"Speak for yourself," said Henry the Eighth severely. "But what about Becket?"

"Ah, well, there was a little accident, I believe, about him, and he got hurt. But I assure you I never touched him; in fact, I was a hundred miles away at the time. I'll prove an alibi if you like."

"No, no," said the judge; "that is quite sufficient. Chalk down two, Nigger: one for Becket and one for the bad family. How many does that come to?"

"That's eight," said the Black Prince. "All right. We only want two more. Go on."

"'Richard the First, surnamed the Lion Heart, was the strongest and bravest man in England, and won many glorious battles in the Holy Land.'"

"Hullo, I say," said the judge. "That's pitching it just a little strong, isn't it? What have you got to say to that, Dicky?"

"Seems pretty square," said Richard modestly. "He doesn't say what a good dentist I was, though. My! the dozens I used to pull out; and—oh, I say—look here, he says nothing about Blondel, and the tune I composed. That's far more important than the Crusades. It was an andante in F minor, you know, and—"

"That'll do, that'll do, Dicky. We've heard that before," interrupted the judge. "Score him down half a lie, Nigger, and call up Johnny."

"'King John, surnamed Lackland, was a wicked king. He was forced to yield to the barons, and he lost all his clothes in the Wash.'"

"Well, I never!" said John, foaming with rage; "if that isn't the coolest bit of lying I ever heard! Here have I been and worn my fingers to the bone writing Magna Charta and giving England all her liberties, and he never once mentions it! My lord and gentlemen, I should like to read you the document I hold in my hand, in order that you may judge—"

"What, eh? Read that thing?" exclaimed Henry the Eighth, in horror. "You'd better try it on, that's all. Good gracious me, what next? I've a good mind to commit you for contempt of court. The question is, were you a wicked king? and did you lose your clothes in the Wash?"

"I am surprised and pained that your lordship should ask me either question. When I assure you, my lord and gentlemen, that a more dutiful son, a wiser monarch, a tenderer husband, and a more estimable man than the humble individual who now addresses you, never drew—"

"Teeth," put in Richard I.

"No, breath," continued John. "And when I further tell you that I never even sent my clothes to the wash, and therefore could not possibly have lost them there, you will—"

"All right, pull up," said the judge. "That'll do. Keep the rest, my boy. That makes ten and a half—more than we want. Now, then, the next thing is, what sort of execution shall we have?"

"Oh, please," said the ladies, "please, Harry, darling, let the jury go out and bring the verdict in. It will be such fun."

"Eh, what?" said Henry, "oh, bother the jury! Where are they? Clear out, do you hear!" said he, addressing the twelve. "Go up to the Napoleon room and talk it over, and stay till I send for you."

The jury obeyed, and I was left alone in the dock.

"Now," said the judge, evidently relieved, "let's have the execution."

"But we've not had the verdict yet," said Anne Boleyn.

"That'll do any time," said Henry. "Just as much fun to have it afterwards. Besides, it's a wonderful saving of time to get the execution over now, while we're waiting; and then we can go straight to the refreshment-room. Eh, girls? Eh, what? Ah, I thought so."

"Oh, well," said Catherine of Aragon, "but do put him in the condemned cell for a minute or so, and then have him brought out, like they all are, and—"

"As they all are," said Henry the First. "Like is only used when—"

"Hold your tongue, you impertinent, forward young man!" said Catherine in a rage. "There, now!" added she, beginning to cry, "I've forgotten what I was going to say, all through you!"

"I think," said Henry the Eighth, waving his hand for silence, "he'd better be hung. Marwood tells me it's a very pretty sight; and the gallows are there quite handy. Besides," added he confidentially, "we should have to tip him in any case, so we may as well let him have the job, and get what we can for our money. What, eh?"

Every one approved of this, and the executioner was summoned.

Then, as I stood there, shivering in every limb, unable to speak, or even to move, I was aware once more of the lantern coming towards me, and of a hand laid heavily on my shoulder.

