Various - Golden Days for Boys and Girls, Vol. XIII, Nov. 28, 1891

V >> Various >> Golden Days for Boys and Girls, Vol. XIII, Nov. 28, 1891

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Judith came and stood beside the two men. Martin's eyes were cast down,
and she made a number of swift movements with her hands, which Shaky
answered in like manner. Then he turned to Martin.

"She wishes to know if you are willing to do as you are told. What
answer shall I make?"

"Tell her that I will obey orders," replied Martin, without looking up.
"I will not struggle against fate."

Shaky spelled this off rapidly with his fingers, and Judith smiled.

It was like a ray of sunlight breaking through a cloud, and illumined
the dark face wonderfully.

In a few moments the fastenings were cast off and the sloop and schooner
drifted apart, Sandy remaining on board the Swan, with the imprisoned
captain in the cabin and the two boys in the hold.

The Petrel at once bore away, with Martin at the wheel and Shaky in
command, Judith descending into the little caboose to prepare food.

The feelings of Captain Dilke, when he found himself alone in the cabin,
cannot be described. He struggled frantically with his bonds for a long
time, and at last succeeded in releasing one of his hands. It was now
only a question of time for him to free himself entirely, and soon he
found himself at liberty.

What should he do next? He knew that several hours had passed since he
had been thrust into the cabin, and that it was now night, for no light
came through the bull's-eye in the deck.

Groping his way cautiously up the companion-way, he tried the door. It
was fastened. And, even if it was unfastened, how could he escape the
men who stood guard on deck?

Then he bethought himself of the passageway under the cabin-floor. He
would wait till a late hour, and then endeavor to escape by that way.

Up to this time he had been so engrossed with thoughts of his own
freedom that he had quite forgotten the money which he believed the boys
had found. Now it came back to him with redoubled force. Long years of a
roving, reckless life had prepared him for almost every emergency.
Taking from his pocket a small folding lantern and a diminutive
spirit-lamp, he soon got it in working order.

All this time the Swan had been rocking on the waves, but suddenly there
was a shock, and then she lay quiet and still.

Patiently the prisoner waited. He heard the noise of feet upon the deck,
and then all was silent.

"They have landed, and quitted the vessel," he muttered. "Now is my time
to escape."

He struck a match and lighted his little lantern, looking at his watch
by its feeble rays. It was past ten o'clock.

As rapidly as possible he searched the cabin thoroughly--the berths, the
locker for food, and the bunker for wood.

Having satisfied himself that the money was not hidden in any of these,
he unfastened and raised the trap-door, and descended into the vacant
place below the floor. Almost creeping on his face, he moved along,
noticing at once that the ballast had been moved.

Then the corner of the sack in which the money had been placed caught
his eye, and he unfastened the iron bars and moved them to one side. His
breath came quick and heavy. He had found the money!

So intent was he in his searching that he had not noticed that the door
had closed in the cabin floor. In fact, the rattle of the iron bars as
he moved them had drowned the noise of its fall.

His greedy eyes devoured the pile of gold exposed to view, and his hands
trembled, and a feeling of suffocation came over him, as he strove to
put the sack in condition for removal.

This was finally accomplished, but his arms had grown so weak and
nerveless that he could not raise it. In striving to do so, he slipped
and crushed his little lantern, leaving himself in total darkness.

CHAPTER XIX.

Captain Dilke's Fate--A Happy Wind-Up.

The days had dragged by on leaden wings to the parents of Jason Dilke.
The mother was nearly bereft of reason, but the father, spite of grief
for his son and anxiety for his wife, gained in strength day by day.

Every effort to find the boy in the vicinity of Old Orchard and to the
southward had been made. Liberal rewards were offered and advertisements
inserted in papers far and near.

Jacob, the faithful old servitor, had been continually on the go, but
all without success.

And yet the strength of Allan Dilke did not succumb. His face was white
and thin, but his eyes shone with a determined light.

"We will hear from Arnold to-morrow," he would say, hopefully, at night.
"I know he is doing his utmost."

But the morrow came, and still no word from the absent ones. The heart
of the mother had lost all hope, when one night there came a summons at
the door after the bereaved parents had retired.

"It is Jason," said Allan Dilke, rising hastily and dressing, when the
servant had tapped upon the door and announced that visitors desired to
see him.

"Show them into the drawing-room," he said, as he came forth in
dressing-gown and slippers.

