Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

Frontispiece                     Vide

Stories Jolly: Stories New:

Stories Strange & Stories True.

A SERIES OF NEW AND ORIGINAL TALES

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

FROM SIX TO FOURTEEN YEARS OLD.

BY

   H. C. ADAMS.            | AGNES GIBERNE.

   R. M. BALLANTYNE.   | MRS. A. M. GOODHART.

   S. BARING-GOULD.   | G. A. HENTY.

   FANNY BARRY.          | KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.

   FRANCES CLARE.      | MRS. MOLESWORTH.

   ALICE CORKRAN.      | HELEN WILMOT-BUXTON.

   G. MANVILLE FENN.  | EMMA WOOD.

                 CHARLOTTE M.YONGE.

London:

SKEFFINGTON & SON, 163, PICCADILLY, W.

——

1889.

Preface.

————

THE EDITOR desires to place on record his sincere acknowledgments to the many eminent Authors who have contributed to this Volume, and to express a hope that the Stories will prove a source of much pleasure to the Boys and Girls for whom they have been written.

   It will be seen that, with two or three exceptions, Fairy Tales have not been included in the Collection.

CONTENTS.

————

STORIES JOLLY: STORIES NEW:

STORIES STRANGE & STORIES TRUE.

The Fountain Angel.

BY FANNY BARRY.

————————

IT was called the Orange Garden, and in the middle stood a beautiful fountain. The water flowed from a horn held in the hands of a child-figure carved in marble, and fell down with a soft plash into a fluted shell beneath.

Out of this it rippled again into a marble basin, round which the grass grew so green that the flower beds shone like jewels in a brilliant setting.

Great orange trees, in tubs, stood on each side of the path that led from the old red-roofed Palace to the fountain, and white benches, with banks of flowering plants behind them.

In the summer evenings many of the townspeople came and walked in the garden, enjoying the soft air and listening to the murmur of the fountain, whilst their children played round the stone basin and, as they looked up at the marble child, wondered how it felt to be so high up, and to sit so still, so very still, all day! Was his little hand never tired of holding the great horn?

And then, when the twilight fell, and the stars peeped out one by one, the moon shone softly, and the scent of the orange flowers filled the air—was he not very lonely there; was he not afraid?

He never seemed frightened, for a smile dimpled his baby face; and old, old people told their grandchildren that he had always been the same.

"He can never change," they said; "he is like one of the little angels." So the children called him the "Fountain Angel."

Now the Fountain Angel had many friends, and the chief of them all was Herminé, a poor little lame girl, who lived with her grandfather, Bernhardt, in the grey stone cottage just outside the Orange Garden: old Bernhardt was one of the Duke's gardeners, and Herminé had lived with him ever since she was a baby. She could remember no other relations, and as she could not run about and play with the other children, she had made her only friend, playmate, and confidant of the marble Fountain Angel, and she spent all her spare minutes happily by his side.

One evening, late in the summer, old Bernhardt lay ill in his cottage, and the moon was shining brightly over the Orange Garden before Herminé came through the iron-scrolled gates with the slow tap, tap, of her little crutch-stick, and seated herself wearily on the grass beside the fountain.

"I must wait here till I am rested, and then I shall creep in so that I do not wake poor grandfather," she said to herself; but somehow the air was so warm, and she had been working so hard all day, that she fell asleep—a little round ball of blue homespun—with her head against a cold marble pillow.

It must have been many hours later that the child awoke with a start, wondering where she was, and why her bed had suddenly become so hard.

It was bright moonlight. She rubbed her eyes, jumped up with the help of her crutch-stick, and walked slowly round the fountain.

The water splashed in the moonbeams, the shell and the rocks that supported it shone in the soft light—but the Fountain Angel was gone!

Herminé stood with her eyes growing round with astonishment. Gone! Had someone stolen him whilst she was asleep? Had the earth opened and swallowed him up? What, what had become of him?

       *       *        *       *        *       *

"Are you looking for me, little friend?" said a child voice at her elbow.

She turned quickly, and there in the path stood the missing Fountain Angel.

He carried a watering-can in his little hand, and his face was so sweet and child-like that Herminé quite forgot to be frightened, and found herself sitting down by his side on one of the white benches by the orange trees before she realized what she was doing.

"You are wondering why I am here, little Herminé," he said, as he slipped his hand confidingly into hers, and looked up at her with soft grey eyes. "You do not know that every night as the clock strikes one I have the gift of life bestowed upon me, and can descend to earth to be indeed the good angel of the fountain.

"This power was given me as a reward for the faithful labours of my master, the great sculptor who, many, many, years ago, designed and wrought me from a block of purest marble, and then presented me as an offering to the town in which he was born. So faithfully had he loved and studied Nature, and so truly had he used his powers for noble ends, that his last prayer was granted him; and he died happily, knowing that I should be allowed to carry on his good deeds and loving care for others.

"For the last hundred years I have tried faithfully to fulfil his wishes. I have carried water to fill the buckets and tubs of all the good neighbours round the Orange Garden; I have watered the gardens of all those who were poor or busy; I have brought fresh life to the plants and flowers."

Herminé had listened to the Fountain Angel with absorbed interest; now she seized her crutch-stick, and jumped from her seat eagerly.

"Oh, let me help you!" she cried. "I know I can never work as well as other children, because I am lame; but 'please' teach me to be useful, and show me what I can do!"

"Yes, you shall help me, little friend," said the marble child. "Poor old Bernhardt is too old now to water his garden himself, so I do it every night for him, and you shall help."