"Come, young gentleman," said the voice, "wake up—or you'll get locked in. They're shutting the doors. Tumble up, and look sharp."

It was Madame Tussaud's porter; and I had been fast asleep, after all!



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A STORY OF THE CIVIL WARS.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE INTERRUPTED FEAST.

The Singletons were a small Lowland clan, or rather faction, for their name does not appear in history as a clan. For all that, they were as loyal to their king and as devoted to their chief as any clan in Scotland, and when the time for sacrifice and hard blows came, the Singletons, as every one knew, were ever to the front.

And it is only fair to say the Singletons were always in the wars. When they were not fighting the Roundheads they were fighting the Campbells or the Frasers or the Macintoshes, or others of their hereditary foes; or if none of these were obliging enough, or at liberty to indulge them in their favourite pastime, then they made enemies for themselves among the neighbouring clans, or else crossed over to Holland to keep their hands in there till fortune favoured them once more at home. The old castle, with its rambling towers, and walls, and buttresses was a sort of rallying-point for all the pugnacious spirits of the time, and its bluff walls showed many a scar and many a dint where hostile guns had played upon them, not, you may be sure, without reply.

The Singletons, in fact (and specially since the old laird had died), thrived on fighting. At the present day they might, perhaps, have passed as freebooters and outlaws, but during the troubled times of the Commonwealth they were looked upon as a noble band of patriots, whose swords were ever ready in the king's cause, and whose castle was as open and hospitable to a friend as it was unyielding to a foe.

Such was the place within whose weather-beaten and war-beaten walls a festive company was assembled one November afternoon in the year of our Lord 16—.

For once in a way the Singletons were at peace. The king's cause was for a time under a cloud, and the Campbells and the Frasers and the Macintoshes were far too busy about their own affairs to come out of the way to defy this small bulldog of a clan in the south. The Singletons had serious thoughts of invading some place, or sacking some castle, or making a raid across the border, just to pass the time. It was like being out of work! They fretted and chafed in their fortress, and nearly fell out among themselves, and very heartily wished some one would give them a pretext for a fight. But no one did.

It was at least a diversion for them to celebrate the coming of age of the young laird, and the event, which in times of war might have passed scarcely heeded, now became one of mighty importance to these restless Singletons.

They called together every man of the name who could easily be found between the Solway and the Tay. They hoisted the old family ensign on the castle walls, and by way of mischief some of them displayed the pennant of the Macfies—another rival clan—below it. They drove in twelve head of oxen, regardless of proprietorship, wherewith to make good cheer at table, and they decked the grand old banqueting-hall with branches and heather, till it was more like a bower than a room.

These and many other things the Singletons did by way of showing honour to the occasion, and when that evening thirty of them sat round the festive board, with the young chief at the head, and with pyramids of beef and mutton and bread before them, their satisfaction and enthusiasm reached its highest pitch.

"Here's luck to the Singleton!" shouted they, "root and branch, laird and clan."

And amid cheers, prolonged and deafening, the health was honoured and the banquet proceeded.

"Was ever luck like ours?" growled one youth to his neighbour. "Here have we been six weeks idle, with never a knock."

"And it'll be six weeks longer before we get one again, I'm thinking, unless the king's party gather," said his comrade. "We don't get our fair share of fighting, Tam, that's what it is."

"May be the young laird will change all that. But, I say, Donald, I have my doubts of it."

"What, of the young laird?" exclaimed the others.

"Ay, he's been brought up in a queer school in England, they tell me, where it's considered ill-breeding to molest your neighbour."

"Do you say so? The barbarians! That would never do for us, Tam. But of course the young laird taught them better?"

"They say they taught him worse, and that— Well, never mind. What is auld Geordie saying?"

Auld Geordie was on his feet, announcing with great glee that a convoy of treasure, bound for Edinburgh, was on its way at that moment from Newcastle, so he had heard, and would pass within three miles of Singleton Towers.

"And it'll be ours, boys," cried the old man, turning to his comrades; "and the young laird shall win his spurs upon it! What do you say?"

