This is the letter as Henry wrote it. Lest the reader should not be able to make out this “langue incomparable” as rendered by him, we give the translation which he gave to his admiring fellow-plotters next morning.

If Henry had been an authorized translator, he would have exerted himself and made the translation entirely different from the original; as he was only a school-boy, he gave a close, but not excellent, rendering of it; and by employing the past tense instead of the present, all sublimity was lost. In fact, like everything else translated into English, it did not equal the original.

In the whole of this letter not a single reference is made to the beings of Mythology, to the state of affairs in France, to the goblins of the Hartz Mountains, to Macaulay’s New Zealander, nor to our own Pilgrim Fathers! This neglect is intolerable; but remembering that Henry was only a boy, we must judge him with leniency, and give him credit for writing in a straightforward and business-like style.

The boys listened with rapt attention while Henry read this letter. To them, it was grand, sublime, awful; and from that moment Henry was looked on as a superior being, as far above ordinary mortals as an average American citizen is above any “crowned head” in Europe.

Their admiration was graciously acknowledged by Henry. But he made several innovations, some of which took the embryo villains by surprise. In their wildest dreams they had never soared so high as to think of giving the imprisoned one a title—and Henry had made her a duke’s heiress! Ah! they were not so well acquainted with the ways of the world and the laws of romance as Henry.

But perhaps what pleased the plotters more than anything was the liberal use made of notes of exclamation. Charles counted them carefully, and reported their number to the gaping boys. The more the better, in this case, at all events, thought Steve. Poor innocent! he did not know that villainy and notes of exclamation go hand in hand.

Chapter XXXIV.
Henry takes his Bearings.—A Stampede.

“I must have a copy of that letter;” Charles declared, emphatically.

“Yes; as a lesson in French, it’s worth from twenty to thirty of Mr. Meadows’,” Stephen chimed in.

He, however, had no great desire to obtain a copy and buzz over it. (Steve always buzzed when he “studied.”)

“I don’t doubt that Marmaduke will believe in it,” Henry said, with pardonable conceit in his own production; “but the question is, will he act on it? I know if I should come upon such a petition, I should let somebody else do the rescuing, and fly the other way as if I were pursued by—”

“A demon!” Steve interposed, grinning foolishly.

“No,” continued Henry, “by worse than a demon—by an algebra!”

Stephen hated the study of algebra—hated it with deadly hatred; hence he smiled in sympathy.

“Yes,” Charles commented, “most boys would be apt to run away; but Marmaduke isn’t like most boys.”

“Henry, there is one point I don’t quite understand,” George observed. “Why do you say in the letter, ‘if you cannot rescue me, send this letter to my father’? Suppose that Marmaduke should take it into his head to send it! Then—then—”

“Well, George, I put that in to make the letter seem less like a fable. Don’t you know that a person in trouble would naturally say or write something to that effect; and besides, right under that I wrote, ‘perhaps my father is dead.’ Therefore, he will hardly send the appeal off to France; but if he speaks of it, use your wits and persuade him to hurry to the rescue.”

The plotters held their breath for admiration, and their honor for Henry increased. To them he was a wiser and greater being than any of the grave heroes who figured in their dog’s-eared, mutilated histories—wiser than the great Solon—deeper than the emissaries of Mephistopheles—more learned than—than—but here their well of eloquence ran dry, and they could not express themselves further.

Will was quite happy now; his cousin had come; the plot was well under way; the genius who was to direct it was admired, honored, reverenced. It was glory enough for him to have such a phenomenon for a near relative.

But George was bold enough to point out another irregularity. Said he: “Look here, Henry, we didn’t give any account of the journey from the coast to the prison! Marmaduke is very particular to have little things explained; and that is passed by.”

“George, don’t be foolish;” Will returned angrily. “Henry couldn’t explain everything; and the letter is long enough as it is.”

“Of course; no one can improve on it;” Charles declared.

“Leave that to Marmaduke,” said Steve. “His imagination will soon find the ways and means.”

“Yes,” chimed in Charles, “his imagination will supply all defects—but there are none. The letter is perfect perfection.”

“That about ‘the general’ is a happy thought,” Stephen remarked. “Marmaduke will snatch at that like a hungry hawk.”

“Yes, I changed your draft a good deal, and added new points,” Henry observed. “But it is greatly improved by them, I think,” he added complacently.

Alas! Henry was beginning to have a very good opinion of himself. Two days before he was not aware that he was so clever.

But the Sage, actuated by—what? seemed determined to criticize the letter still further. “Henry,” said he, poring over the letter with knitted brows, “Henry, near the end you have written, ‘if the reader is not able to make this out,’ and so on. Henry,” smiling pleasantly, “I didn’t know you were an Irishman before, but that sounds like it!”

Henry was about to reply, but Charles took up the defence, saying: “George, give me that letter; you do nothing but find fault with it. Don’t you see that Marmaduke will take that passage as a piece of refined French na—nave—knavery! Botheration! You know the word I mean, Henry.”

“Naïveté?” Henry suggested.

“Yes, that’s it. Marmaduke will take it for na-a-a-a—. Yes; for that;” he concluded, gulping down a sob, and becoming somewhat flushed and perturbed.

“Charley, listen to a little sound advice,” Henry said, with the air of a great philosopher. “In the first place, that isn’t the right word in the right place. Second place, never speak in a foreign language, nor whisper even a syllable of it, till you know it, and not then, unless you are learning it, or unless it is necessary. Some people who can write their address in French strike out in print in the village ‘Weekly’ with half-a-dozen meaningless words, that they themselves don’t understand. But the printer, who knows even less, and cares for no one’s feelings, always makes an interesting muddle of it all. So, Charley, take warning and steer clear of such nonsense. English is the best, as long as you are where it is spoken.”