He put a watering-can into Herminé's hand exactly like the one he carried himself, and when she had once filled it at the fountain she noticed that it always remained full of bubbling water.

So there they worked together, the little girl and the Fountain Angel. In and out amongst the banks of flowering bushes tapped Herminé's crutch, and in and out darted the white form of the marble child, whilst a beautiful scent of fresh, moist earth and orange bloom rose upon the air.

The stars shone down softly upon the little pair, and Herminé's heart was filled with joy as she thought how happy she was to be allowed to share in such a good work!

"And now, little friend, you must go home and sleep," said the Fountain Angel, "for I have to carry water to the houses of all the sick and poor in the town. You could not help me there, I have to go and come so quickly. Before you go bathe your lame foot in the fountain; its water has a gift of healing. Good-bye! To-morrow we shall meet again."

He waved his hand affectionately towards Herminé, and disappeared through the iron-scrolled gates.

Left alone, she sat dabbling her foot in the cool waters of the fountain, and thinking over all that the marble child had told her, till the clock in the Palace Tower struck three, and she started as she realized how late it was!

She pulled on her little wooden-soled shoes, and hurried to her grandfather's cottage, letting herself in as gently as she could, so that she might not disturb him.

He was still sleeping quietly; and as soon as Herminé's little tired head touched the pillow she also was in the land of dreams.

Old Bernhardt grew rapidly better, and was pleased and surprised, on his first visit to the Orange Garden, to find that everything was in perfect order, and the ground fresh and moist, as though just watered by a heavy shower.

"How thick the dews have fallen," he said to Herminé, as he seated himself contentedly on one of the white benches. "It is a happy thing for me, for it would have tired my old back sorely to begin to water the orange tubs this morning."

Herminé smiled with delight, and nodded towards the Fountain Angel. She would have liked to laugh out loud, but reflected that her grandfather might ask what amused her.

"Really it all looks very well, considering the time of year," mused the old gardener. "I might just do a little sweeping up, and then leave it. It is wonderful how heavy the dews are now the autumn comes on."

Herminé left her grandfather with a broom in his hand, and went back again to the little cottage.

She worked very hard to keep everything clean and neat, and that day her foot felt lighter and more easily moved than she could ever remember it.

"Oh, I wonder if the Fountain Angel will really cure me," she said to herself, as she scrubbed away at the black chest in which she and her grandfather kept their Sunday clothing. "How beautiful it would be to be able to run about like other children—how beautiful!"

Again that evening Herminé went into the Orange Garden, and for many evenings after; helping the Fountain Angel in his work, and bathing her lame foot in the healing water.

Her grandfather noticed, with astonishment, that she had put aside her crutch-stick, and before very long she was able to run about as merrily as any of the children she used to long to play with on the grass by the marble Fountain.

       *       *        *       *        *       *

It is many, many years ago now, since little Herminé grew well and strong, and went away to a new country, where children with blue eyes like her own clustered round her knee in the soft summer twilight, but the Orange Garden remains unchanged.

The scent of flowers still fills the air; the water drips with the same soothing splash into the marble basin, and there, with his old sweet smile, stands the marble figure of the "Fountain Angel."

A Gallant Rescue.

BY R. M. BALLANTYNE,

AUTHOR OF "THE LIFEBOAT, A TALE OF OUR COAST HEROES;"
"FIGHTING THE FLAMES, A TALE OF THE LONDON FIRE BRIGADE;"
"THE LIGHTHOUSE, OR THE STORY OF A GREAT FIGHT
BETWEEN MAN AND THE SEA," &c.

————————

CHAPTER I.

AT PLAY.

IT was a pleasant day about the beginning of April; a bright, warm, jovial day, such as one wishes would last all the year round; a day that tells of winter past, and gives assurance that summer is really about to come.

The fisher boys and girls of Brindleport romped on the beach with unquenchable ardour; the men busied themselves about their boats, and the women about their nets and bait, in a supremely contented frame of mind. Even the crabs seemed to be filled with the spirit of joyous activity, for, as Dan Barcombe said, they scuttled about from pool to pool as if it were a cleaning-up day in their domestic arrangements, and displayed more than their wonted readiness to raise their claws in fight—not an unknown condition in those who have much to do with cleaning-up days!

Daniel Barcombe was the coxswain of the lifeboat. He flung wide the doors of his boat-house on that day and went to work with a will on sundry small repairs. Barcombe was proud of his boat. If the boat had possessed a mind of its own it would have been equally proud of its coxswain, for he was a stalwart, lion-like man, of herculean frame, with simple thoughts and tastes, and a modest spirit. Many a time had his great muscular strength and daring been the means, at critical moments, of saving his boat from destruction on the Black Rocks outside the port.

"Are you going out to-day, Dan?" asked a soft, sweet voice of the coxswain, who was admiring the white and blue boat which, resting on its carriage, towered high over his head.

"Not to-day, Master Edwin," answered Barcombe, looking down at his questioner with a kindly smile. "There's never no wrecks goes on of a fine day like this."

"Of course not," returned the boy, with thoughtful gravity; "but you might be going out for exercise, you know."

"That's true, lad; but as we go out for exercise only once a quarter, we always choose the worst weather we can lay hold on. It 'ud be useless, d'ye see, to launch her an' pull out in fine weather; any cockleshell could do that safe enough. I like best when the wind's i' the nor'east, blowin' fit to cut the nose off your face, an' breakers thunderin' on the shore. I've seed it that rough, sometimes, that when we was out for exercise a wessel has drove on the Black Rocks, an' we've had to turn our exercise into action. Your father, when he was our Local Superintendent, used to take an oar sometimes for amusement at our quarterly exercises, for he was a splendid seaman, he was, and it was on one o' them occasions, when we was called unexpected to a wreck, that he lost his life through the fallin' of a block-tackle on his head. He laid down his life, as your dear mother says sometimes, to 'rescue the perishin'',—but I've told ye o' that many a time."