A shout was the only answer. The proposal was one after the Singletons' own heart. Every one looked towards the young laird.

Singleton was a dark, mild-looking youth, old for his years, and up till the present time a stranger to his clan. For, as has already been hinted, he had but just returned from England, where his boyhood had been spent, to celebrate his coming of age. Great things were expected of him, not only as the head of the clan, but as the son of his brave father, who had died twelve years ago; and since whose death the Singletons had been leaderless. With a bold leader they might achieve anything; and they now welcomed the presence of a chief once more in their midst with all the hope and confidence of sons welcoming a father. It was, therefore, with astonishment and dismay that they heard him reply to auld Geordie's proposal—

"I did not know the Singletons were highwaymen!"

If the roof had fallen in it could not have caused greater consternation. The Singletons looked aghast to hear such a speech from their chief!

"Is the boy mad?" said one in a whisper.

"Or a coward?" said another.

"Or a fool?" said another.

"The laird's joking," said auld Geordie, in a coaxing voice; "and we are glad to see ye so merry. But ye'll be in earnest to-morrow, I warrant, with a score of troopers between you and a thousand pounds!"

"I'm in earnest now," replied young Singleton. "I'm no robber chief, I tell you. The convoy shall go safe to Edinburgh, as far as we are concerned. But, come now, Geordie, I want to hear something about this old castle of mine, for you know I was scarcely in it since I was a boy."

But it was easier to turn the talk than to turn the thoughts of his clansmen. They experienced, all of them, a distinct disappointment at this first exercise of authority on the part of their young laird; and the cheeks of some of the younger among them actually coloured with shame at the thought that a Singleton—the Singleton—should be lacking (as they could not help thinking he was) in bravery. However, they said nothing, but seemed to listen to auld Geordie, as he launched out into an account of the old castle of Singleton Towers.

"It's a brave old place," said he. "Sir David Singleton it was who built it here, on this arm of the sea, in the time of King Wallace. The story goes that Wallace himself set the top stone of the great tower with his own hands. Sir David did not live long to enjoy the stronghold, as you have heard."

"How did he die? I never heard that," asked the young laird.

"Alas! it is a sad story, though a short one. Sir David had a son, and that son was a coward—the first, and we hope the last, coward who ever bore the name."

Here all looked hard at the youth, who, not noticing their meaning glances, said—

"Amen, with all my heart! Go on."

"Well, this son grew up, like you, in England, and it was not till he had reached man's estate that he came here. His father, a proud man, and ambitious, rejoiced, as your father would have rejoiced this day, to see a son in his place, ready, as he hoped, to carry on the brave traditions of his name to a future generation. The youth was welcomed home with great pomp and rejoicing, and for aught men could see he was a worthy son of a worthy sire.

"But, alas! as the Bible says, 'Pride comes before the fall.' A few days after his home-coming, the news came that a party of English was advancing on Singleton Towers. The old laird, nothing doubting, ordered his son to take fifty men and meet the enemy, while he himself stayed behind to guard this place.

"The lad obeyed, and marched forth. They met, he and the English, under Brantor Hill yonder; and then appeared the real character of the boy. At the first onset, before ever a blow was struck, he turned and fled, no one knows whither.

"The old laird for long would not believe it; but when on all hands the story was confirmed, and no news came of the lad, he sickened and drooped. He shut himself up in the turret-room out there and never left it except at night, when his one walk was on the east terrace, over this very room.

"One night they missed the sound of his footsteps, and next morning he was found dead in his little chamber—dead of a broken heart. And they say that if ever again a coward should be the laird of Singleton, that that old man will walk out there where he walked four centuries ago."

A dead silence followed the close of this story, and all eyes, by a sort of common instinct, were turned towards the head of the table. At that moment, apparently from the terrace outside, came a sound of footsteps; and as they listened, every cheek grew suddenly pale, and a shudder crept round the assembly. The silence, however, was broken by a laugh from the young laird himself, who had been the only unmoved hearer of this last mysterious sound.