All looked admiringly at the oracle, Charley by no means angry at being thus reproved.

“How did you manage to get the pretty French names?” Jim asked, innocently enough.

Will scowled at the boy, but Henry answered readily: “They are not real names, Jim; only common nouns. I relied on Marmaduke’s ignorance of French to bring in some rather uncommon words instead of names. Besides, I didn’t know of any names long enough, and grand enough, and sonorous enough, to suit the occasion; but still, some of these words may be family names for all I know or care. First name, Sauterelle, a grasshopper; second name, Hirondelle, a swallow; Patronymic, de la Chaloupe, of the longboat. Now Bélître Scélérat really means Atrocious Scoundrel; but Scheming Scoundrel sounds better in English—it has a true poetic ring. Of course, boys, when he finds the letter and you help him to make it out, you will read the words as they are in the letter, not as I have explained them.”

The plotters’ admiration knew no bounds. The substitution of nouns for names was, in their eyes, the very acme of wit; and Henry was no longer an ordinary hero, but a veritable demi-god.

How learned this boy must be, and how ignorant they must seem to him! In fact, this so worked on the feelings of one boy (it is immaterial which one, gentle reader,—no, we defy you to guess which boy it was) that, in order to demonstrate he, at least, knew the difference between nouns and names, he laughed so hard, so monotonously, and so patiently, that long-headed Henry perceived the cause, and was, very rightly, disgusted.

“Well, boys,” said Henry, “I haven’t seen the prison-house yet, and if you will bundle me up in your disguises, we’ll set out for it, ‘The Wigwam of the Seven Sleepers,’ as George says Stephen calls it, and arrange everything as it should be and is to be.”

At this time they were in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. Will ran to the house and soon came back with a headgear which Charles compared to a Russian Jew’s turban, but Henry said it looked like a knight-errant’s sun-bonnet. Then Steve, not wishing to be outdone, said it was one of Father Time’s cast-off nightcaps. Then, having fitted it, whatever it may have been, to Henry’s head, and pinned it fast to his coat collar,—he had first changed coats with George, and turned his neck-tie wrong side out,—the plotters declared that he was admirably disguised, and they set forward in high spirits. However well Henry might plot, they were not adepts in the art of disguising; and this strange garb, far from concealing Henry’s features, served only to attract the attention of passers-by.

But they had not gone far when Henry pulled his Scotch cap out of his pocket and put it forcibly on his head. Then Charles mildly suggested that if a handkerchief were tied so as to pass over one eye, Henry might stroll through the streets of his native city without danger of being recognized.

“Well,” Henry said, reluctantly, “if you can tie it to give me the appearance of a wounded soldier, go ahead; but if it makes me look like an old woman sick with the neuralgia, I’ll—I’ll—no, you mus’n’t.”

A handkerchief had no sooner been tied over Henry’s eye so as to suit all concerned, than it occurred to Stephen that one amendment more was needful to make the disguise complete.

“Your ears are peculiar, Henry,” he said, “and very pretty. Now, Marmaduke always notices people’s ears,—at least, I guess he does,—so let me pull the flaps of the sun-bonnet clear over them.”

But good-natured Henry was only human,—or perhaps if his ears were so pretty, and somebody else had said they were, he did not wish to hide them,—and now he turned his one blazing eye full upon the boy, and said, almost fiercely: “Stephen, let me alone! I can barely manage to work my way along the road, as it is! Don’t you know, Steve,” he added mildly, “that it is hard enough for a fellow to get along in this world with all his five senses in full play?”

“It is too bad for Henry to go all the way there and back twice in one day,” Charles kindly observed. “Couldn’t we manage it for him to go only once, say in the afternoon, and then wait till Marmaduke and the rest come on?”

“No; I want to go now, with you all;” Henry said, firmly. “Suppose that I should take a pailful of supper with me, and not go till the afternoon—what if Marmaduke shouldn’t come, after all! Something might happen, you know, that he could not or would not come; and then,” putting on a comical smile, “I should have to stay in that dreadful haunted house for who knows how long?”

“Yes, it is better for Henry to get familiar with the old ruin while we are with him—I mean, it is better for us to go with him,” Will said. “Then to-night, about half an hour before Marmaduke and the rest of us start, he and Stephen will leave in advance of us, with a bundle of disguises and lanterns; so that when we, the rescuers, arrive, the place will be lighted and the captive clothed properly.”

“And the priest shaved,” Steve chimed in.

“Exactly,” Henry commented. “And, Steve, I can meanwhile drill you to act the part of a priest, shaved or not shaved. Don’t fret about the extra travelling, boys,” he added; “for if my boots dilapidate while I’m here, I’ll add them to the pile of rubbish in ‘Nobody’s House,’ and patronize one of your shoemakers.”

In due time the plotters arrived before the house. It was no longer the grim wreck described to the reader at the time the boys first visited it. No; thanks to their industry and ingenuity it was in much better repair; and, yes, it looked very much like—like a prison?—no! very much like a gigantic hen-coup.

“Why,” Henry cried in pleased surprise, “I wasn’t so far out of the way after all when I ventured to write about its being fortified equal to a fortress! But say, boys, where did you get the iron bars for the windows?”

“Irons!” Charles echoed, in ecstasy. “If you take ’em for iron bars, Marmaduke certainly will! No, Henry; no iron there; nothing but painted laths nailed on. We had two good reasons for putting on those laths; first, because in nailing up a crack every pane of glass left shivered itself all to flinders, and therefore the empty window-frames had to be hidden; and next, we put them there to make the place look like a grated prison.”

“And they do;” declared Henry, stripping off his “disguise” and heaving a sigh of relief.

