing his throat several times began by complimenting the students.

"I am pleased to find the excellent form in which most of our scholars have passed this examination. The marks are far above the average of the half. I am glad to state that the whole form will enter the sixth at the next half without a single exception."

There was a little cheer from the mass of students.

"In reference to the prize for the general scholarship, there are two between which there has been a close contest. For quite a time one was in the forerank and the other close behind. Then the marks were even. Then the second forged ahead. Master Tenny," and the head paused to clear his throat, while Tenny flushed with gratification, "your marks have been admirable; they were far ahead of your average during the year. For quite a time you were ahead, then even with another, Master Trembath, then Master Trembath gained first place. The prize goes to him, however, who has the highest average of the whole examination, and I, therefore, declare Master Trembath the winner by four points; and the committee has given Master Tenny the highest honourable mention."

The master paused and extended twenty pounds to Ande, the prize for general scholarship. Dick was the first to congratulate him, and was followed by one or two others, notwithstanding the decree of Coventry. Tenny maintained his silence in bitter chagrin. He had hopes of the essay prize, however, the chairman of which committee now arose to report.

"We find," he said, after a little preliminary speech, "that six of the essays were most laudable, but out of them two were selected for their excellence—one on account of the beauty of the language, the other on account of its vivid realism and striking, rhetorical figures. The one written by Hector is admirable in wording and has many fine points, but lacks the realism and subject matter and thought of the other. We have decided that the silver medal goes to him who has adopted the certainly inappropriate and inapplicable nom-de-plume of Asinus Cornubiensus."

There was a pause, and the students at length, realising the meaning of the Latin nom-de-plume, which was the "Ass, or Donkey of Cornwall," burst into a roar of laughter.

"Certainly," resumed the gentleman, "this Asinus Cornubiensus has demonstrated a grasp of thought, power of language, and vivid description that belies his humble name, and renders him worthy of the prize. Stand up, Asinus Cornubiensus, and receive the silver medal."

Dick stood up, much confused, and received the prize. There was a cheer. Even Ande was astonished, and greeted his old friend with more respect. It is needless to say that Hector was Tenny, who was bub bling over with rage and mortification, to think that he was not only beaten in the general prize but also in the essay, and in the latter case by one whom he had always considered a stupid dunce, the worst scholar in the form.

The rest of the day was dedicated to the examinations of the sixth and the distribution of prizes in that form. Our two prize winners of the fifth wended their way out from the school and hied away from the town to one of their accustomed haunts, near the coast, high up on the cliffs. Here, throwing themselves down on the long grass, they watched, for the time, the active sea-birds and the flitting sails far out on the channel. At length, turning from the contemplation of these, Ande addressed his friend.

"Dick, what led you to choose such a queer nom-de-plume?" and he smiled.

"Well, I was always considered a dull'ead and never thinking I'd get the medal, I put down the name in a little disgust, thinking it to be the most appropriate one."

"What was the subject?"

"You can't guess?"

"No."

"Well, it was on that hurling game between Breage and our fellows, and I just played the game over again in imagination when I was writing."

"That accounts for its realism, no doubt."

"Did 'ee notice Tenny after the general prize was given?"

"No."

"His face was as wisht[7] as a herring."

"No doubt. I noticed him after the silver medal was given and he was green around the eyes."

"Serves him right," said Dick, "for sending us to Coventry on account of that tale of Creakle about your father and grandfather."

There was silence for a moment, unbroken save by the breaking of the waves on the beach beneath.

"Dick, you asked me once out of curiosity concerning that tale and I am now going to tell you and get your ideas. You have a better head than we gave you credit for."

"Fudge, Ande, your head would make two of mine, but fire away. I've been anxious for a long time to know."

Ande related the history of his family and the treasonable stain, while his companion listened attentively, and sympathetically. The tale was related to the finish.

"And the papers?"

"They were all confiscated except two, that are now in my possession."

"And your father?"

"He left a letter. You see the last letter that my mother received before father's disappearance contained one sealed, directed to me, which should be given to me when I came to mature years. It was given me when I came first to the Grammar School. Here it is," said Ande, as he pulled out of his inside pocket a long envelope that had been sealed with red wax.

"I have long since made myself familiar with its contents, but I am now going to read it to you," and opening it he read the following:

"Fort Malden, Canada, Sept. 10th, 1813."

"My Dear Son Andrew.—This letter is enclosed and sent in one to your mother, and is to be given to you when you are old enough to understand its contents. Whether I shall accomplish that for which I started to this blood-stained region or not yet remains to be seen. If not, and I should fall either in battle or a captive, you must faithfully carry out my request. Proctor has let hell loose upon the Americans and it has come back upon our own heads. I have no taste for this fighting side by side with savage Indians, and certainly Proctor is abusing his authority and position. He ruthlessly permits the savages to perform the most fiendish things imaginable, and has no respect for his word to a fallen foe.

"All Michigan was taken by his predecessor, General Brock, but he was unfortunately killed and now this unscrupulous man is over us. It makes me blush at the name Englishmen must bear through him, and disgusts me with the present service. At the battle of Frenchtown, last January, the American general, Winchester, and his men were captured. They surrendered on Proctor's word that their lives and property should be safe, but Proctor returned to Malden and left the wounded and prisoners to be scalped and burned alive by the blood-thirsty devils, our red allies, who even dragged some through the streets of Detroit for sale. Detroit people remonstrated with Proctor, but he only shrugged his shoulders.