"Tell it again, Dan. I like to hear of it; I never tire of it. I do like to think of saving people's lives. It must be such grand work, as of course you know, for you have done it so often."

Edwin Boyne looked up admiringly at his herculean friend with glowing eyes and flushed countenance.

"Well, yes; through God's blessin' I 'have' helped to save a few lives in my day; an' you'll do the same, too, Master Edwin, if you live, for you're a reg'lar chip o' the old block."

"What 'is' a chip of the old block?" asked the boy, seriously.

The coxswain laughed as he replied, and tried to explain the expression in language so exceedingly nautical that Edwin was not much wiser. Then he proceeded to describe, by no means for the first time, the terrible storm in which the boy's father had been killed, while out rescuing the crew of a stranded schooner.

Edwin listened intently—we might almost say with eyes as well as with ears. He was a noble-looking little fellow, with not a particle of "brag" about him. His heroic aspirations had nothing to do with the wish to appear brave or manly. Being both, he never thought of appearances.

"I should like 'so' much to go off to a wreck with you," he said, when the coxswain had finished his narrative. "Don't you think I might, if nurse gave me leave to go. I'm quite sure that mother would if she were at home, for she always lets me do whatever I want. I could put on father's old life-belt, you know, and though I'm not yet strong enough to pull an oar, I could steer, perhaps. At any rate I could sit still and keep out of your way."

This cool proposal, delivered in an earnest voice and with a very appealing look, took Daniel Barcombe so much aback that he simply gazed at Edwin in mute surprise.

"Well now, my boy," he said slowly, "I rather think that your mother 'would' object—"

"Oh no, she wouldn't! I'm quite 'sure' of that," interrupted Edwin, anxiously.

The amiable coxswain was much perplexed. He was extremely fond of the boy, and knew that the liking was mutual, so that he shrank from the blighting of hopes and aspirations that were evidently very strong.

"You know well, my little man," he said, after a pause, "that I would do anything in reason to please you, but your mother not bein' here, an' your nurse bein' left in command o' the ship, so to speak, she might object, dee see?"

"When nurse does not agree with mother, I don't care about her objecting," said Edwin decisively.

There was no tone of threat or rebellion in this remark. It was quietly made as a mere statement of the condition of his mind.

"Besides," he continued, "we expect mother back by to-night's steamer, so I won't need to ask leave of nurse."

"Right you are, lad, for when the cap'en's aboard it's the first officer's dooty to play second fiddle; but I'm afeard—indeed I'm sure—that our noo Superintendent wouldn't let you go—not bein' one o' the reg'lar lifeboat crew, you know; but the day's comin', you may be sartin sure, when they'll be only too glad to get men like you to pull an oar in the lifeboat—so don't be cast down."

"Thank you, Barcombe, for saying that; but if my mother gives me leave to go, your new Superintendent has no right to forbid me; so, as mother and you are both willing, I will go in spite of him. Now I must leave you, for it's about lunch time. Good-bye, Barcombe."

Edwin Boyne—known at home as Eddy—held out his tiny hand to the lifeboat coxswain, who grasped it tenderly in a fist which his comrades were wont to compare to a shoulder of mutton.

"Good-bye, Master Edwin, an' don't dream about wrecks to-night, for the weather's settled down for a calm spell. An' don't get impatient. Why, you'll be a man a'most afore you know where you are, so keep up heart, my boy."

"I will," replied the urchin, walking gravely away, with the expression on his fair young face of one whose mind is firmly made up.

"Nurse, hand me down father's old life-belt, please," said Edwin, when he got home.

The obedient woman did as she was bid, and assisted the child to tie it on.

"Rather too big for me 'just now!'" he said, looking down at the mass of cork in which he was encased from the neck nearly to the knees. Then he looked solemnly up into nurse's face.

"Yes, Master Eddy, it 'is' a little too big; but you'll fill it some day."

With this comforting assurance the good woman sent him off to the day nursery, where he turned a table upside down, got into it, and, using the shovel as an oar, proceeded off to a wreck, where he spent the remainder of that day rescuing innumerable people from the raging sea, issuing stern commands to his lifeboat crew, encouraging timid women, quieting terrified children, and otherwise acting the part of a true hero.

CHAPTER II.

AT WORK.

AS the opinions of doctors are not always correct, so the judgments of nautical men are not invariably sure.

Daniel Barcombe was wrong when he said that the weather had settled down for a calm spell. On the contrary, the weather had made up its mind that very day to go in for one of those short, wild bursts of fury which arise sometimes, even in the midst of summer, to the discomfiture of the weather-wise.

It began with a very sultry afternoon, which induced the fisher boys to cast off their few garments and take to the water as to their native element. Then the sky became coppery in appearance, a mysterious haze seemed to settle down on the sleeping sea, and several dark cloud-banks on the horizon mounted up to the zenith before evening closed. Suddenly a flash of lightning burst through the increasing darkness; at the same time a hissing squall tore up the surface of the sea, and a prolonged peal of thunder shook the windows of the day nursery, where Edwin Boyne was still engaged in rescue work.

The boy jumped out of his table-lifeboat and ran to the window. The sea was already like indigo, with snow-white streaks all over it. There was just light enough for him to see that.