“Yes, and they made me nail on all their laths,” said Stephen, “because I was foolish enough to say I could straddle a window-sill and whittle out a steamboat, or do anything else. You see that top window to the right?—Well, I was sitting there, struggling to drive an obstinate nail, when suddenly I pitched head over heels down to the ground!”

“Hurt yourself?” Henry inquired.

“No-o-o; but their hammer disappeared and lost itself ever since!” Steve chuckled.

“Stephen wouldn’t consider that he was in a post of honor,” Charles observed, “and when the hammer could not be found, he said, ‘serves you right.’”

“I guess you would have said it, too, if you had had your best coat-pocket and flap torn off on a nail that YOU pretended to drive!” Stephen wrathfully retorted.

“What? Did you have an encounter with a nail in your way down?” Henry inquired.

“I did.”

“Steve didn’t tell us about all those losses,” Charles commented; “but he said he was going home, and he went.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard about the coat-pocket,” the Sage observed.

“Hurrah! where did you make the acquaintance of this awful door!” Henry exclaimed. “It—it looks like the door of a castle in the air.”

“No, Henry, it’s too strong for that,” Will corrected. “That door used to be our raft; but we had to make a door, and there was nothing else to make it of; so we hauled it up stream, pounced on it, and tore it all to pieces.”

This was too true. The gallant old raft, which had served so useful a purpose as a source of amusement, had been sacrificed by the remorseless plotters to fill up the gap in the front doorway. But they, in their eagerness to further their daring scheme, would not have hesitated to destroy anything to which they could lay claim.

“It was too bad to waste a good raft on this old hen-house,” Henry observed.

“Oh, a prison without a door would be rather too much for even Marmaduke;” Will replied. “And the timbers of the raft are here yet, and we can build it over again next week.”

“Henry,” said Stephen, who had quite recovered his equilibrium, “it is in front of this door that the sentries do the patrolling, and ground their muskets, and——and——what else do sentries do, George?”

“Will,” said Henry, grimly, as his eyes roved over the yard, or orchard, “I guess it would need several pretty smart and nimble sentries to prevent any one from escaping from this ‘inclosure.’”

Then they opened the door and passed in. By the way, there was something very remarkable about that door—so remarkable, in fact, that the writer, who has had great experience in the building of playhouses (don’t look for this word in a dictionary, O foreigner, but ask any little boy to interpret it for you,) here pauses to note it. Though made by boys, it not only played smoothly on its hinges, but even entered the door-case, and admitted of being fastened!

“It must have cost you fellows a good deal to fit up this old hulk,” Henry remarked, as the boys showed him proudly through the house.

“Cost!” Stephen exclaimed warmly. “I should think it did cost! Besides that hammer that I lost, an old worn-out axe perished somewhere around here, after Will had hewed a pair of new boots all to pieces while dressing the new door. Among the five of us, we’ve worn out two suits of clothes, and made three hats ashamed of themselves, just since we started to tinker up this prison house. I’ve used all the salve and plaster in our house, and the day before you came I got another cut. That reminds me, Henry, when Will hewed his new boots he cut his big toe nearly clean off—come here, and I’ll show you the bloody mark.”

“Never mind,” said Henry. “I’ve just noticed, Steve, that the doors and walls and windows are thick with bloody gore.”

“Well, it’s all ours,” Stephen declared. “We’ve broken a band-box full of old tools and things, and destroyed all our jack-knives. We have used heaps of nails, and—and—all sorts of things. Henry, we have suffered!”

Really, in heroism and fortitude these boys equalled the ancient Spartans; for they would have encountered any danger, undergone any hardship, to secure the success of their plot. Yes, they toiled as if they had a better cause in view.

The “Imposter” was next unearthed. It excited Henry’s liveliest admiration; and Steve said, as they deposited it in its hiding-place, “we’ll make it hot for you to-night, you old Atrocious Scoundrel, you!”

“Why, this is Mr. Atrocious Scoundrel, isn’t he, boys?” Henry said, beaming with delight.

“Of course he is,” the rest answered promptly.

But hold! Did not the letter state that this personage was away from home, that is from the prison? Surely, here was an oversight! Here was a quicksand! In good truth, the plot was too much for those boys to manage, and it had turned their brain.

It had turned their brain. Mark that, gentle reader, for it may help you to understand what is to follow shortly.

A guilty look was on Jim’s face whilst the boys spoke thus, but it escaped their notice. No, they did not suspect that there was treachery in the camp—least of all, that Jim was the traitor.

Then Henry donned his various “disguises,” and the little band of little plotters set out for the village. But Henry had not taken fifteen steps when he stumbled headlong over a submerged wheel-barrow (submerged in dense grass and rank weeds, gentle reader) and fell heavily.

“What the mischief!” he ejaculated. “Is this a demoralized sentinel, or a trap set by the hobgoblins?”

“It’s a wheel-barrow, Henry,” Will explained, “that belongs to this place.”

“Oh it belongs here, does it?” Henry asked, struggling to rise.

“Yes, it’s a fixture, Henry, a fixture;” piped up Steve, who had stumbled upon this word in a time-worn document a few days before.

Then Henry essayed to trundle it out of the way; but its wheel howled so piteously for grease that he desisted, saying in disgust, “Why this is as rusty and as worthless as an heir-loom.”

“Oh, we mostly turn it upside down and straighten nails on it,” Steve said, deprecatingly.

“Now,” said Henry, as they strode on, “when you rescuers come, I shall be just behind the front door, and Stephen will be in another room or up-stairs.”

“All right,” replied one of them.

As they were proceeding towards home, Will suddenly espied Marmaduke walking leisurely up the river. Although they had prepared for such a contingency they did not expect it. Did they put faith in their “disguise,” and advance calmly to meet him? Not for one moment! Instantly the greatest consternation prevailed, and they stopped and stared at each other in blank hopelessness.