"The same proceedings were repeated after the attack on Harrison at Fort Meigs. The battle was as good as a victory for us. Our men were on both sides of the river Maumee. Our left was repulsed with a small loss, but our right was victorious, taking prisoners nearly six hundred men. Then the same savage atrocities began. Even Tecumseh, the great chief, was more merciful than our general. With an appalling yell he rescued an American prisoner from two of his followers and then insulted Proctor to his face.

"'Why do you allow such things when I am not here?' he said.

"'Your Indians can't be controlled,' said Proctor.

"'Go, put on petticoats; you are not fit to command men,' said Tecumseh, and with that he stalked proudly away. But those who heard it agreed with the bold chief. He's a good soldier, but no general, and his cruelty and indifference to his word of honour has made the soldiers sick of such service. On account of this, and Admiral Barclay's defeat to-day, Michigan is lost to us and even Canada may be taken away from the home government. The splendid opportunities that Brock placed in our hands are of no value on account of incapable Proctor and pusillanimous Barclay. The naval battle was won before it was fought. Barclay had six vessels and Perry nine, but what of that? Englishmen have conquered before against odds. But there was Barclay, keeping under the guns of Malden, casting down the spirits of his men with the thought of certain defeat, while the American ships were out in the open inviting him to the attack. The sailors and gunners begged him to attack, and even wept in humiliation at his cowardice. Tecumseh, with several thousand Indians, were on an island waiting to witness the encounter. Tecumseh rowed over and sought Proctor.

"'You said you were master of the waters. Why don't you go out and fight? The Americans are daring you to come out and fight.'

"The result of that battle is known, or will be known soon. Oh, for men like Nelson, and Marlborough, and Wellington!

"But to the point of my request. My father has a dishonourable stain on his name, though unworthy of it, I believe. I have travelled among the Shawnese, our allies, who were father's foes at Braddock's defeat. I was sent by Brock as an agent to the Ohio, and witnessed their dances and the Prophet's agitation a year ago. Ah, they were blood-curdling scenes. While there I talked with an old Shawnee about King Shingas and Captain Jacobs, father's captors. He said he was a sub-chief under Shingas and was in the ambush at the defeat, and from what I could glean from his description, father was among the batch of prisoners consigned to his charge. He knew not what I had in mind at first. He was so old that his hair had turned white or grey, an unusual thing among the Indians. He spoke to me of the greatness of Shingas and the suffering of the prisoners until I felt like shooting him on the spot, the hoary old sinner. All were not burned, for after running the gauntlet one escaped, snatching a club from an Indian in his flight. The Shawnee called him the Long Red Wolf, at least such is the meaning of the Shawnee name in English. From the red hair, length of limb, and swiftness of foot, it must have been my father, who was accounted the swiftest foot in old Cornwall when young.

"Now hark ye, son Andrew, among the papers of your grandfather, found on his person, was one overlooked by the King's officers. It was a rude map of the Kittanning region and the rough vale of the Lycamahoning. I send a copy with the same directions in Shawnese and English. The vale leads down from the Allegheny Mountains, and the river empties into the Ohio some distance above the old Indian town of Kittanning, as you can readily see from the accompanying sketch. I have learned from long association with the Indians that this region is rich in silver and lead, possibly gold. At least there are legends to that effect. The ability of the natives to obtain lead for their weapons and their silver ornaments testify to an eldorado somewhere in the region. Now father was much interested in mining and metals, as what Cornishman is not. I asked the old warrior of Shingas concerning the Indian legend of this eldorado and quoted the old directions in Shawnese, for I speak their language: 'On one side a plain, on the other a steep that a smart Indian can climb.' He gazed at my red hair and became silently suspicious. A bullet that passed through my hat on my way back to Malden told me my knowledge had made me a mark of vengeance.

"This is all I know. Connect this Indian eldorado with the map found on father's body; explain how the French commission as captain was filled in with his own name, and how he happened to be in French uniform, and the problem is solved. If these could be explained I believe our family could raise its head once more among the loyal families of the delectable duchy,—Corn wall. I'll find this Indian eldorado and your grandfather's exoneration at the same time. They are both connected, I believe. If I fail you must take up the cause."

"Your affectionate father,
"Thomas Trembath,
"Major——6th Royal Infantry.

"Fort Malden, Canada."

"That's what we were studying about the other day," said Dick, as Ande ceased reading. "De 'ee remember, Ande, about Proctor and Tecumseh?"

"Aye," said Ande, musingly.

"Are you going to take up the search?"

"Some time,—when, I don't know. What do you advise?"

"I should say after you get through with the sixth," said Dick promptly; "but, Ande, you haven't told me of Sir James Lanyan and Master Richard and——"

Ande gave a gesture of impatience and his countenance clouded over with anger.

"Dick," he said passionately, "parson says it's wrong, but I hate that family and I can never forgive them the wrong they did me and mine. When the time comes I will be terribly revenged upon them for the cruel slander and injustice that they, for the sake of capital, brought upon us."

Dick was silenced; he had never seen the pleasant face of his friend become so angry. A look like that of a demon had passed over his features at the very mentioning of Lanyan's name.

"Hist!" said Ande, and his countenance resumed its old expression.

Both youths listened, in their sequestered position.

"Remember, Penner, to 'ave the men 'ere within a half an 'our. See that each is well armed with pistols and cutlass. The cutter 'as been notified and is a-beating down the coast, and the paths be all guarded. This time we'll catch the hold Prussian fox or my name beant Penhall."