"Where are you, Master Eddy?" shouted the somewhat timid nurse, from the regions below.

"All right," shouted Eddy in reply. "I'm just going out to rescue the perishing from the billows of the raging deep."

Of course the boy was quoting, but he was thoroughly in earnest. Nurse thought he was referring to his play.

"That's right," she cried, "save as many as you can; be brave, and do your best."

"Yes, nurse, I will."

Saying this, he descended to the front door, and went out wearing his cork jacket.

It had grown unusually dark by that time, so that he could not see the other side of the street, but being familiar with the town, he had no fear of losing his way even in the dark; besides, the dull roar of the breakers was of itself a sufficient guide to the beach. Rain was now falling in torrents, but the houses as yet protected him from the wind.

On turning the corner of the street, however, Edwin was caught by the blast in its full force and fury. He failed to resist it sufficiently, and was swept away in the wrong direction like a leaf in autumn. Fortunately for him a fat old woman chanced to be in the line of his flight. She was holding on to a paling with one hand, and to the wreck of an inverted umbrella with the other. Eddy plunged into her like a shot into a bale of cotton, but she was a strong old woman and stood the shock bravely.

"Marcy on us," she gasped, "what be that?"

"Oh! I 'beg' your pardon," began Eddy, but before he could utter another word the wind burst on them with fresh violence; the old woman lost her hold of the paling—also of the wrecked umbrella—and went off like a Dutch galliot under full sail. Eddy never saw her more!

"Impossible to rescue 'her,'" he muttered, gravely, as he held tight to the paling, "besides, she's in no danger from the sea."

With this comforting reflection he turned himself shoreward again, and, at the next lull, recommenced his struggle, with lips compressed and head bent low. By slow degrees he worked his way to the shore. Several people passed him on the way—running as best they could—and one or two tumbled over him, but, gathering themselves up with exclamations that were not apologetic, they ran on. It was too dark to see anything more than two yards in front of the eyes.

By intimate knowledge of the locality—rather than by sight—the boy reached the lifeboat house. He found, as he had hoped and expected, that the crew were busy getting the boat out. A number of men, and even one or two women and boys, were standing outside, looking on and ready to lend a hand. A few lanterns were carried about by them, which did little more than render darkness visible.

"What is it?" asked a woman who had just arrived.

"A wessel on the Black Rocks only just begun to signal," roared a fisherman, for nothing short of a roar could be heard.

Eddy waited for no more. That was enough. He slipped quietly past the eager men, reached the inner end of the boat-house, which was dark at the moment, scrambled up the side of the boat and plunged recklessly into the bottom of it, for he heard the voice of the Local Superintendent just then urging the men to make haste, though neither Dan Barcombe nor his men required urging. Eddy's plunge did him no harm, for his little body was protected by the great cork jacket, and a piece of tarpaulin chanced to receive his head. Seizing this latter, he covered himself with it, and thrust himself under the nearest thwart.

"Now then, haul 'er out and jump in, lads!" shouted the coxswain.

The boat on her carriage was run out with a cheer by the crowd, and in another moment the crew, in sou'westers, oilskins, and cork jackets, sprang on board, sat down and grasped the oars. Thus they were run down the steep shore, and thrust as far as possible into the seething water. Then the launching ropes were hauled, and the boat almost leaped from her carriage into the sea. Her crew dipped the oars, and strained like men who know that the first few strokes are critical. Miss a stroke or steer wrong at first, and the boat might be hurled back or rolled over and wrecked on the beach. In his energy the man who sat on the thwart just above Edwin drew back his foot and kicked the poor boy on the chest with his great heel,—a blow which would have broken his delicate ribs but for the cork jacket. As it was he received no damage, but next moment he gasped with cold, for the first wave they met went clean over the boat, not only drenching but almost choking him. He knew well, however, that the discharge tubes would empty the boat in a few seconds, so he held his breath and gripped the legs of the man above him.

That man was brave. Many a time had he faced the dangers of the lifeboat service with unflinching courage, but when he felt himself suddenly gripped round the leg, as he afterwards said, by a sea monster o' some sort, his heart went slap into his throat, an' all his inn'ards seemed to run to warm water!

He did not dare to stop rowing however to see what it was, and he could not shake off the "sea monster," though he tried hard. On getting out to sea, however, the longer swell in deep water enabled him to miss a stroke or two, seize the monster, haul it forth, and hurl it from him. There was just light enough to enable him to see that when it uncoiled itself and stood up, the monster was a small human being! The coxswain looked close into its face, and, with a gasp of mingled surprise and consternation, ejaculated—

"Edwin Boyne! Hallo, Bill, make him fast with a rope! Sit down on the floor, boy!"

Edwin had often heard Barcombe say that the chief virtue in lifeboat-men was prompt obedience, resolved to act his part well, he plumped at once into the sitting posture.

"Here, coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on for life!" cried Bill, casting the end of a rope to the boy, who again obeyed with lightning speed.

It was a terrible night, and what the boat had hitherto gone through was as nothing to what she experienced when the turmoil of water round the Black Rocks was entered.

A vessel was aground on the seaward edge of these rocks. She was fast breaking up, and only part of one mast could be seen swaying wildly to and fro against the sky. It did not take long after that to pull to windward, cast anchor, and ease off the cable until the lifeboat could drop down under the lee of the wreck.

Then, as they swung swiftly in and got near enough, they could see by the light of the blazing remnants of a tar-barrel, that a number of blanched faces were gazing wildly at them over the bulwarks. Gruff voices were heard shouting, but no word could be made out because of the whistling wind, lashing cordage, and roaring, hissing, leaping sea. It was seen that there were females on the wreck.