“Oh, this is awful!” groaned Charles. “Our—plot—”

“Is ruined!” Steve gasped.

“O dear!” sighed Will. “Henry, do—do you suppose—”

Marmaduke continued to advance, and presently he hailed them.

Then Will lost all control of himself, and cried wildly: “Oh, Henry, we must run for it!”

“Yes, Henry; unblind your eye, and run!” Steve counselled.

The Sage, who had just hit upon a stratagem to get out of the difficulty, endeavored to restore order. But he was too late, as usual; and so, seeing that the boys were bent on flight, he had sufficient presence of mind to shout: “Split, boys, split; so that when Marma—”

But Henry had already torn off the handkerchief, and he and the other demoralized plotters were flying as though pursued by a regiment of light-armed Bélître Scélérats.

When Will and his relative gained the security of their own chamber, the latter said frankly: “Well, there is a lot of nice fellows here, and I like them well.”

“Yes,” said Will, “but you haven’t seen Marmaduke yet!”

“Will, I never ran away from anybody before—and this fellow is only a harmless and innocent schoolboy!”

Chapter XXXV.
Marmaduke Grasps the Situation.

Early in the afternoon, according to agreement, the boys betook themselves to the banks of the stream. Here Marmaduke was to be entrapped. Henry, with his peculiar “disguises” still about him was securely hidden in a tree, from which he would be able to see and hear the whole performance.

Charles had spent the noon in making himself tolerably familiar with the letter, which he now had in a bottle in his pocket. The others were gathered round the tree which was Henry’s hiding-place. Stephen was not with them, he having gone to look for the victim and induce him to come to the river.

Just as the plotters were beginning to fear that Marmaduke would not come, after all, he and Stephen appeared, striding along towards them. They were then all excitement, knowing that if their plot succeeded it would be now or never. Charles quietly moved a few rods farther up the river, and concealed himself behind a convenient bush.

At this the enraptured reader is heard to mutter that along that extraordinary river all the bushes seem to grow just where they will be most convenient.

“Hello, Marmaduke! how are you?” Will asked, in friendly tones.

“Hello, then! Boys, I’m vexed; how is it that you shun me, and run away like shooting stars whenever you see me?”

“Well, old fellow, let us make up friends, and have no more hard feelings,” Stephen said cheerfully.

Marmaduke did not know why there should ever have been any “hard feelings;” but, not wishing to press the matter, he heaved a sigh of relief, heartily said “all right,” and sat down among them.

Then they were at a loss to know what to talk about. But finally Will hit upon the topic of mowing-machines, and then each one was called upon to give his views. Then the conversation flagged, and for full five minutes there was silence, during which Marmaduke tranquilly pared his nails, while the plotters looked at each other in growing uneasiness. Where could Charley be? Why didn’t he fling the bottled letter into the river?

“Boys, what are your plans for the holidays?” Marmaduke suddenly inquired.

At that instant a faint splash, the bottle striking the water, was heard by Jim.

“There it is!” he blurted out.

The plotters knew what he meant, though the dupe certainly did not. Nevertheless, it seemed to them that such blunders must be put down; and accordingly they bent their brows, and cast such annihilating glances at the offender that he quailed, and felt decidedly “chilly.”

Will arose and said, “Let us stroll up a little way.”

All cheerfully agreed to this proposal, though Marmaduke probably thought that by “stroll” Will meant a tramp of perhaps three or four miles. They had taken only a few steps when all except Marmaduke saw the bottle floating lazily along. The question was, how should they draw his attention to it without arousing suspicion?

Stephen was equal to the emergency. Stooping, he picked up a smooth stone, gave it a legerdemain fling, and it shot forward, performing all sorts of whimsical gyrations. As Stephen had foreseen, all the boys, Marmaduke included, observed every movement of the stone from the instant it left his hand. Then he repeated his trick with a second stone, and lo! the second stone fetched up very close to the bottle! In order to keep up appearances and carry out the deceit, he was about to cut a geometrical curve with still another stone, when Marmaduke exclaimed, “Boys, what is that floating down stream! It looks like a bottle.”

Crafty Stephen! His ruse was entirely successful.

“It is a bottle!” Jim cried, in intense excitement. “A bottle! A floating bottle! Isn’t that very strange, boys?”

“Yes, it’s rather curious, but it isn’t a natural phenomenon, so don’t make so much stir about it,” Will said, fearing that Jim might overdo the matter. “I’ll strip off my clothes and swim after it, boys, unless some of you would like to take a plunge into the water.”

“Let us go out on our raft; that would be the proper way to get it!” declared ceremonious Marmaduke, not knowing that the raft had been turned to better account. “Come; the raft isn’t much farther up; let us get it out, and we can soon overtake the bottle.”

Ah, plotters! your troubles were beginning already!

“Pshaw!” cried Stephen, in seeming disgust. “It would be a loss of time to go up stream to sail after a wayfaring bottle like that. But we must get it, of course.——Now, hello, who is this fellow whistling and paddling on a home-made punt across over from the other shore down towards us? ’Pon my word, it’s Charley, without his clothes on! No; they’re strapped over his shoulders. Well, this is funnier than Jim’s wonderful bottle!”

Stephen’s astonishment was not feigned, for the boys had not planned how Charles was to rejoin them after setting the bottle afloat, and his sudden appearance in this guise was a great surprise to them all.

On Marmaduke’s arrival, Charles had paddled across the river on a stout plank, launching the bottled letter on his way, and drifted down by the opposite bank till abreast of the boys. Then, having turned his rude canoe, he struck out for them boldly; and the inference was that the boy, being on the right bank of the river and seeing his comrades on the left bank, had hit upon this semi-savage means to join them. Thus Marmaduke never suspected that there was any connection between Charley and the floating bottle.