"Why, there is my poor dog, Jupiter, out there! I had quite forgotten him. Let him in, some one!"

No one stirred. The young chief looked round perplexed, and then rose himself and went to the window and opened it. As he did so, a huge shaggy mastiff bounded into the apartment, barking and capering for glee at seeing once again his master and hearing his voice.

"Lie down, sir, quiet. Now, my men, what think you of this for a ghost? Thanks, Geordie, for your story. I remember now, I heard it when a child. Well, let's hope it will be a long while yet before Sir David's ghost is put to the trouble of a midnight walk."

"Hist, my young master," said Tam; "it's ill jesting with the spirits."

"What, Tam! one would think, now, by the way you speak, you would not dare to keep a solitary watch on the east terrace yourself."

"I'd dare anything," replied Tam, "but—"

"But you would rather not," replied Singleton, laughing.

That laugh roused the spirit of Tam, who, though superstitious, was hardly a coward.

"I never said that," he cried; "and if needs be I would do it, even to- night."

"Even to-night!" repeated Singleton. "What does the man mean? Even to-night! I've a good mind to order you to the watch to-night for talking in riddles, sirrah!"

"The watch here has always been a double one since I can remember," put in auld Geordie.

"To my mind, one man ought to be able to watch as well as two, for the matter of that. And so, Tam, you mean you would be more comfortable with a comrade on the east terrace to-night. Perhaps Sir David would oblige you," he added, with a laugh.

The soldier flushed angrily.

"Ay, you may say that," he muttered, in an undertone; "it's more than likely Sir David will be walking to-night."

The boy caught these last words, and glanced quickly at the speaker. The meaning of these mysterious utterances suddenly flashed upon him. These men, then mistook him, their chief, their captain, for a coward!

A crimson flush suffused his face, a flush of shame and anger, as he sprang to his feet.

At that instant, and before he could utter a word, a bugle sounded at the gate, and there entered the hall a soldier whose appearance bore every mark of desperate haste.

"Singleton," he cried, as he entered, "the king's friends are up! Glencairn musters his men at daybreak at Scotsboro', and expects the thirty men of the Singletons promised him, there and then!"

Here was a piece of news! The long-wished-for summons had come at last, and the heart of each Singleton present beat high at the prospect of battle! And yet in the midst of their elation a serious difficulty presented itself.

"Thirty men!" said Geordie, looking round him. "Why there are but thirty-one men here, counting the laird. Some must stay."

But the young laird, who had noticed the same thing, cried out promptly to the messenger—

"Tell your general he shall have his thirty men before dawn," and with that the soldier withdrew.

The joy of the Singletons now gave place to something like panic, as they comprehended what the rash pledge of their young chief really meant. It meant that thirty of them must go, and one must stay; and what could one man do to defend a castle like Singleton Towers? The elder soldiers were specially concerned.

"Call him back, Singleton," said Geordie. "You cannot leave this place defenceless! Think of the peril! Ten men must stay, at the least."

"Who says 'must' to me?" cried the young chief, impatiently. "Are the Singletons to be word-breakers as well as highwaymen? Thirty men shall go. Have we not promised?"

"But who will stay?" asked some one.

"Ah, that's it," cried another. "Who is to stay?"

Silence ensued on the question, and then—

"I will stay," quietly replied Singleton.

"You! The laird!" shouted every one, in amazement. "That can never be!"

"Why not?" inquired the youth. "Who is chief here, you or I?"

"But who is to lead us in battle?"

"Ah," said Singleton, "that is my duty, I know, but it is equally my duty to stay here!"

"But it is certain peril, and you could do no good. Let one of us stay. Let me stay with you," said Geordie.

"No, brave Geordie, you must go. It must never be said the Singletons broke their word, even to save their castle. Take the thirty men to Glencairn. If he permits ten to return, well and good. You will find me here."

"But your place is at our head," said the men.