Gazing out cautiously, the youths saw, on the beach below, two men in seaman's garb.

"That's Captain Penhall of the coastguard, and his lieutenant, and they mean to surprise the King of Prussia Cove. We must give our old friend warning, Dick, lad."

"Les up and away."

"Hold on. Didn't 'ee hear the paths are all guarded."

"That's so," said Dick rubbing his head, doubtfully.

"Come, I have a plan at last," said Ande after a moment's thought, and he led the way cautiously at first and then rapidly inland. For a mile or more they kept up a smart pace, Dick following with some difficulty.

After a wide detour inland, they rapidly approached Prussia Cove. His plan was nothing less than to enter the cove by the perilous path from which he had fallen in the hurling game between Breage and the school. It was now twilight, and darkness was rapidly setting in.

"Halt!" said a quick, sharp voice ahead.

"On," whispered Ande, "there's only two of them. I'll take the right, and you take the left."

Dick grappled with his man and there was a moment of struggle. But the sudden impetus of Dick's rush decided the battle, for the coastguard tripped and, aided by his antagonist's bulk, fell. Ande was more fortunate, not suffering the other to lay hands on him. With a blow of his fist and a quick Cornish side kick he toppled him over.

"On!" shouted Ande and down the narrow pathway they rushed at breakneck speed. There was now no concealment. Shots flew after the two and Ande felt a sharp, quick pain in the left arm, but he gave it no attention. In a moment or two they emerged on the sands below, and their arrival was none too soon. The smugglers had already secreted half the cargo.

"The coastguard! They're coming!" shouted Ande as he rushed among the crowd.

Down the path was heard the approach of charging feet. From other paths the same ominous sounds were heard, all converging on the cove, and soon the head of the cove was dotted with black figures of guardsmen.

Now did Captain Carter show his courage. His men grasped desperately their pikes and cutlasses, and not even awaiting the attack of the guard, charged at the command of their king. Then followed a sanguinary battle. Shots, oaths, dull resounding blows, and groans made the silent cove a veritable pandemonium. In the midst of it a sail was seen gradually nearing the har bour entrance. The quick eye of Carter saw it. Flourishing his cutlass on high he roared:

"To the lugger, men, the hawk's at the entrance!"

The two youths, not knowing where to go, clambered on board, followed speedily by the captain and his men. The struggle continued to the very lugger's bulwarks, for the attacking guard were more numerous than their foes and felt loathe to leave them go. The appearance of the revenue cutter near the entrance also gave them renewed courage. They strove to follow after the captain and his men. A select guard of the smugglers was speedily appointed by the captain to repel boarders, and these did their work well, wielding boathooks and cutlasses with telling effect. In the meantime sweeps were gotten ready by the others and the lugger was under headway, slowly leaving the frenzied guardsmen of the government on shore.

A gun sounded from the entrance and a ball tore through the limp mainsail.

"Between two fires," muttered the captain with a smothered oath, and it was true, for the revenue cutter had stationed herself midway in the narrow entrance.

"Pull, my hearties, pull," shouted the captain, "we'll run 'er down, for we be heavier!"

The lusty fellows at the sweeps did pull, and with a will. The cutter's captain, seeing the intention of the smugglers, tried to frustrate it, and partly succeeded, but—crash!—the next instant the lugger's heavy prow ran athwart the cutter's bow.

"She's done for," gleefully said the smuggler cap tain, as the next moment the lugger glided into the bay. But Carter was mistaken, for the cutter though badly damaged, was not disabled. The blow was above the water-line and pursuit was kept up out into the channel. There was a light breeze blowing, the sails were set, and the sweeps were taken in. The cutter was steadily gaining.

"Can she catch us?" asked Ande of the smuggler captain.

"No," said the captain, pleasantly, "I think not. We are obliged to 'ee, lads, for your timely warning."

Ande wondered at his good humour and at his denial that there was any danger of being overtaken, when it was plain that the cutter was gaining. Evidently the captain had some plan, he thought; and he had.

"Port your helm!" shouted the skipper, and then at another command, more sheets were spread to the wind as if by magic, and away went the lugger staggering under a cloud of canvas, like a winged bird of the sea.

"Jack," said the captain to our old acquaintance of the cliff battle, "Jack, do 'ee think 'ee could wing that chap?"

"I'll try," said Jack, and away he rushed to the stern where a long brass cannon called "Long Tom" was stationed. The gunner sighted for an instant, then changed the sights and sighted again; then as if satisfied, he quickly applied the lighted linstock. There was a flash and a roar and the ball sped on its mission.

"A good shot, Master Jack, you've brought down 'er mainmast," said the skipper, who was examining the effects with a night glass.

He had hardly spoken when there was a puff of smoke from the cutter, then crash! the sound of rending plank, and a ball passed straight through the lugger at the water line. The next instant there was another puff of smoke and another ball crashed through close to the second. The cutter was avenged.

Captain Carter, with a pale set face, hastened below to ascertain the injuries, but returned in a moment. The lugger was rapidly filling and settling.