But Jim felt insulted at Stephen’s last words, and he muttered sullenly: “’Taint my bottle! I never put it there!”

“You look like an alligator, Charley;” Marmaduke hallooed. “Where do you come from?”

“Oh, I’ve been prowling around,” Charles shouted back.

“There’s an old bottle about opposite us,” Stephen yelled; “heave ahead and bring it here; we want to see what it means.”

“The raft would be the best to get it,” Marmaduke murmured.

Ah! if he could have known that the plank bestridden by Charley was the foundation timber of their late raft!

“You see that our plot is working!” Stephen mumbled in the Sage’s ear. “He will believe it all!”

Charles directed his barge to the mysterious bottle, seized it, and then worked his way to his companions on the bank. While he unstrapped and huddled on his clothes the bottle was passed from one to another.

Marmaduke, who had hitherto taken only a languid interest in the matter, exclaimed feverishly, on seeing that the bottle held a paper, “Give it to me! It’s mine, because I saw it first!”

In a trice he had the paper out, and was endeavoring to make out its contents. As these have already been given, it would be only a wanton waste of time and foolscap for the reader to reperuse them with Marmaduke. It might afford a hard-hearted reader considerable amusement to hear his absurd interpretations, but it is both unwise and immoral to laugh at the mistakes and the ignorance of others. It is sufficient, therefore, to say that the great difference between Henry’s style and the style of teacher Meadows’ Method bewildered the young student.

Charles waited impatiently to read for him, while the rest moved down the river and took up their stand under the old tree in which Henry was ensconced.

Marmaduke and Charles soon followed, and presently the latter ventured to say, “Perhaps I could help you, Marmaduke.”

“No you couldn’t; it’s French, and I understand French just as well as you do,” was the ungracious answer.

“Oh, is it? Well, perhaps if we should put our heads together we might be able to decipher it; for,” he added, truthfully enough, “I’ve taken a great interest in French lately, and studied it tremendously. But, say, how did French get into that bottle?”

“Let me alone; I understand French;” Marmaduke growled, becoming more and more bewildered. But at last, after ten minutes’ unceasing study of the letter, he turned so dizzy that he was fain to give it up in despair. “Here, read it, if you can,” he said, handing it to Charles. “All I can make out is that it speaks of nobles, and steamboats, and castles, and anchors, and priests, and sailors, and an English king’s yacht, and America, and pumpers, and—and—castles, and—and General Somebody—.”

Charles had made himself tolerably familiar with the letter, but he could not yet read it very readily. However, his memory served him well, and he managed to get the main points. But after all the time and learning Henry had squandered on the letter, it was too bad that it should be “murdered” thus. Marmaduke listened eagerly, too much absorbed to wonder how it was that Charles could read so much better than he. As for the other auditors, to all appearance they were at first more startled than even Marmaduke.

“Well, boys,” said he, as Charles folded the letter, and wriggled uneasily in his damp clothes, “well, boys, you jeered at me about the bones, but at last we have stumbled upon romance! Here is something mysterious!

“Boys, let us solve the mystery! If we were only gallant knights of old, what glorious deeds we should perform!”

The speaker strutted up and down as pompously as a schoolboy can, while the plotters exchanged villainous winks, and glanced eloquently at the boy in the tree.

“Read that again!” was the command, and Charles dutifully obeyed, the dupe listening as eagerly as at first. The others made no remarks, but endeavoured to look grave and horror-stricken, while the master-plotter overhead was highly entertained.

“Oh, the monstrous villain! How durst he steal away a French noble’s daughter?” Marmaduke exclaimed vehemently. “And she, the heroine, how bravely she endures her lot! What a heroine!”

“Well, what shall we do about it?” Will asked, anxious that Marmaduke himself should propose going to the rescue. Foolish plotters! they supposed he would strike in with their views without any demur!

“Why, we must send it to our Government; it is a fit subject for our new President to deal with. There will be negotiations about it between France and America; we shall become known all over the world as the finders of the letter; and finally the illustrious prisoner will be delivered with great pomp. Yes, boys, we must write to Washington immediately.”

The plotters were appalled. Marmaduke was rather too romantic. He viewed the matter too solemnly.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Charles said quietly, as though it made little difference to him what steps Marmaduke might take, “I hardly think that would be the best way, Marmaduke, because, as you say, there would be negotiations between the two countries, and the imprisoned lady might remain a hopeless captive a long time before the business could be settled and herself set free. We are too chivalrous to let her pine away in solitude; and besides, by rescuing her ourselves our renown would be increased millions!”

These words, (especially the last dozen of them), so sonorous, so eloquent, so logical, had a telling effect on Marmaduke.

“You are right!” he exclaimed. “Yes, my brave companions, we will to the rescue! We may revive the days of chivalry! Now, who will dare to go with me?”

Then those wicked plotters laboured to suppress a burst of laughter, and declared that they would all “dare” to accompany him on his hazardous expedition.

Henry in the tree looked on in wonder. “What sort of a boy was this! He talks like a sixty-year-older!” he muttered; “well, I didn’t expect him to bring on the heroics till he met me as ‘Sauterelle,’ O dear! this limb isn’t so comfortable as it used to be.”

“Oh, what a glorious day this will be for us!” the enraptured one continued. “The emperor will dub us all knights! I must have that letter, Charley; but read it again first.”

Charley did so, but the letter was growing decidedly monotonous to him.

“Boys,” said Marmaduke musingly, “it seems to me that there are hardly interjections enough in it—no expressive ones at all, and, you know, a good Frenchman never says anything without several strong interjections and expletives.”