"But they are rough, sea-faring men, sir," replied the domestic. "Shall
I--"

"Do as I bid you!" interrupted the master of the house, sternly. "No
room is too good for those who bring tidings of my son."

A moment later two men stood before him in rough sailor garb.

"We come to inform you that--" began one of them, who was no other than
Shaky, when Allan Dilke interrupted him.

"If my son is with you," he said, firmly, "bring him to me. If he is
dead, tell me so!"

Shaky at once left the room, and soon a little procession came slowly
in. Two men were carrying a helpless body, while a woman and boy
followed.

A wail of anguish sounded. A woman with white face and streaming hair
knelt beside the slight figure which lay upon a sofa.

"Dead! Is my boy dead?" she sobbed. "Twice we have been robbed. Once, so
many years ago, when our first-born was taken by the cruel sea, and
now--"

She had spoken so hurriedly and with such an abandon of despair that
Allan Dilke had failed in trying to calm her.

"The boy is not dead," said Shaky. "See, he is opening his eyes. He is
only exhausted."

The mother fainted from excess of joy at this, and, when she had
recovered consciousness, Jason was sitting up.

In the midst of their tears and caresses, Shaky spoke again.

"It may not be a proper time to say what I am about to, but something
urges me on. Can you bear a revelation?"

"We can bear anything now," replied Allan Dilke. "Our boy is restored to
us."

"You lost another child, did you not?" queried Shaky.

Allan Dilke made answer slowly:

"We did, years ago. But why refer to it now?"

"Because the boy is not dead," responded Shaky. "This is your son!"

As he said this, he drew Arno toward them. The boy met the eyes of Allan
Dilke unflinchingly, while Jason exclaimed, joyously:

"Good, good, good! Then we won't be parted."

"Is this true?" asked Mr. Dilke, gravely. "Can you prove that he is my
son?"

"As for proof," replied Shaky, "I had the honor of helping to steal him
away myself more than fifteen years ago, though I did it unwittingly.
You remember Bart Loring--that is my real name--and Martin Hoffman and
his wife Judith, the deaf mute? They stand before you. We have ample
proof."

"And, if I may ask the question, Mr. Loring, what prompted you to commit
this deed? Who was the instigator?"

Allan Dilke spoke these words slowly, like one in a dream; but the
answer of Shaky, or Bart Loring, came promptly:

"Your brother, Arnold Dilke. He it was who kidnapped the boy I have the
happiness of returning to you to-night. I was a sailor at that time on
board your brother's vessel, and did not know till afterward who the
child was. I also learned later that you were robbed of a considerable
sum of money at the same time, though I had no hand in this. Fear of
being implicated in the robbery kept me silent, and I left this part of
the country shortly after. I prospered, but thoughts of the great wrong
done you haunted me continually, and when I returned, a few months ago,
I determined to right this matter at the first opportunity, if it could
be done. At this time I little thought he had stolen your second child,
and it was only by the merest chance that I met your brother on the
steamer. From that moment I entered into the matter heart and soul, and
have the pleasure of restoring two boys, instead of one."

"And where is this loyal brother of mine, who came to me so repentant a
few years ago and begged for an opportunity to retrieve a wasted life?"
asked Allan Dilke, standing pale and erect, not noticing that his wife
had sunk down on the sofa beside Jason, and that one of her hands was
clasped in both those of Arno.

"He is a prisoner in the little sloop not far from here," replied Shaky.
"McDougall here, Judith, the two boys and myself were on board a sloop
which I am told was stolen from you by your brother and presented to
Martin when the two latter personages overhauled us in the Petrel. I
sent the boys into the hold, and, when Arnold came on board, we tied him
hand and foot and put him in the cabin. I have not seen him since."

"I will send my man with you to bring him here at once," said Allan
Dilke. "If he will promise to leave the country, never to return, I will
let him go free."

Shaky, Sandy McDougall, Martin and Judith, accompanied by Jacob, left
the house, and then Allan Dilke turned to Arno.

"Were you given to understand that this Martin and Judith were your
parents?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; though I never could believe it. Once, I overheard Captain
Dilke talking to Martin about me, and I knew from what they said that
the captain was my uncle."

The tones of the boy were respectful, yet confident, and Allan Dilke
smiled as he looked into the earnest eyes that met his.

"I can see the Dilke blood shining in your eyes," he said. "Who knows
but what you are the son whom we have so long mourned as dead?"

"I feel convinced that he is," replied Mrs. Dilke. "Something tells me
as plainly as words could do that he is our own flesh and blood."