"Jack and I will give them a shot to pay for that while the rest of ye get ready the long boat," said the captain, sternly. But it was a fatal delay, for scarcely had Long Tom been sighted e'er in a mad swirl of waters the lugger plunged to her watery grave—down, down, down, dragging, in her deadly, downgoing eddy, captain and crew. Ande had the sound of many waters in his ears, and kicked desperately to free himself of its deadly influence. Then, after an interminable time, to his joy he felt himself going upward, upward and upward. His lungs felt like bursting under the terrible strain. Could he hold out until he reached the surface? He made another desperate downward kick and joy,—his head shot above the surface—but—nothing visible but the dark, tossing waters and the pale stars o'erhead. Stay! There was a dark mass but a yard or so away and a form. He drifted nearer. He shouted and a hand grasped him and drew him up on a floating piece of deck timber.

"Dick."

"Ande."

Two simultaneous shouts, but that was all, as these two friends of school day life floated together on the loosened spar.

Then after a time:

"Didst see the captain or any of the crew?"

"All drowned, no doubt," said Dick.

Then there was more silence. Dick was a famous swimmer, but clung to the spar reserving his strength for the future; Ande was less expert in the swimming art and his wound and exposure was gradually weakening his grasp. It was now past midnight.

"Dick, do'ee think the cutter will pick us up?"

"Hardly; you see, she can't do much with her mainmast gone, and then the tide is ebbing."

Hours passed and the sickening sense of weakness became stronger and stronger, and that weary, pallid expression, the presage of unconsciousness, swept o'er Ande's countenance and remained there. It was Dick who realised it first, and he flung his own great arms o'er those of Ande, binding him to the spar with his own strength.

"Hold on. Don't give in."

"Dick, I was shot in the arm coming down the cliff, and I think that's what's making me weak."

"Weather it out until daylight and we shall be picked up. Some one is bound to see us."

"Dick, do 'ee think we did right in warning the smugglers?" asked Ande, weakly.

"Aye," said Dick, stoutly; "they were honest men trying to earn a living."

"Because,—you see—you'll get through all right, but I—I'm getting weaker every minute, and I can't hold out much longer—and a fellow thinks of these things when he hasn't long to live."

"Nonsense, we'll both pull through all right. Pluck up courage." Then as he noticed a piece of rope attached to the spar, "I do believe I'm still a dull'ead. Here we 'ave been floating in danger of falling off through weakness every moment and there is the means of our salvation."

He plucked out a knife from his pocket and severed the rope at the end from the spar and passing it around Ande and himself securely lashed themselves to the float.

"There, if we can't hold out much longer, we'll at least be on top of the water as long as this spar floats."

There was silence for another half an hour and then Ande said wearily.

"Dick, if you get back to land—and I don't,—you—remember me to mother and tell her I—died a Christian."

"Aye, aye, old fellow, but cheer up!" But the tears in his own eyes indicated that he needed his own advice.

"We must trust in God, Dick."

"Aye," said the other, as he reached over and shook hands earnestly.

"And Dick, remember me to her."

"Aye," said Dick once more. He knew for quite a time Ande's interest in the squire's daughter, and that "her" could mean no one else.

On they drifted, now on a swelling surge, then in a dark valley of water. Dawning light appeared in the east, but no land was visible.

"Cheer up," said Dick, "day is coming," but there was no answer. Grim unconsciousness had come at last. Dick, for another hour, battled with the terrible faintness, then the sea seemed to fade from his vision and—the sun arose beaming brilliantly on the world of tossing waters. Nothing was visible but the circling gulls and a stick of timber, and two unconscious, half-drowned lads.

CHAPTER XXI

It was a rough night in the wilds of western Pennsylvania. The rain had descended steadily for three days, and now the Lycamahoning had arisen from its ordinary rippling tranquillity into a boisterous, turbulent onrushing tide. Raftsmen had been constantly busy throughout the winter, felling the gigantic pines and firs, squaring them with their great broad axes, and then with the aid of hickory saplings and pins and bows of the same tough material, lashing them securely one against the other, rafting them in for the cruise down the river to the Ohio. The first flood had come, and so violent was its nature that many a hardy raftsman had added additional bulyokes and hawsers to his rafts, fearing the loss of his winter's labour. The night had set in stormy and dark. The clouds that had covered the face of the heavens for the greater part of the week had grown in intensity, and had been belching down their floods with renewed violence. The wind had arisen, softly at first, and then augmenting into a small tornado, charging through the acres of treetops that added additional sombreness to the murky night, until beaten to madness with the invisible storm weapons and stung with the drenching rain, tree fought with tree, lashing themselves with their wooden arms into an agony of conflict.

"Who in the name of common sense can be running timber on a night like this? He is either a madman or an imbecile," so thought rather than said a horseman who had paused on the road to listen to the shouts. He placed his hand up over his brows, shielding his view from the drenching rain, and stared, from his elevation, out over the roaring stream. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating the yellow foam-flecked flood and out in the centre a raft, long and heavy, yet tossed like a feather on the rolling flood waves. There were two figures at the great rear oar, one of whom was the pilot, one figure in the centre with a coil of rope in his grasp, and at the front oar-running backward and forward, leaping on the great oar handle to jerk its cumbersome blade from the stream, running it back to the opposite side, plunging it in the flood once more, and with handle overhead pushing with might and main,—were six figures, seeming in the distance like the dancing forms of a puppet show, whose various motions were controlled by the dark form of the pilot in the rear. The flash of lightning passed away in a roll of thunder, and all was wrapped in darkness again.

"Left! Left!"

"Halt!"

"Left! Left!"

The raft was rounding a curve in the stream.