“If she was a French soldier, that would be quite right,” Charles admitted carefully. “But, she is the daughter of a noble duke.”

“If she were,” Marmaduke corrected, triumphing even in defeat. But he was open to reason, and said no more about interjections.

From time to time every boy except Marmaduke was irresistibly tempted to shoot a cheering glance toward Henry; but whenever this worthy could catch an offender’s eye through the leafy branches, he scowled so horribly that the offender instantly beheld something very attractive down the river.

“Now then, let us draw our conclusions,” said Marmaduke; “first, where can this prison be?”

“The letter says up this stream,” the Sage returned. “I—I guess perhaps it must be ‘Nobody’s House.’”

“That place! George, you are getting very crazy to say that! Well, we shall see as we go up the river; for, of course, as soon as we see the prison we shall know it’s the prison. Now, boys, see what an interesting fact is given us. The letter is dated July 10th, yesterday; therefore it has been floating only one day! How fast the current has swept it along!”

The boys had paid no attention to the date that Henry affixed to the letter, but they did not think the velocity very great.

“But, boys, there are some things strange in this;” Marmaduke observed. “In fact, there is one thing very strange—yes, very strange.”

The plotters, Henry included, quaked with fear. Was their ingenious scheme, the much-loved plot, which had cost so much “blood and treasure,” to come to nought? Had Marmaduke detected some flaw in the letter which had escaped their notice? Were they about to be unmasked in all their wickedness?

O plotters, your scheme, which was based and reared on fraud, was to proceed successful to the end.

“Wh-what is wrong?” Charley asked, with a quavering voice, his lips of that “ashy hue” which good romancers delight in introducing.

“Why,” Marmaduke began, “don’t you observe, sometimes the writer addresses the finder distantly in the third person, and then again familiarly and imploringly in the second person! Now, that is ridiculous. Grammar says not to mix the second and third persons together in writing; use either the one or the other.”

At this, Henry crammed the strings of his headgear, together with his fingers, far into his capacious mouth, and forgot that the limb on which he roosted was no longer comfortable; whilst the others heaved an audible sigh of relief, perceiving that Marmaduke, instead of wishing to find fault with the letter, wished only to display his great knowledge of things and people in general, grammar in particular.

But the plotters, one and all, had been in ignorance of this gross insult to grammar. Whether Henry had not been aware of the rule as quoted by Marmaduke, or whether he had been too sleepy to observe it, is an open question. It is stated (he stated it himself, of course, for no one heard him), however, that he muttered in his throat: “Certainly, this Marmaduke is no boy at all! His language is too far-fetched for a Yankee boy. Yes; he is some stunted old crack-brained dwarf of sixty!”

As soon as Charley could collect himself sufficiently he replied in these words: “I presume that the captive was in too disturbed a state of mind to pay particular attention to such minor matters as grammar. And besides, her grammars were probably at home in France, for likely she didn’t go aboard with a satchel of school-books in her hand. Now, the person considered most was evidently the person who should fly to the rescue.”

“Don’t treat her woes so lightly,” Marmaduke said angrily, beginning to suspect that the boys were making fun of him.

“That ghost story is queer; what do you think of it?” asked Will, anxious to have the grammarian’s opinion of that.

“Well, you know the French are a more excitable and romantic race than we are,” was the answer. “In her solitude and misery perhaps she fancies that ghosts are hovering near, for all French people have a powerful imagination.”

Ah! the boy overhead was gifted with a more powerful imagination than any one believed.

“Or,” continued Marmaduke, recollecting what he had read in a book at home, “or, who knows but that it is some trick of Scélérat’s to terrify her? Perhaps the monster thinks to drive her distracted!”

“Perhaps he does,” sighed Steve.

“Marmaduke, how do you suppose Bélître Scélérat managed to transport the prisoners from his yacht to this prison?” George had the curiosity to ask.

The deceived one ruminated a moment and then said sagely: “Well, as modern Frenchmen are so perfectly at home in balloons, for all we know they came that way. It would not take long, and the authorities could not overhaul them.”

“The very thing!” cried delighted Stephen. “And when we go to the rescue we can capture the balloon, if it is still there! Yes, I’ve heard before that Frenchmen love balloons.”

“Stephen,” shouted Marmaduke, “you have no finer feelings.”

“Well, let us hurry to the rescue!” Charles said impatiently. “Come, when shall we go?”

“I am to be your leader in this, because I take more real interest in the prisoner than any of you,” Marmaduke returned. “Yes, I must be the favored one to restore her to freedom. As to when the rescue can be made, I can’t possibly complete my arrangements till next week.”

The boys stared blankly, knowing that it would never do to defer the “rescue” till the next week. Marmaduke would certainly detect the imposture before that time.

Charles, however, soon recovered his equanimity, and said calmly: “That would be very wrong, for don’t you know the writer says she shall go mad if not rescued immediately? And she urges the finders to come this week, as Bélître Scélérat will be away. We are only boys, of course; but we are pretty lively boys, and more than a match for all his jailers.”

“Yes; but I want to meet this very man, this Scélérat.”

“O dear!” groaned Will, “if he is so anxious to meet the Atrocious, I’m afraid he’ll pounce on the ‘impostor’ as we go to hang it!”

Poor Will! The plot had quite turned his brain!

“Try chivalry again,” Stephen whispered to Charles.

“Well, we are too chivalrous to put off the rescue, only because one of us wishes to encounter this Bélître Scélérat,” cunning Charley observed. “At least,” he added, “I hope we are too chivalrous—in France they would be.”

In his hands chivalry was a mighty lever, one by which foolish Marmaduke could be turned, and made to act as they saw fit.