"I do believe it's the steamer!" said the coxswain to Bill, as he skilfully steered the boat alongside.

"Look-out for the women," shouted a deep voice from above.

"Ay, ay," responded eager voices from below. "Send 'em down."

Just then a female form was seen to swing out from the ship high in air as the boat sank into the trough of the waves. Next moment a sea raised the boat, "let go!" was sharply shouted, and a woman with a child—from which they had been unable to separate her—dropped close to Edwin and almost crushed him.

"Here!" cried our little hero jumping up and unwinding the rope that held him, "coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on—for life!"

"Sit down!" growled Bill, sternly.

True as steel to duty, Edwin sat down and watched, with intense feelings and in silence, while two more women were rescued, and several men lowered themselves into the boat by ropes hanging from spars. In this attempt some fell into the sea, but were grasped and hauled inboard. Then another female was seen to swing off from the side while the boat was dropping away from her. At the same moment a rope from the wreck caught a projection of the lifeboat close to Bill, and held it so that in another moment the side of the swaying hull would probably have come down on it and crushed them all.

"Clear that rope, Bill!" cried Barcombe in a tone that betrayed the urgency of the case.

But Bill was standing up with outstretched arms ready to receive the woman.

Seeing this Edwin sprang up, exerted all his strength, and unhooked the rope from the projection that had caught it. The boat immediately sheered off, leaving the woman again swinging while it sank away from her. The poor creature uttered an irrepressible scream on observing this.

Edwin Boyne's blood seemed to curdle when he heard that scream.

"Mother!" he cried, starting up.

Another intensified scream was the reply, and Mrs. Boyne, absolutely falling into her son's extended arms, carried him headlong to the bottom of the boat—fortunately without receiving damage, for Bill, having slipped his foot in his gallant efforts, had conveniently placed his burly body there in time to receive them.

"No bones broken I hope, ma'am?" enquired Bill, with a discomfited look.

"No, none, thank God," exclaimed Mrs. Boyne fervently, as she clasped Eddy in her arms—unutterably amazed but quite content to know that her boy was safe.—What! "safe," with the wreck crashing alongside, and the wild winds shrieking, and the foaming billows filling the boat at every rush? Ay, safe, because "in the lifeboat!"

Oh! it was a grand sight to see—by the light of the moon which had struggled through the driving clouds as if it were personally anxious to witness the scene—the eager faces which lined the jetty at Brindleport that night when the lifeboat came in from the seaward darkness, as if from out of the shades of Erebus, with a flag at her masthead in token of success, her crew exhausted yet re-invigorated by the strength that comes of joy, and with twenty rescued human beings packed like herrings in a barrel on her floor!

And it was thrilling to listen to the cheer that burst forth when Dan Barcombe, standing up in the stern and holding the tiller, put his hand to his mouth and shouted as they flew past "All saved!" with a roar that put to very shame the howlings of the storm.

But it was more than thrilling, it was almost appalling, to behold the cadaverous face and expression of poor nurse, when, after a long futile and exhaustive search for Eddy, she at last sat down in the vacant nursery and wrung her hands in abject despair. Yet equally striking, though indescribable, was the expression of that same face when—having run on in advance of the procession that brought Mrs. Boyne home—Eddy entered the nursery, looking, in the cork jacket, like a cask with a head, arms, and legs attached to it, and said in his own grave, quiet manner:—

"Well, nurse, I've been out with the lifeboat, and I've done my best—I've helped to rescue mother!"

       *       *        *       *        *       *

Years have passed since then, and the Brindleport lifeboat is still in active service, but Dan Barcombe and Bill are now on the retired list, fighting their battles o'er again by the fire-side, and reaping the advantages of a useful, self-sacrificing life in a hale and hearty old age. Nurse is similarly situated, though in a totally different line of life—yet, after all, is there not some sort of analogy between the gales of nature and the squalls of the nursery?

Little Eddy, however, is gone—gone for ever! He has been long since supplanted by a big, lion-like man named Edwin Boyne, Esq., Local Superintendent of the Brindleport Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who is celebrated for having saved the lives of more human beings than any man in the town, and for retaining that grave, modest, yet indomitable enthusiasm which urged him, when yet a boy, to go out in the lifeboat and do his best by helping to rescue mother in the days gone by.

Jackie's New Dodge.

BY AGNES GIBERNE,

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON, AND STARS," "MISS CON," &c.

————————

"I'M so awfully glad Jackie's coming to-day! Oh, so awfully glad!" sang out Algie Leigh, in a vigorous monotone, during the process of morning hair brushing. "So aw—fully—glad! Don't, nurse! I wish you wouldn't twist that horrid little curl in front! Jackie doesn't wear a curl."

"Now, Master Algie, you'll please stand still and not fidget. Your ma says—"

"She isn't my ma! Fellows don't say 'Ma!' Jackie doesn't! And I don't want my hair made curly. Jackie will laugh at me."

"Let them laugh as wins," nurse answered oracularly. "If all the brushes in all the world was used on Master Jack's hair, it wouldn't curl—no more than the poker."

"I wish mine wouldn't! I hate curliness for a boy," said Algie. "I'm nine years old now, and it's time to leave off that sort of rubbish. I'll ask mother if I can't begin to have my hair straight like Jackie's. He's only ten—at least, I mean eleven—and he hasn't been curly, oh, for years and years and years! Not for hundreds of years."

"A likely story!" nurse said.