"Left! Left! Push! Push, with a will. More backbone to it, boys! Once more and a glass of toddy at Burke's for each man! Left! Left! Now then! Heave to it! With all your might! Halt! Don't let it pull you off! Hold on to her!" bawled the raft pilot.

"Again! Left! Left!"

"Halt!"

"Now then, Tom! Jump for it!"

"Run out the rope!"

"Snub! Snub!"

"There, ease up, Tom! Take the next tree!"

"All right," bawled a voice from the shore.

And slowly the great raft, a hundred and twenty feet long and forty wide, swung in from the flood after two trials had been made to break the speed. Closer and closer to the bank, away from the force of the current, until alongside she was safely secured with a double hawser, a prisoner under the guardianship and control of two massive oaks. The immense oars were swung clear of the water and their handles lashed to the centre -pieces. Up over the creek bank, stumbling through thick underbrush and over fallen trees, came the hardy crew and at length gained the turnpike. The weather in the meantime had grown colder and the rain changed to falling snow. The wind had fallen in its violence. Onward stumbled the crew, then at length up a slight elevation, through a covered bridge, and the lights, twinkling through many small windows, flashed before their eyes. It was the town of Burgtown, famed for its two rows of log houses, each having an upper story, and doubly famed for its renowned hotel of sawn timber and its hospitable but talkative host; famed also for the scholarship and mystery surrounding its founder. Scholarship and mystery! Yes, scholarship, for no one could withstand the logic of the Reverend Mr. Burg, and his tall, dark form, his deep eyes with their unfathomable look, was enough to awe even the stoutest. Mysteriousness? Yes, mysteriousness, for he had come in the night and had gone in the night. He was like Melchizedek in one respect, no one knew his father or his mother, no one knew his birthplace, and no one knew his end. There was a story rife among some of the town people that he had been guilty of some unministerial conduct in the neighbourhood of Standing Stone, thought it best for him to put the Alleghenies between himself and his old location, and had accordingly travelled with more speed than elegance to the Lycamahoning, where with the aid of a ploughline he had plotted and laid out the town. He was gone before the settlers that poured in became fully acquainted with him. Two years had elapsed since then and people remembered little of him with the exception of Peter Burke, the tavern keeper, and it seemed that Burke's knowledge increased with the years, and Burg became in the annals of his mind a demigod, a sort of modern Romulus, whose figure and deeds became larger and mightier as they reached into the dimness of the past.

The raft pilot, followed by his men, entered the door of Burke's place. The roaring fire of logs in the great stone chimney was most welcome to them after their night of toil. They made a picturesque group as they stood stamping the mud and snow from their long-legged logging shoes and brushing the great, soft flakes from caps and homespun wamuses. The majority of the eight were stout, ordinary-looking young men, with something of the air of the woods in their manner and appearance. The pilot was an exception. He was of medium height and stoutly built, with an intelligent face, lighted up with keen, sharp, grey eyes, that flashed in merriment in repartee, and that were even cunning and penetrating at times. He was the American product of the "canny" Scotchman, a Scotch American.

Along one side of the public room ran the rude bar counter with a few homely bottles and jugs, and near them, his rounded form a living advertisement for his wares, one eye smiling a welcome, the other, which was squint and cross-eyed, gazing unwinkingly, blankly, out of the window as if trying to penetrate the darkness, was the form of the tavern keeper.

"Supper for eight?" asked the tavern keeper.

"Aye, ye ken that," answered the raft pilot.

Peter Burke, with a rolling motion, tumbled off to a rear door which he swung wide.

"Supper for eight rafters," he bawled.

"Arright," squeaked a distant, feminine voice.

"Hallo, Hugh," said a deep voice from a corner near the flaming fireplace.

"Hallo yerself," said the pilot.

"What led you to pilot on a night like this, when the creek is getting higher and higher. I thought a raftsman ought to know that the proper time to raft is when the flood is falling, not rising."

"Not always," said the pilot, and then added, "Is that you, Bill?"

"Yes, it's I, sure enough."

"Well, you're schoolmaster and I'm raft pilot; every man to his own calling, and I suppose every man ought to know best what to do in his own calling; yet you'd criticise me for running timber on a rising flood."

"There are little things in all trades that most everyone ought to know. I was riding to the Burg when I heard your shouts on the raft and I wondered what ill-witted fellow was running on a rising flood on a night like this."

"Don't think it science, eh?" a little nettled to be called ill-witted.

"No. Every one ought to know that when the stream is rising it is higher in the centre than it is on the sides and when falling higher on the sides than in the centre. Hence by due process of ratiocination,"—the school-master paused to give the large, scholarly word due emphasis—"you must run on a falling flood."

"That's what 'tiz to be a scholard," muttered the tavern keeper, admiringly.

"Aye, science and scholard," snorted Hugh Lark, the pilot; "and I suppose if you had a raft on a sand bar, you'd wait for a falling flood and jack it off with a hoisting jack, eh?"

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd of raftsmen, and Hugh smiled, his good humour once more restored.

"Oh, in that case it's different, but that's a single exception," said Professor Bill, in some humiliation.

"No single exception. Suppose ye had a raft tied up above the island or down under the hill, would ye run on a rising or wait for a falling flood?"

"I would most assuredly wait for a falling flood, and—"

The schoolmaster was interrupted by a chuckle from Hugh, and broad grins from his assembled men.