“Well, then, let us go this evening,” Marmaduke answered.

The plotters were delighted. By skilful management their would-be leader proved very tractable.

Will, who had hitherto held his peace, now exclaimed with unfeigned enthusiasm, “How eagerly Sauterelle will welcome us!”

A grievous frown darkened the champion’s brow. Confronting Will, he thundered: “How dare you boys speak of her in that way?—her, the daughter of one of France’s proudest nobles! When it is necessary to mention her name, speak of her as the Lady de la Chaloupe.”

Henry did not know whether to feel complimented or not. He was slowly forming a very unfavorable opinion of Marmaduke, not knowing that the boy was now in his element, and hardly responsible for his actions. When nothing mysterious occurred to arouse him, Marmaduke was very much like any other boy; but let him stumble upon a mystery, and he was entirely changed.

But Stephen, fearing that Marmaduke did not yet sufficiently realize the magnificence of the duke’s genealogy and title, said excitedly, “That Duke Chalopsky is the descendant of a whole gang of peers, and lords, and such people, just like any other duke; isn’t he Marmaduke?”

Will trembled and whispered, “Hush!”

The deceived knight-errant felt insulted, and asked, haughtily, “What do you know about it, Stephen Goodfellow?”

Stephen quaked, but finally answered meekly, very meekly, “Oh, I’ve studied about dukes that ran back to the Conquest of something or other, and so I thought likely he did.”

The Conquest! Marmaduke’s face brightened; he smiled; he spoke. “O-o-h, Stephen!” he said, “your notions of history are as much a muddle as all your other notions! But I haven’t time to enlighten you now. Now, boys,” he continued, affably, “let us take a lesson from Will and his cousin when they set out to hunt the demon. We must not carry firearms, but we must go armed with pikes and sabres.”

“Where shall we procure ‘pikes and sabres?’” Steve, no longer confused, but smarting and angry, sarcastically asked. “I can’t imagine, unless we carve ’em out of broomsticks and staves, and such ‘pikes and sabres’ don’t amount to much. So, let us go to the rescue armed like the dusty warriors of the forest—with hatchets, and bows, and George’s grandfather’s great knife, and slings, and levers, and catapults, and arrows.”

Steve probably meant dusky warriors. However, either expression is correct.

Marmaduke very properly paid no attention to Steve’s insulting suggestions, but condescended to ask, “How many jailers do you suppose there will be?”

“There were to be three, weren’t there, boys?” Will blunderingly replied to him, and asked of the others.

“Why, how do you know?” Marmaduke asked in surprise. “The letter says nothing about the number of jailers; so, how can you tell? What do you mean, anyway, Will?”

Will looked so disconcerted that Marmaduke, although his faith in Sauterelle was still unshaken, began to suspect that the boys were trying to impose on him in some way.

At this crisis the traitor Jim grinned, and said, “Well, you fellows needn’t make faces at me after this! Will has said worse than I did.”

Let it not be supposed that Jim’s treachery lay in seeking to overthrow the plot. By no means; he rejoiced in it, and spoke as he did only to revenge himself on the others for scowling at him so wickedly, as related in the beginning of this chapter. Such was Jim, who could bear malice for a long time; while the others, although they might be very angry for a few minutes, soon subdued their passions, and never “nursed their wrath.”

And yet these unguarded words nearly made an end of the entire plot. It was now in real danger; again it tottered on its foundation. Only the greatest tact and presence of mind could save it from utter destruction.

Charles was the one to avert such a disaster, and he said jokingly, as though the salvation of the plot did not depend on him: “Here are two extraordinary juveniles; one thinks because a white man in his school-book was captured by Indians and guarded by three jailers, every captive is bound to have just three! The other thinks because a boy makes a face at him he is brewing some great wickedness!”

It was not so much the words he said as the nonchalant way in which he said them. The happy boldness of acknowledging that somebody had “made faces” at Jim disarmed Marmaduke, and for the time, at least, his suspicions were allayed.

Will had too much sense to be offended at being thus ridiculed. If he had answered back sharply, a quarrel would certainly have ensued, and then the plot would as certainly have been blown up. As for Jim, though sulky and wrathful, he also held his peace.

Chapter XXXVI.
To the Rescue!

The plot was saved; but the plotters saw that a great deal of immoral scheming was required to keep it up, and that, after all, it was a volcano which might at any moment—not exactly “hurl them to destruction,” but tear itself to pieces.

The time and place of meeting were then appointed, and all the boys departed for their respective homes; all excepting Will and Stephen, who lingered to escort Henry.

As soon as the homeward-bound party was out of sight, the latter slid down from his perch, stretched himself with many a groan, and readjusted the knight-errant’s sun-bonnet, as, the plot being now so near completion, he was very anxious to take every precaution.

“Well,” he growled, “it took you a mighty long time to arrange matters; and that tree is the most abominably uncomfortable and hard-hearted tree that I ever saw. Boys,” dolefully, “I don’t like this hiding around in strayed forest trees, and it is a good thing you persuaded him not to wait till next week, for I couldn’t have kept out of his sight so long.”

“Well, what do you think of him!” Will asked eagerly.

“Oh, he is as much like a musket as a boy,” Henry replied indifferently. “But,” with some show of interest, “what did he mean by wanting to sail out on the raft, just to get the bottle?”

“Oh,” said Will, “Marmaduke thinks if it is worth while to do anything, it is worth while to do it with great ceremony. If the raft had been where he supposed it was, and if we had let him alone, he would have spent half an hour floating around after the bottle, and very likely have got as wet as if he had gone in swimming for it with his clothes on!”