"Well, you know what I mean. Nurse, I can't stand still any longer. I 'must' wriggle. I want so awfully for twelve o'clock to come! Jackie's sure to have some awfully nice new dodge; and I do want to know what it is. It's no use your brushing away like that. My hair will all go anywhere by the time I'm downstairs. There!"

Algie tore himself from nurse's grasp, and bounced down on the nearest bed, where he lay kicking; not in a temper, but merely as a vent to excitement. He was tremendously excited at the thought of seeing Jackie. Perhaps this was not surprising; for where Jackie might be, dulness was a thing impossible.

"There!" nurse echoed in a very different tone. "Well, you know what 'that' means! I've just got to do it all over again."

"O Algie, do be good! The bell will ring directly," pleaded May, the sweetest and most lovable of all his four pretty dainty little sisters, who stood in their thick white frocks, anxiously regarding his movements. The one boy in a family of five was an object of much solicitude. He really was a very nice boy, good-tempered and merry, almost girlishly pretty, and just a little apt to be girlish in some of his ways, from being brought up entirely among girls. But when Jackie appeared on the scene, Algie always developed at once into what he at least considered to be the full-blown boy.

May was one year older than Algie, and Annie was two years older still; while Lou and the youngest, still called Baby, were only seven and five. So Algie occupied a middle position between two pairs of sisters.

"Won't ring for half-an-hour yet," Algie answered, bumping his head vigorously into the pillow, by way of preliminary practice for Jackie. "O I say, won't it be jolly fun? Jackie's always got a new dodge every time. Don't you want awfully bad to know what it'll be? Oh—I say!"

Ring-a-ding-ding-ding-ding-dong! sounded the breakfast-bell, bringing Algie to his feet with a dismayed spring. The Leighs were a punctual family.

"Come, Lou! Come, Baby! We mustn't wait," said Annie.

"May! May! Stop a moment," cried Algie distractedly, finding himself anew in nurse's grasp. "O do hurry, do hurry-scurry; just one brush—that'll do—never mind the front curl for once. Nurse, let me go!" And with a flying leap Algie was down the first short flight, leaving May in his rear. He waited for her below, however, and they raced across the hall just in time.

The only remark made upon Algie's appearance was by a cousin-visitor, given to teasing. "Why, Algie, what has become of that natty little arrangement on your forehead? Nurse must have overslept herself for once!"

Algie grew very red, and wished people would remember that he was a "fellow," not a mere girl.

       *       *        *       *        *       *

Twelve o'clock came, and the five children watched anxiously through their playroom window for Jackie's arrival. Summer holidays were now in full swing, the governess being away; and if only it had been a fine morning they would all have been out in the garden. But alas, even August days are sometimes chilly and wet, and the rain had come down pitilessly since half-past ten. "No going out" was decreed.

Algie begged in vain for a reversal of the sentence. Jackie never stayed in for the rain, and why must he? But this is a kind of logic which grown-up people somehow never will accept. Algie was given to catching cold, they said, and Jackie was not, which made all the difference. Algie held that it made no difference at all, because he was perfectly certain not to catch cold on that particular day; but all the same he had to submit.

Grievances were forgotten when Jackie appeared. He was welcomed with a shout of delight, which he received calmly as his right. Jackie was a particularly calm and cool sort of boy; always fully aware what he meant to do, and bent on doing it; but not apt to get into excited states like Algie. He strolled in carelessly, with a hand in either pocket and a general air of middle-aged indifference to surroundings, seated himself in the most comfortable chair present, and whistled.

"What's the new dodge, Jackie?" burst out the admiring Algie, who always watched and, as far as possible, imitated every motion of Jackie's. Next time he went to see a friend he would stroll leisurely in, take the best chair, and whistle a subdued tune.

"New dodge!" repeated Jackie, with an absent air.

"Yes, the new dodge! Why, you always have one, every time you come to see us," cried eager Algie. "Last time it was ropes—don't you remember?—and the time before it was toffy—and the time before—oh, I don't know what that was, but of course you've got something to-day. Because it rains, and we—and the girls can't go out, and we're going to have fun indoors. Haven't you got another new dodge?"

Jack nodded in a bland and mysterious fashion, whereupon Algie threw himself about the room in an agony of delight.

"I've taken to doctoring," Jackie announced composedly.

"Doctoring!" gasped Algie, with a recollection of rhubarb and castor oil.

"Will you doctor our dolls, Jackie?" asked May's soft voice. May was a particular chum of Jackie's. He liked to patronize, and she was willing to be patronized.

"Dolls!" Jackie repeated, with ineffable disdain.

"But you don't really and truly mean you've doctored live people," objected Algie.

"I pulled out a fellow's tooth the other day," declared Jackie, in his mildest tone. "Gave him sixpence to let me do it." Jack did not think it needful to add that there had been a considerable stir in consequence—the aggrieved father making a formal complaint to the master of the school, which had resulted in a severe admonition to Jackie to refrain from further tooth-drawing.

"Was it a loose tooth?" asked May.

"Tight as a drum," said Jack.

"But you won't pull 'our' teeth out," murmured May.

"Of course he won't. Nobody will let him," said Annie.

Then Mrs. Leigh came in with a plateful of cake, and for the moment attention was diverted from Jackie's dentistry. "Are you all very hungry?" she asked. "It is raining so hard, I am afraid you must be content with indoor games this morning. What happy children you are to have a nice big playroom all to yourselves."

Algie thought that to be allowed to play in the rain and mud would make a much happier child of him; still the plateful of cake was consoling, and even Jackie's eyes glistened.