They were talking in this way, when footsteps were heard at the door.

"The men have returned," said Allan Dilke, gravely, rising to his feet.
"Now I must meet my brother who has wronged me so deeply."

Jacob entered the room, followed by Bart Loring, alias Jasper Leith,
alias Shaky, the latter carrying a bundle.

"Your brother will trouble you no more," said he of the various
cognomens. "We searched the cabin of the sloop in vain; but beneath the
cabin floor, in a close compartment, we found him, his hands clutching a
great quantity of gold, but he was--dead!"

As he spoke, he dropped the bundle upon the carpet. It fell heavily,
with a metallic chink, which denoted the character of its contents.

Allan Dilke buried his face in his hands.

"Let the dead past bury its dead," he said, solemnly. "He needs not my
mercy now."

"And what will we do with the money?" asked he who had been known as
Shaky.

"Divide it between this man McDougall, Judith and yourself," replied
Allan Dilke. "I want no portion of it, and I will provide for this brave
boy whether he be my son or not."

From this day onward the recovery of Allan Dilke was rapid, and, after
the body of Captain Dilke had been consigned to the earth, Martin
produced proofs of Arno's true identity, which fully satisfied the happy
father and mother that their little family circle was complete.

Martin was allowed to go free, and, in company with Judith, who was
exceedingly loth to part with Arno, betook himself to Grand Manan
Island, where he resides to this day, a reformed, repentant man.

[THE END.]

A FLOCK OF GEESE.

by W. BERT FOSTER.

[Illustration]

"That Al Peck thinks he's _so_ smart," remarked Nat Bascom, coming into
the kitchen with a scowl of fearful proportions darkening his face.
"Just because he's got a flock of geese, and expects to make some money
on them Christmas. I wish I had some geese--or something, father. I'd
like to make some money as well as Al."

Mr. Bascom looked up from the county paper, in which he had been reading
a political article, and said, curtly:

"_You_ make money, Nat! You haven't a money-making bone in your body.
Wish you had. Last spring I gave you that plot of ground back of the
orchard to plant, and you let it grow up to weeds; and, a year ago, you
had that cosset lamb, and let the animal die. 'Most any other boy around
these parts would have made quite a little sum on either of them."

"Oh, well, the weeds got the start of me on that ground, and you know
that lamb was weakly. Ma said it was," whined Nat.

"It was after you had the care of it," reminded the elder Bascom.

"Well, pa, can't I have some geese, same as Al Peck has?" at last
inquired Nat, desperately.

"You may if you can catch them," answered his father, smiling grimly.
"If you can trap a flock of wild ones, I reckon you can have them. I
ain't going to waste any more money on your ventures."

Nat flung out of the house in anything but a pleasant frame of mind and
went over to stare longingly at Alvin Peck's flock of geese, securely
penned behind his father's barn.

Until recently, the two boys, who were about of an age, had been the
best of friends. But within a fortnight, Alvin's father had presented
his son with a flock of thirteen geese, to fatten for market, and Al
had, in Nat's eyes, put on the airs of a millionaire.

Alvin Peck may have had some excuse for being proud of his geese, for
they were all fine, handsome birds, but, in his pride, he had filled
poor Nat's breast with envy.

Nat wanted some Christmas money as well as his friend, and to hear Al
loudly boast of what he intended doing with _his_ was maddening.

Gradually the seeds of discord sown between the two boys had sprouted
and taken root, and, being warmed and watered by Nat's jealousy and Al's
selfishness, were soon in a flourishing condition, and before
Thanksgiving the former chums refused even to speak to each other.

This state of affairs made Nat secretly very lonely, for Alvin was the
only other boy within a number of miles, and, being without either
brother or sister, Nat was absolutely companionless. But his pride would
not allow him to go to his former friend and "make up." Even when Al's
dog Towser came over to visit the Bascom's Bose, Nat drove him home with
a club, thus increasing the enmity between him and Towser's master.

This deplorable state of affairs continued to grow worse instead of
better as the holidays approached. One evening, a week or ten days
before Christmas, it commenced raining, but, becoming suddenly very cold
in the night, the rain turned to ice, and the following morning the
roofs, sheds, fences, trees--everything, in fact--was covered with a
coating of ice. With the beams of the rising sun shining over all, it
seemed a picture of fairy land.

But Nat Bascom arose that morning with an uglier feeling against Al Peck
than ever. Donning his outside garments, he went out to assist his
father in feeding the cattle.