"I've no doubt that ye would, but you'd find your raft a-scattered all the way twixt here and Pittsburgh. Why, mon, there's ne'er a hawser made that can hold a raft in those positions in a rising flood. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

Professor Bill Banks, or Professor Bill, as he was commonly known, was silenced. The last remark and the quotation from Shakespeare had put him to rout. He flushed and kept his eyes on the fire. The raftsmen were delighted. There was nothing they enjoyed so much as a tiff between Bill and their pilot. Professor Bill was the most learned man of the neighbourhood. Since the exodus of the Reverend Burg he had held the pre-eminence. He was the leader, and there was none to dispute with him with any fair show of success except Hugh, the pilot. Hugh had invariably come off second; here he had achieved first honours. Hugh was well read in a number of subjects, but his knowledge was only such as he could find by perusing history, in which indeed he was a fair scholar, and the topics of the day.

"Was stuck, Hugh?" asked the tavern keeper, with some new measure of respect.

"Aye, yesterday the creek was full of floating timber and we stuck on a sand bar. There were no rafts behind to shove us off and we had to wait for a greater flood. We wouldn't have stuck if Tom, there, hadn't lost his head."

Tom, a great hulking fellow, looked a trifle sheepish.

"You see," continued Hugh Lark, "I was up at the crosscut and in making the bend, I was just gitting the raft pinted when he was afraid we'd strike and tear up. He bellowed like a bull, 'We'll strike, we'll tear up, some un run out a rope and tie up.'"

"It war pretty nigh striking, though," muttered Tom, in some apology.

"Nonsense! Why, there were fully fifteen feet of water on either side. How could we strike or even run out and tie up when we had nothing to run on but water? The rain had stopped for an hour or two and we were getting on fine. The flood was a-carrying us on with a good speed. The banks were slipping by as if they were running the other way. The front men were dipping occasionally, but they hung on to the oar. Then come the bend. I could see it a hundred yards before we come to it, the water a-swirling and a-twisting like a yallow ribbon and then disappearing from sight behind the trees. 'Left, men, left,' I shouted. Then Tom lost his head. He let go the oar, and the oar being too much for the other chaps, and being afeared of being yanked into the flood they let go too, and the next minute came the thud of grounding. I saw that it was a-coming and braced myself, hanging on to the oar. But the fellows in front, how they tumbled! They were around Tom in the centre, a-galleyhooting and shouting. I never had such a crew of numbskulls. When the grounding came they tumbled over each other like nine-pins."

Supper was announced and the hungry raftsmen wended their way to the eating department, a plain long room, ceiled with pine, and adorned with sundry prints of "Babes in The Wood," and "Red Riding Hood." The table was a heavy wooden affair, evidently the result of home labour; the provisions with which it was plentifully laden were of the class found in every woodsman's home, viz., pork, beans, corn bread, burr-wheat bread, and home-made syrup.

A split log, the level side up, the rounded side down, into which were inserted several hickory legs, served in lieu of chairs, and seated upon this, the hungry raftsmen fell to with a will.

Meantime the public room was occupied by the tavern keeper and Professor Bill Banks. Professor Bill was apparently thirty years of age. He had a high forehead, blue eyes, a mass of dark hair overhanging his ears, and a prominent Roman nose. The nose seemed to give great strength to his features, as also did his chin. He was clad in the customary tail coat, tight pantaloons with straps, neckerchief, and over all towered his tall "nail keg" silk hat. Professor Bill was attired for a special occasion. He was going to visit, ostensibly, the father of a certain rustic damsel, and had stepped in for his mail. The talk with the pilot nettled him, for in an argument he liked to show his superiority, as he was the recognised great man of letters in the place. The talk was not the only thing that disturbed and ruffled his feelings. His horse had inadvertently stepped into a washout on the road, and had fallen so lame that it was utterly impossible for him to proceed.

"Hear of Big Paddy's accident?" asked the tavern keeper, wishing to promote a better feeling.

"No," curtly said Bill.

"Ha! Ha! He!" cackled the tavern keeper, "it war amusin'."

"Come, cease those asinine cachinations and explain," said Bill, with some irritation.

"Yer a great scholard, Bill," said the tavern keeper, in some admiration at this flow of erudite language, "but when ye'd speak highly of me, I'd wish ye could use plainer words. Well, big Paddy and his uns are a-build ing a new church in the burgh, and they were all a-drinking of rye to make the work go lively. Big Paddy would always do the heaviest work. At last there war the heavy corner stone to lift off the wagon, and none could roll her down. Paddy were nigh full when the stone come. Ha! Ha! He!" and the tavern keeper went off into another cackle of laughter, his cross-eye blinking with tears of merriment, and his protuberant stomach laughing in sympathy. "Ha! Ha! He!" and he went off into another cackle that threatened to strangle him.

"If it's your whiskey that made him ridiculous, I do not wonder, for its the most catholicon panacea for the diminution of intelligence and propagating of blatant puerility and asinine imbecility extant. Witness yourself for an example." Bill was becoming sarcastic.

"So 'tiz, so 'tiz," said the tavern keeper, highly pleased. "I say, Professor, what a high larnt person ye are; now—do ye,—do ye think ye could write that daoun?"

"Why?"

"I could git it printed on a sign and it 'ould look grand-like. I'd be much 'bleeged to ye, Bill," said Burke, earnestly.

Professor Bill smiled good humouredly, and asked, "Well, about Paddy?"