"Luncheon may be rather late to-day," Mrs. Leigh went on. "Your father and I have a call to pay on an old friend, after taking your cousin to the station, and that may delay us till half-past one. But you will not starve, after this!" and she smiled. "Mind you are all good children, and don't quarrel. There are plenty of toys and pictures for Jackie to see."

Jackie had no particular affection for picture-books, but cake was quite in his line; and he came in for the lion's share of the supply. Ten minutes passed happily; and the brougham was seen to drive away from the front door. After which nurse appeared, and walked off the reluctant Baby to her mid-day sleep. Annie obediently brought out a pile of new picture-books, and Jackie tossed over a few indifferently.

"Stupid things, pictures!" he said. "Can't think why anybody ever makes them."

"Oh, but pictures are so nice," protested May.

"Nice enough for girls," said Jackie; and Algie at once felt desperately ashamed of having always liked pictures.

"I thought you'd have had a nice new dodge," he said wistfully to Jack.

"So I have," Jackie answered, brightening up, and pushing the picture-books aside. "Let's play at doctoring."

"But I don't want to have my tooth drawn," murmured Algie.

"Doctors don't draw teeth. Only dentists do that," said Annie.

"And I don't like pills nor castor oil neither," complained Algie.

Jackie pulled slowly from his pocket a small leathern case.

"That's my medicine chest," he announced. "I have got no pills, nor castor oil. I've got a lot of millions, because they look like those sugar globules that uncle John gulps down and calls medicine. We'll all have sugar globules first."

"And not castor oil after?" asked May, suspicious of so mild a beginning.

"Not castor oil at all," said Jack.

"Why, of course not. We are all quite well. We don't want medicine," observed Annie.

"You're well now, but you mightn't be well to-morrow. I am going to doctor you beforehand," said Jackie, with the confidence of a genuine quack. "Besides," he added, as a brilliant idea came up, "if we don't want to be doctored, we can try experiments. That's the jolliest fun of all."

"Must there be explosions?" asked May.

"O dear me, no. Not that sort of experiments. Not burning gases, and making loud pops," said Jack. "I've got an awfully jolly new dodge." He helped the party round to a fresh supply of "millions," and proceeded further to extract from the leather case a small stoppered bottle.

"Mind, you are not to tell anybody what I'm going to show you now. It's the jolliest stuff you ever heard of. It sends a fellow to sleep in the middle of the day, all in a moment. I vote we go to sleep."

"All of us?" demanded Algie.

"Oh, one at a time. Not all together. That wouldn't be fun," said Jackie.

"What's the stuff called?" asked prudent Annie.

Jack held up the bottle for inspection. "Got no name you see," he said. He thought Annie might know the word, and might take fright. "It's awfully funny going to sleep. Who'll try first?"

"Not me," Algie said promptly.

"Nor me, nor May, nor Lou," said Annie. "Mother doesn't like us to drink things, if we don't know what they are."

"You haven't got to drink. It's only to sniff up—whiff! —and you're off—pop—sound asleep. The best fun in all the world," declared Jackie.

The children were getting interested. There was something fascinating about the idea.

But Annie's conscience was not easy. "I shall go and ask nurse," she said.

"And wake up Baby!" said Algie.

"No: I'll be quiet."

Jackie looked up, read resolution in Annie's face, and forthwith marched to the door. In an instant he had turned the key, and slipped it into his pocket.

"O Jackie, that is too bad. It's our house," Annie said, colouring.

"I'm not going to be interfered with," Jackie answered, in his calm middle-aged voice, and he walked back to the centre of the room. "Now, then, who'll take a whiff first?"

"I won't," Annie answered. She was vexed with Jackie, and suspicious of his mischief: yet in her heart she did feel just a little glad that it was not in her power to stop the fun.

"Who first?" repeated Jack.

Nobody answered.

"I'll tell you what! 'I'll' be the first," announced Jackie. "I'll go to sleep, and when I wake up somebody else must try."

No objections were made. Jack unstoppered the bottle, and with a great deal of fuss poured some of the liquid into a far from white pocket handkerchief. It did seem to Annie that most of the liquid somehow found its way to the carpet, but Jackie declared that all was right. He stoppered the bottle, tucked it away, put the case in his pocket, threw himself back into the easy-chair, and told Algie to hold the pocket handkerchief to his nose.

Dancing with delight, Algie obeyed; and before two seconds had gone by Jack showed every sign of coming sleep. His head dropped, his mouth opened, his breathing became loud and regular, and faint snores sounded. Algie took away the handkerchief, and whispered, giggling—"He's off!"

The four stood watching, open-eyed and intent!

"I wonder how soon he'll wake," whispered one.

"He looks very comfy," murmured another.

Jack's limbs hung loose and limp. The moments passed, and he snored on. Algie began to wax impatient. Moments seem long when one is waiting, and they were sure that Jack had been asleep an immense time. He showed no consciousness of the talk carried on around him. A very close observer might indeed have noted a suspicious quiver of one eyelid, and even a little gleam of grey moving under the lashes: but Algie and his sisters suspected nothing.

They were getting uneasy, and wondering if Jack meant to sleep the whole day, when he stirred, peeped, yawned, opened and shut his eyes, stretched himself, and drowsily sat up.

"Heigh-o! Breakfast-bell rung yet?" he asked, with another gape, and a most un-sleepy twinkle of the said eyes.

"Why, Jackie, it's the middle of the day," cried his innocent listeners.

"Middle—of—the—day! Dear me! I must have been quite sound asleep! Quite sound," declared the unblushing Jackie.