The hay-stack behind the barn had a glittering coat of ice, and, as he
approached it, Nat discovered something else about it as well. Close to
the ground, on the lea of the stack, were a number of objects which Nat
quickly recognized as geese--thirteen of them.

"They're those plaguey geese of Al Peck's!" exclaimed Nat, as one of the
birds stretched out its long neck at his approach and uttered a
threatening "honk! honk!"

The geese tried to scuttle away as he came nearer, and then for the
first time Nat discovered that they, like the inanimate things about
them, were completely sheathed in ice; so much so, in fact, that they
could not use their wings.

Nat stood still a moment and thought.

"I know what I'll do," he said, aloud, "I'll put them in pound, same as
father did old Grayson's cattle last summer, and make Al pay me to get
them out."

With this happy thought, he at once set about securing the geese.

One end of an old shed near by had in former times been used by the
Bascoms for a hen-house, and there was still a low entrance through
which the fowls were wont to go in and out.

Carefully, and so as not to alarm them, Nat drove the thirteen birds
into the shed and clapped a board over the opening. The geese objected
with continued cries to these proceedings, but they were too thoroughly
coated with ice to get away.

"There, now, Mister Al Peck, I think I'll get even with you this time,"
he said, in a tone of satisfaction.

Hastening through the remainder of his chores, he started off in the
direction of the Peck place without saying a word about the matter to
either of his parents.

As he approached Mr. Peck's barn, he beheld Al returning from the
direction of his goose-pen.

"You needn't look for them, Al Peck," remarked Nat, with a malicious
grin, "for you can't find them. You ought to keep your old geese shut
up, if you don't want to lose them."

"I haven't lost them," declared Al, with a somewhat puzzled expression
of countenance.

"Oh, you haven't?" snapped Nat, angered at the other's apparent
coolness. "You needn't think you're going to get them back for nothing.
I found them all camped under our haystack this morning, and drove them
into the old hen-house. You've just got to pay me ten cents apiece for
them before I'll let them out. I bet you'll keep them to home after
this."

Al opened his mouth and closed it again like a flash. He was evidently
surprised.

Just then Mr. Peck appeared on the scene. Al repeated what Nat had said,
to his father's very evident amazement.

"Why, I saw--" began the elder Peck, when Al interrupted him with a
gesture, and whispered something in his ear.

A broad grin overspread Mr. Peck's face for a moment; then he said, with
becoming gravity:

"I suppose you've got the rights of it, Nat, but seems to me it's a
rather mean trick."

Nat had begun to think so, too, by this time, but he refused to listen
to the promptings of his better nature and said nothing.

"We'll come right over with the team for them," said Mr. Peck.

And he and Al at once harnessed up, and placing a large, strong coop in
the wagon, drove over to the Bascom place.

"I should think you'd have your geese tame enough to drive," said Nat;
but the Pecks paid no attention to the remark.

Mr. Peck pulled his cap well down over his eyes, put on a pair of gloves
and entered the hen-house.

The ice had by this time melted from their backs and wings, and those
thirteen geese were the liveliest flock of birds imaginable.

"Thirteen of them. All right!" said Mr. Peck, passing out the last
struggling bird to his son, who clapped it into the coop.

A dollar and thirty cents was handed to Nat by Al's father, with the
cutting remark:

"There's your money, young man! I hope you won't grow up to be as mean
as you bid fair to be now."

Nat accepted the money, considerably shame-faced, and followed the Pecks
back to their place to see them unload the geese; but he was
disappointed, in that they were not unloaded, Al flinging some corn into
the coop, which was allowed to remain in the wagon.

"Aren't you going to put them into the pen again?" inquired Nat, mildly.

"They've never been in a pen, that I know of," replied Mr. Peck, with a
queer smile.

"I don't believe they'd get along very well with any other geese," added
Al, reflecting his father's broad grin.

"Why--" began Nat, at last beginning to believe that there was something
_very_ peculiar about the whole affair.

"Why, it is just here!" explained Al. "They weren't my geese at all,
till I bought them of you. They were a flock of wild ones, that got
belated in the storm last evening, I suppose. I should think you'd have
known them by their call. For once in your life, Nat Bascom, you've
over-reached yourself. I shall clear as much as seventy-five cents on
each of those birds."

Nat made for home at once, followed by shouts of laughter from the
Pecks, father and son. He felt as though everything stable in the world
had been knocked from under him.