"Oh, he looked at 'em all a-tugging at the stone, for it war a whopper, and then he ups and says, 'Let be, now, let the auld man have a chance,' and with that he grabbed a-hold of it. He pulled it off, but it war too much for him, and it come down kerflop on his foot. There war an uproar and the big paddies and little ones come a-running up and screaming and shouting: 'And are ye hurted now, Daddy? And—and—and are ye hoorted now, Pappy? And are ye hoorted now, grand-daddy?' Big Paddy war mad. 'Tare and hounds,' said he, 'trow a stun like that on a man's fut and ask if he war hoorted, ye spalpeens.'"

The tavern keeper went off into another cackle of laughter, and the schoolmaster feebly joined in.

The rafting crew now returned from the supper-room and gathered around the flaming open fireplace. Rafting stories followed each other in rapid succession, Hugh Lark seeming to have the greatest fund. Clay and corncob pipes were brought out from various pockets and soon wreaths of smoke began to dim the atmosphere.

"Hear of old Jim Handy's trip?" asked one after Hugh had told a rather exciting story.

"No," said Hugh.

"Let's hear it," said the others.

"Jim had ne'er been on the water and thought it would be a nice thing for him to go on a trial trip. He had allers said that the land war good enough fer him, and that he would ne'er trust himself to nawthing but solid land. Some of the boys up on the Big Lycamahoning, that were cutting timber fer him, up and began talking of the funny times they had down at the mouth, the dancing and the parties. And then they begun to talk of the ride down, just as easy as riding a good hoss. The old man had a powerful set of rafts to run, and he saw one after another go down the stream and the fellows cherry and 'parently enjying the ride. They got him so worked up over the ride, and the good times they had, that he decided to go, too, on the last raft. They told him that all he would have to do would be to stand in the centre and perhaps they could make a chair fer him to set on. The old man war tickled with the idea. On the river they told him they could put up a regular shanty on the raft and it would be like travelling in a coach, and then he would have a chance to see Pittsburgh. The old man had never seen Pittsburgh and it war the capping argument. Then some fool fellow told him of the dams and the going under the water five or six feet when the raft would plunge over the shoots. The fellows told him that they could fix that all right. They would make a high wooden horse fer him to sit on when they would take the shoots. That fixed him. Last week the raft war ready to make the trip. They had a slanting pole fixed in the centre, and a seat up at the top where the old man could sit in the dry when the raft would plunge under. It went all right till they come to the big dam. Then as they war making fer the shoot and were fairly in it, all the fellows at the front oar dropped it and run up the pole after the old man. The old man hollered to them that they would break it down, but they didn't keer. Up they went, and just as they were plunging under, the pole broke, and down tumbled the old man with all the others. The raft war oak and sunk dead, like lead. It went to the very bottom and then rose again. The old man hung on and so did the others, but he was mad, a-cussing and swearing and spitting water like a water dog. It war a sight to see."

The fellow burst into a laugh that was echoed by the others.

"If he had been a-riding that sixty-foot stick that you rode, Hugh, he would been scared worse, eh," said one of the rafters.

"Tell us the story, Hugh," said others.

"It were not much," said Hugh. "A sixty-foot stringer war torn off by one of the rocks in the Rough Water. I thought we ought not to lose it, and so gave the rear oar into the hands of my assistant and jumped for it. I landed clear in the centre of the stick as it slipped behind me. The raft was going faster than the stick. How do ye account for that, Bill?" asked Hugh, pausing in his narrative.

"Very easy," said Bill. "The timber stick did not give so much surface for the force of the current as the raft. Hence the raft went the faster of the two. But the stick?" inquired Bill, who was also interested.

"Well, I landed as I said in the centre of the stick, then slipped down on my hands and knees, and began to guide it. Sometimes it would roll and I would have to roll with her to keep on top. Then I had to watch lest I should get jammed against the rocks. I jumped off several times to avoid being squeezed, and swum back again. Once I got atween the stick and the rocks and she was a-coming for me. I dived under it, come up on the other side, and that's what saved me from certain death. I couldn't catch up to the raft and so I rode the stick all the way to the river, where the raft was awaiting for me. That was all there was to it. It was an exciting time, though."

There were murmurs of admiration from the assembled raftsmen and then more tales followed. Rafts torn up in the rough water, raftsmen drowned though expert swimmers, deeds of rescue, and things of a similar nature followed in rapid succession. The home distilled liquor was used sparingly, and finally the fiddle was brought forth and music enlivened the public room. White Cockade, Devil's Dream and others followed, the raftsmen keeping time with their heavy boots and sometimes by dancing. One of the younger raftsmen executed a woodman's fling in a creditable manner, encouraged by the handclapping of the others and the occasional shouting in tune with the melody "Heigh ho—de-do, de-do, de-do, de-do!"

In the midst of the revel the door was opened and two strangers entered. They had evidently been riding far, for their garments showed the trace of hard travel. The one who appeared to be the spokesman was tall, well proportioned, with a tangled mass of auburn hair, more tangled by the pelting storm without, and a beard trimmed in the Vandyke style and of the same hue as his hair. The other was a giant in size, standing fully six feet six inches, and broad in proportion. He had the dark hair and features of the Celt.

The tavern keeper was all hospitality. Room was made for them around the flaming fire log and their clothes, damp with the storm, were soon drying. There was a lull in the conversation of the raftsmen, the fiddle had been consigned to its place o'er the chimney piece.

"Can we get supper?" asked the one with the red beard.