After digesting this explanation, Henry proposed that they also should go home. Will and Stephen were agreed, and the trio slunk off towards the village as fearfully as if a minion of the law were in hot pursuit. Now that their plot was an accomplished fact, it would be very unfortunate if they should be caught napping.

After supper Henry was joined by Stephen, and the two archplotters set out for “Nobody’s House” in the most exuberant spirits. Already Henry felt a little tired, (let it be remembered that he had not yet recovered from the effects of the preceding day’s journey,) and he was obliged to get Stephen to carry a mysterious-looking bundle which he had brought away from his aunt’s. This bundle contained the fantastic “disguise” in which Henry was to figure as Sauterelle.

From the tender age of two years, Stephen had been a regular attendant of picnics, where he had imbibed many extravagant notions, and arrived at a very boyish and extremely absurd conclusion respecting lovers. According to his views, a lover is a young man, who, after perfuming his handkerchief and smearing his head with hair-oil, escorts a young lady to a picnic, breaks her parasol, fails to provide ice-cream enough, and finally sees her escorted home under the protection of his hated rival.

“Henry,” he said, as they hurried on, “I saw Marmaduke tricked out for the rescue, and, he didn’t mean me to find it out, but I did; he had put hair-oil on his head, and, as he had no scent, on his handkerchief, too! Henry, I was so—so—”

“Demoralized?”

“That’s the word, Henry. I was so demoralized that I said, without thinking: ‘why, Marmaduke,’ said I, ‘you look more like a genuine lover than any boy I ever saw!’”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Nothing; but he looked so insulted and heart-broken that I apologized, and told him he was a bully boy, and I always was a fool, anyway. Well, Henry, when he comes to the rescue, things will be lively, according to that, eh?”

“Well, Steve, I once cured a brave boy of his bravery, and if I don’t cure this fellow of his romance and credulousness, I shall at least make awful fools of us both.”

“How did you cure a boy of being brave?” Stephen asked eagerly, regarding Henry with respect and admiration.

But here the writer remorselessly shifts the scene to the others.

As soon after the departure of Henry and Stephen as was prudent, the “brave men” who were to be the rescuers—Will, Charles, George, Jim, and the heroic “leader,” Marmaduke—assembled and set out for the rendezvous, armed very much as Stephen had suggested.

Visions of figuring on future battle-fields of Europe as Marshal Marmaduke Fitz-Williams flitted through the hero’s brain, and he strove to deport himself with as martial an air as possible. But such an air hardly ever sits easy on a school-boy’s shoulders.

“Comrades,” he began, using, as far as he knew how, the identical phraseology of a French soldier when addressing his companions in arms, “comrades, we are embarking in a hazardous undertaking, but the nobleness of our work will spur us on to deeds of victory. It is a noble deed that we are called on to perform—the release of a daughter of one of the potentates of earth! Let this thought inspire us with enthusiasm! Let us fly to the rescue, fixed in the resolution to win or die! We shall warrior like the doughty knights of old!”

Poor hero! he had yet to learn that warrior is not used in that way. His eloquence, however, was entirely lost on his hearers, it being too grandiloquent for even the Sage to appreciate; and like many another orator, he but “wasted his sweetness on the desert air.”

“Fellow-soldiers,” he continued, “I will use my influence to procure your promotion, and you will all one day be renowned generals of the empire.”

Alas! about the time the speaker took to singing love-songs and reading love-stories that empire was disrupted!

“That about the emperor’s wanting one more general was a good stroke, eh, Will?” Charles whispered.

It would be foreign from the purpose to record all Marmaduke’s bombastic speeches as he and his fellows marched to the field of battle. Let it be taken for granted that in due time they drew up before the fortress.

Marmaduke reconnoitred the grim old building with its grated windows and formidable door, and soon decided that here was the prison, though it was patent to all that he was disappointed, having expected greater things—having, in short, expected to see a structure bearing more or less resemblance to the Bastile itself.

Marmaduke screened himself behind the dilapidated fence, and called out, in commanding tones: “Hist! I call a halt!”

As his troops had already halted, they sat down, thinking that if Henry and Stephen were not yet prepared to receive them this delay would be in their favour.

“Corporal James Horner, do you perceive a sentinel on guard before the prison?” the would-be commander asked.

“Corporal Horner,” who could not see that part of the prison so well as the questioner himself, was struck with awe, and answered timidly, “No, sir, I don’t see nobody.”

“Sir to me! You would do better to call me General.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim returned, feeling his terrible chills creeping on.

“Lieutenant Lawrence,” said the young general, “keep order among your forces! Positively, no straggling!”

The newly-made lieutenant executed his superior’s orders promptly and effectually. “If he keeps on at this rate,” he whispered to George, “there will be fun enough to last for a year! Oh, if Henry and Steve were only here to enjoy it!”

“Silence in the ranks!” roared the general. “Commodore Charles Growler, I call a council of war.”

This was too much for the more deeply read George, and he cut short the general’s programme, saying: “A commodore commands a squadron of ships. There are no ships here that I know of—only a squad of boys.”

The general was nonplussed. He even felt inclined to dismiss this arrogant fellow from the service; but fears of encountering a swarm of armed jailers induced him not to dismiss so good a warrior as the Sage was known to be. So, after deliberating a moment, he said, meekly enough, “Boys, we are only losing time here. Let us make a charge, and burst the door open, and then we can fight our way right on.”

Burst open the door! Then indeed the timbers of their raft would be destroyed! But this was no time to reason with Marmaduke, and they consented to the sacrifice cheerfully.

Charles very readily came upon what had once been a pump; and after great and violent efforts the corporals, lieutenants, commodores, generals, etc., succeeded in raising it to their shoulders; and then, with soldier-like disregard for the hideous grubs which nestled on it, they marched, with martial tread, to force an entrance into the prison.