"And there I will be to-morrow. To-night I watch here; ay, and on the east terrace with Sir David, Tam," he added, with a smile. "But come; to horse there! You lose time. Bring out the guns! On with your belts, men! Be brisk now! Take every man some bread and meat from the table!"

And with these words the martial fire of the father blazed out in the son, so that his men wondered more than ever how they could have suspected him of faint-heartedness.

"Are you all equipped and mounted? Lower the drawbridge there! Open the gate! Forward, men! and 'Singleton for the king!'"

And waving his hand he bade them march forth, and watched them slowly defile across the drawbridge and turn their horses' heads eastward.

The last man to cross was Tam.

"Heaven protect you," he said, humbly, "and forgive me for the insult I put upon you." Then reining in his horse, he added, almost beseechingly, "Once again, let me stay with you."

"Not I," replied young Singleton, gaily. "Forward, Tam, and to-morrow, if you return, you shall hear how I fared."

Tam said nothing, but setting spurs to his horse, bounded across the drawbridge and rejoined his comrades.

Singleton, having watched the troop as they slowly wended their way among the trees of the wood till they were lost to sight, drew up the bridge and closed and barred the great gate. Then, with a stout though anxious heart, he turned and addressed himself to his solitary and hazardous undertaking.

Sub-Chapter II.

THE NIGHT WATCH.

The young laird of Singleton turned slowly from the courtyard out of which his men had just ridden, back into the castle.

Young as he was, and inexperienced, he knew enough of the state of his country to feel that the task which he had imposed upon himself was one of the greatest peril, not only to his own life, but to the ancestral castle of his clan, for the country swarmed with freebooters and hostile clans, on the look-out for any chance of plunder; and they, if only they got wind of the unprotected state of Singleton Towers, would lose no time, he knew, in striking a blow during the absence of the clan, which might end in the loss of the old fortress for ever. Still, what else could he have done? He was bound in honour to fulfil his pledge to the royal cause by sending the thirty men, and as for himself, he had no hesitation in deciding that, for this night at least, the post of duty, if not of honour, was on the ramparts of his own castle, even though on that account the Singletons must ride leaderless to the king's standard.

Besides, it must be confessed, there was a spice of adventure about the undertaking which well accorded with his bold spirit; and as his thoughts went back to the scene of the banquet and the suspicions entertained there as to his own courage, it pleased him to reflect that, whatever happened, a Singleton would never again be able to charge his chief with cowardice.

It was nine o'clock and quite dark when he turned from the gateway out of which his men had just sallied, and retraced his steps slowly into the deserted castle. His solitary footsteps sounded weird and lonely across the paved yard which a few minutes before had rung with the clatter of horses and the bustle of preparation. Still more solitary did they sound as he passed on his way through the deserted passages, and found himself once more in the old banqueting-hall, where the feast remained still on the board, and the empty chairs all round, just as the clansmen had left them to obey the sudden and urgent order to march forth.

But dreariest of all did they sound as, forcing open a small and long disused door, which grated back on its hinges and groaned as he did so, he stepped out on to the east terrace.

Before he did this, however, he took all the wise precautions necessary to insure, as far as possible, the safety of the old castle, and in some respects this was not a difficult task, for Singleton Towers stood at the head of a narrow arm of the sea, which on three sides completely surrounded it, leaving only the east side assailable by land.

On the sides of the sea the castle rose perpendicularly from the water, the only entrance being by way of a creek, half cave, half boathouse, the entrance to which could at pleasure be barred by a portcullis. This precaution Singleton took, and had the satisfaction of feeling that on its seaboard at least the castle was as secure as if a garrison of a hundred men watched it.

On the land side, however, security was not so possible. The water was continued in the form of a ditch twelve yards wide round this side also; but it was a narrow protection at the best. The drawbridge which spanned it was, as we have already seen, drawn up; and the great iron gate connecting with the outside world, carefully barred and bolted. Still, as Singleton looked down, he felt concerned to think how easily a few bold men could swim the moat and assault the place. But he was in for it now!