The tavern keeper nodded and added, "Certain, and a good one at that," and going to the rear door he bawled to the cook, "Supper fer two gents."

"Arright," squeaked the distant, feminine voice.

"Our horses must be fed and stabled also," said the same gentleman. The tavern keeper gave the necessary directions to a tow-headed boy, who disappeared into the outer darkness.

"And 'ere," thundered the larger of the two strangers, as he opened the door after the boy, "see that you rub the horses down well and give them a good bed, and a warm mash."

The giant returned to the fire and stood before its pleasing blaze.

"You uns kin sign yer names when ye git warm." It was the tavern keeper that spoke, and the travellers, taking the hint, moved over to the soiled record book and added their names to the few already inscribed there. Peter Burke, tavern keeper, scrutinised the names carefully with his good eye, while the other seemed to be studying the appearance of the strangers. One of the raftsmen leaned over to Hugh and whispered in his ear that to be cross-eyed was a wonderful talent for the tavern keeper; he could read the names on his book and size up the people at one and the same time.

"You uns travelling fer?" asked one of the raftsmen.

"No, sir," laconically responded the red-headed one.

"Come from Kittanning?" said another.

"Yes, sir."

"How's election news down there, and what's opinion on John Quincy Adams?"

"Adams seems to be very popular, and Jackson has a good following."

"Adams will carry the day, no doubt," said the pilot.

"He'll not can do that," muttered some one in dissent. Whereupon there followed a small debate on the merits of the two candidates for Presidential position.

"Up here 'lectioneering?" inquired a third, turning to the strangers again.

"I calculate you are from the west, stranger," said Hugh Lark.

"You've struck it partly," laughingly said the red-headed stranger, and then apparently tired of answering questions, added, "We're here from Louisiana and are here prospecting."

Curiosity, instead of being appeased, was instantly aroused. A sharp look flashed into Hugh's eye as he scrutinised them.

"Wall," said the tavern keeper, "I allers said thar war something in these hills. What ye think 'tiz, stranger, gold?"

"No, we're prospecting for character."

"Karakter," said the tavern keeper, musingly, "I ne'er hearn tell of that metal afore."

"Don't think there's much about here?" asked the red-headed stranger, with just the shadow of a smile.

"Not as I knows of," and the tavern keeper rubbed his head in doubt.

Professor Bill snorted in disgust.

"Look here, stranger, we have more character, good sterling character, in this section than our dotard friend informed you of."

Peter Burke, tavern keeper, looked pleased at this compliment. To be called a friend of Professor Bill's and a friend, too, with that "high larndt word ahead of it!" If Professor Bill was a drinking man he would have set up a glass to Bill then and there free.

"Character, sir!" continued Bill. "We sent forth the most stalwart characters during the Revolution, though not from this immediate neighbourhood, yet from Western Pennsylvania—Captain Brady, the Indian fighter, and scores of others. Hugh Lark, there, can tell you of his father, Captain Ande Lark, the sharpshooter, who performed prodigies of valour in many a hard fought field."

"Aye," said Hugh, "'tiz all true."

"And didn't they hold the Britishers down at Concord and Lexington, Yorktown and Stony Point?" continued Bill.

"Aye, all ken they did that," said Hugh.

"And what was it for?" said Bill, getting oratorical. "The tyrant oppressed us; taxed us without representation; quartered soldiers on us in times of peace, and seized the patriots' powder and ball. Then, sir, the American eagle screamed in wrath and the noble characters, Washington, Putnam, Morgan, Green, Brady, Lark, and hundreds of others went forth to war, to battle valiantly for the cause of freedom and shed their blood for the rights of man. Even in the humbler walks of life sterling character was demonstrated. The ploughboy, the woodsman, the tradesman, the farmer, all left their habitations, and with their old flint-locks over their shoulders sped to the defence of their nation's life and honour. This country was won by the stout courage of the colonial fathers, and their stout-hearted sons to-day have within their breasts the same doughty heroism that dominated the republic in that day. Yes, but a few years ago, the War of 1812 made lucid that fact. Lundy's Lane, Fort Meigs, Thames River,—who has forgotten them? Character! The country is full of it, sir."

"So 'tiz, so 'tiz," interjected the tavern keeper; "Professor Bill's high larndt and orter know."

"And," said Bill, "should the tocsin of war sound once more, the temple of Janus be closed, and strife with bloody claws sweep like a dragon over the land, should even all Europe band together against us, send their fleets to harass our waters, their hirelings to devast our land, they would find how patriots could contend for the heritage of their ancestors, how they could battle against the iron heel of oppression, and victory again would ultimately crown the American arms. All, because of her brave characters."

"Thas so; Bill's a scholard and orter know," said the tavern keeper, nodding sagely.

"Patrick Henry was not the only one who said 'give me liberty or give me death.' The spirit of heroism is in the hearts of the American citizens. They breathe it in the very air. Mountains, trees, birds, and even the very beasts of the wild, proclaim alike the freeman's land. None can wrest it from us while there is a God and while Americans are true to themselves."

Professor Bill sat down amidst a round of applause from the admiring raftsmen, while the tavern keeper rubbed his hands in the keenest of pleasure.

"Bill," said one of the raftsmen, "ye'll hev to git that speech down fer the Fourth o' Jerly. That's the best speech we uns heard since the Senator talked in Indiana."

"So 'tiz," said the tavern keeper. "Bill's a scholard. I say, Bill, could yer write that daoun?"