"You went off so fast, you can't think," said May. "Was it nice?"

"Lovely," declared Jack. "Like floating off among green clouds, you know." Jackie had heard this description from a lady who had taken chloroform, and it served his purpose. To be sure the said lady had sat in a room papered with green, which explained her half-sleeping fancy about "green clouds;" whereas the playroom had grey-washed walls. But Jackie never stuck at trifles.

"I 'should' like to float off among green clouds," murmured May, who was of an adventurous though timid nature.

"All right. You try next," said Jack, jumping up.

"I don't believe nurse would like it," objected Annie.

But Annie had the voice of the conclave against her.

Gentle May had a will of her own, and the green clouds sounded tempting, and what 'could' be the harm of so placid a sleep and so mild an awakening? The key was still in Jackie's pocket, and they could not ask nurse. Perhaps nobody really wished to do so. Trying experiments was great fun.

May held to her point, and still more Jackie held her to it. The one of them all most to blame was Jackie, for though only eleven years old, he did know the name and something of the nature of the liquid he held. He knew that chloroform was given to people by doctors to make them unconscious, when something very painful had to be done. He knew that patients had sometimes even died from taking chloroform. Of course he meant to be careful, and only to let May sniff just a little, but all the time he knew perfectly well that he was doing a very very wrong and foolish thing. His inquisitive mind liked to be always trying some new "dodge" as he called it, and the present opportunity was a great temptation. But Jack knew well enough that he had no business to give way to the temptation.

"Now, May, tuck up your feet, and make ready," he said, refusing to listen to the voice within, which cried to him to stop. "O there's no harm," he told himself.

May obeyed; and again Jackie poured some of the liquid on a pocket handkerchief. This time he did the business thoroughly. The cambric, and not the floor, was soaked.

"It's a queer smell," Algie remarked, and May said, "I like it!" Jack alone knew with what edged tools they were foolishly playing.

Still he went on—madly. He held the handkerchief to her face, and May shut her eyes, breathing up the strong scent.

Yes, she was going off—fast. Not so fast as Jackie had appeared to do, but somehow she seemed soon more genuinely asleep. There was one little feeble attempt at resistance, one effort to pull away the handkerchief, but Jackie held it firm, and May's little hand fell.

Sound asleep, and looking so peaceful. The children were greatly interested.

"She doesn't snore like Jackie," cried Algie.

"You'll wake her if you kick up such a row," declared Jack; but May did not stir.

They waited again, moment after moment, till the time seemed very long.

"Hasn't she slept enough?" asked Annie.

"Well, perhaps she has," admitted Jackie. "Suppose you give her a kiss."

Annie followed his advice, but there was no response. Jack pulled her by the hand, and it dropped as before, limp and helpless. Algie shouted in her ear, and May did not hear. She lay pale, still, with shut eyes, never stirring a finger.

"Stupid! She ought to wake up," Jack said, getting uneasy.

"I shall call nurse. Nurse will know what to do," exclaimed Annie. "O do give me the key."

"Bother nurse! Let's make a noise, and she's sure to wake."

But they stamped and shouted in vain. May still lay as before, white and senseless.

"Jackie, Jackie, I 'must' call nurse," almost sobbed Annie.

Whether Jack would have yielded is doubtful; but at that moment the sound of the returning brougham was heard. Mr. and Mrs. Leigh were back much earlier than they had expected. Happily, the lady upon whom they went to call was not well enough to see them.

Nor was this all. Almost more happily still, they had met their doctor in the village, and had asked him to come back with them to see Baby, who had not been quite well for a day or two. So when the brougham rolled up, the doctor was sitting inside.

The moment Annie heard the brougham, she rushed to the window, threw it opened, and shrieked—"Mother! Father! May!!"—in a voice which brought them all to the playroom, without a moment's delay.

Jack had not been quick enough to keep Annie from the window, and now he had no choice about opening the door. He dared not disobey his uncle's voice outside.

Then there was a rush of frightened questions; and the mother was kneeling with her arms round little sleeping May; and Mr. Leigh demanded of Jackie what it all meant; and the doctor said shortly, "Ha! Chloroform!" The children were hurried out of the room—Annie crying bitterly, Algie dismayed, Jackie still pretending to be cool. And their last glimpse of May was of the same little pale unconscious face.

The half-hour that followed would not soon be forgotten by those three elder children. Nobody could attend to them: but through one of the maids they heard that May's life was in danger. For a while the doctor feared that she might never wake out of the sleep into which Jack had recklessly thrown her. But for the doctor's presence there and then on the spot, so that not a moment was lost in doing everything that could be done, she probably would "not" have recovered.

Soon the worst was over: and the tiny pulse which had all but stopped beating grew stronger. May came slowly back to life: and though very sick and weak she was no longer in danger.

At last Mr. Leigh made his way to the unhappy Annie and Algie and Jack. He looked paler and more serious than Annie had ever seen him: and he seemed only able to say—"She is better!"

Then, after a pause, as Annie and Algie clung to him he went on—

"Jack, is this your doing? Do you know that you have nearly killed my little May?"

Jackie wanted to brave it out still, but I am glad to say he could not succeed. He burst into a fit of sobbing, in the midst of which broken words were heard,—"I'll never—never—again!"

It is pretty certain that Jack never "would" again do quite so wild and foolish a deed. There was no need to talk to him much. May's narrow escape spoke for itself, and Jack was really impressed. He had learnt his lesson. Even in later years, when he should have grown to be a man, he would scarcely be able to think of his experiment that day without a shudder.