Although he never mentioned the matter to his father or mother, the
story reached them through other sources, for it soon spread throughout
the community, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bascom had the least sympathy
for him.

All that winter the nickname of "Goose" clung to him, and perhaps the
jeers of his fellows did him some good; at least, it made a lasting
impression on his mind, and when he was tempted to perform a mean act
again, he could not fail to remember how he had once over-reached
himself.

DRAWN INTO THE WHIRLPOOL

(_A Norway Boy's Adventure._)

by DAVID KER.

Under the lee of a small island on the northwest coast of Norway a young
fisher-lad lay sleeping in the boat in which he had been out all night,
unconscious of the grim face and cruel eye that watched him from the
thicket above with a look that boded him no good. Just then, two men
came pulling round the point behind which his boat was moored, and one
of them said to the other, loud enough to be heard by the hidden watcher
overhead, though not to wake the sleeper:

"There's a rich Englishman come into Langeness, in his yacht, and he's
offered a big reward to any man that'll find out what those letters are
that are carved on the sea-king's grave."

"Why don't he offer a reward for the moon?" laughed the other. "Does he
think any money can tempt men to go right into a whirlpool that would
swallow the stoutest boat in these seas like a biscuit?"

"But they say that at the flood-tide you may go through it without harm,
if you start just at the right moment."

"Aye! _if_ you do. But who would be fool enough to risk it?"

Then they passed on, and their voices were lost in the distance.

The moment their boat was out of sight, behind the rocks, a wild face
peered through the matted boughs overhead, and a bulky figure rose
stealthily from the bushes and crept downward toward the sleeping boy,
with a long knife in its hand. One quick slash cut the mooring-rope, and
the boat slowly drifted seaward with its slumbering occupant.

"The current sets straight for the whirlpool," muttered the ruffian,
with a cruel laugh, "and, when he's missed, they'll think the _reward_
tempted him. I'm quits at last with his father for the thrashing that he
gave me!"

Only a few miles from the spot, a small rocky islet had sunk down into
the sea ages ago, creating by its fall one of the most dangerous
whirlpools in northern waters, known in Norway as the "Well of
Tuftiloe."

In the midst of the whirl stood up one dark, pillar-shaped crag, the
sole remnant of the lost islet, which the Norsemen, believing it to be
some ancient hero's tomb, called "The Sea King's Grave." And, in fact,
passing yachtsmen had seen upon it from a distance, through their
telescopes, traces of rude carving, and something that looked like the
half-effaced letters of an old Runic inscription. But although the
whirlpool, like its big brother, the maelstrom, was believed to be
passable at certain states of the tide, no one had ever dared to try.

The quickening motion of the current, as it bore the light boat swiftly
along, roused the boy at last, but it was too late. Being half asleep,
it was some minutes ere he realized what had befallen him or whither he
was going, and the first warning he had of this rush straight upon
certain destruction was the dull roar of the distant whirlpool, which,
the tide being now full ebb, was just at the height of its fury.

Fully roused at last, Mads Nilssen seized his oars and pulled till they
seemed on the point of snapping; but all in vain.

Faster and faster the boat was whirled along--nearer and nearer it drew
to the terrible ring of white foam that marked the deadly whirl. And now
he could see plainly the grim crag that kept watch over that ghastly
abyss, and now he almost touched its outermost eddy--and now he was
dragged into it and began to spin dizzily round in lessening circles
nearer and nearer to his doom.

And all this while the dancing ripples sparkled gaily around him, the
sun shone gloriously in a cloudless sky, the white-winged sea-birds
soared rejoicingly overhead and seemed to mock him with their shrill
cries.

It was hard to die amid all this brightness and beauty; but die he must,
for there was no way of escape. Even in this dire strait, however, with
the hungry waves leaping around him, the brave boy did not lose his
presence of mind. One faint chance was still left to him, and he seized
it.

As the boat made its final whirl around the central crag before plunging
down into the depths below, he sprang upon the gunwale, and, exerting
all his wonderful agility, made a desperate leap that landed him on the
lowest ledge of the rock, bruised, bleeding, dizzy, but _saved_ for the
moment. In another instant the deserted boat had vanished forever into
the roaring gulf below.

To all appearance the bold lad had escaped one death only to perish by
another more lingering and painful; but even now he did not despair.

He remembered to have heard that just at full flood tide the whirlpool
was not dangerous, and he determined to watch for the subsiding of its
fury and then plunge in and take his chance of being able to swim ashore
or to fall in with a boat.

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