As auld Geordie had said, the guns of the castle were all loaded and ready for action; and Singleton was relieved to see that one of these was mounted on the turret over the great gate; and a further discovery relieved him still more, and that was that the woods on this side were so dense that, except along the narrow clearing through the trees, it would hardly be possible for any number of troops, especially if they brought artillery, to approach.

He therefore took advantage of the moonlight to point the gun carefully so as exactly to cover the entrance to this narrow path, a precaution which, as will be seen, stood him in good stead before the night was out.

As to the other guns, there was one on the east terrace, rusty and old- fashioned, but happily loaded; and there were others at various corners and buttresses, all of which the young laird inspected and ascertained to be ready for any emergency. He also placed muskets in readiness at various points in case of need.

All these preparations occupied a long time in effecting, and it was not till an hour had passed since the departure of his men that Singleton felt able to take his place on the watch, and quietly await the result of his venture.

He had scarcely done so, however, when it occurred to him that though all the garrison had left the place, there was still plenty of armour in the castle which might be used to good purpose. Why not set out helmets on the ramparts, and pikes as well as guns? It was a good idea. He hurried to the armoury, and quickly took from their places all the steel helmets and pikes and plumes on which he could lay his hands. These he artfully disposed on various parts of the battlements, so that to any one below it would appear that instead of one man, twenty armed warriors guarded the place.

"Who knows but these numskulls may serve me in good stead?" said the youth to himself, laughing to think what excellent substitutes for a living man an empty helmet with a spear-head beside it may be made to appear. This little artifice being satisfactorily accomplished, and lights set burning in various rooms of the castle still further to aid the delusion, he returned once more to the east terrace and began his solitary vigil.

The moon was up, and peeped occasionally from behind the drifting clouds to light up the dark scene below. As Singleton peered down from his lofty post, he could see the water sparkling below him, and catch the distant lights here and there on wood and mountain. Not a sound was to be heard but the moaning of the wind among the turrets and the distant splash of the water against the south base of the castle. Not a moving creature was to be seen, except the uneasy bats which flapped round now and then over his head. Everything below was motionless and silent, without one token of life, except, indeed, the distant light of a beacon, which tinged the sky with a lurid glare, and added a weird feature to the dark, solitary landscape.

Singleton, after a turn or two, was conscious of a half-dismal sensation and a feeling of loneliness, which, as long as he had been busily occupied, had not oppressed him. He paced quickly to and fro, whistling to himself, and determined not to yield to the effects of his position. He wondered how far his men were on their way by this time. Was old Geordie riding at their head? Suppose they were attacked, how would they come out of it? He wondered, too, if Tam was—

What was that?

A low groan from one corner of the terrace, and the clanking of a chain! Singleton halted dead, and for a moment his heart was in his mouth. Then he broke into a laugh.

"Jupiter again! That's the second time he has played ghost to-night! Well, old doggie, you've woke up, have you, and you're going to keep me company, eh?"

And then, as he resumed his march, he talked in a low voice to the dog, who rose quietly from his corner, and with soft, stealthy tread proceeded to accompany his master to and fro along the terrace.

Singleton was ashamed of himself for being as startled as he had been at this incident.

"A pretty hero I shall make at this rate," said he; "if this is the worst alarm I am to have to-night I shall get off easily, eh?"

Jupiter solemnly wagged his tail, and evidently considering he had done enough in accompanying his master some twenty turns up and down, retired quietly to his old corner, and once again composed himself to slumber.

Singleton walked on, halting now and then to make a careful scrutiny all round, and continuing to whistle softly to himself all the time.

Somehow his mind continually found itself reverting to Geordie's story. It was an old wife's tale, of course, but a queer one too. And this was the very terrace on which the old warrior used to walk, and that little turret-chamber there was his room! Ah! strange how the reflection of the moon should make it appear as if there were a light in the room! If he were not certain no light was there, he could have vowed that was one. Bah! he wished Geordie had kept his story to himself, it made him feel quite dismal.

Hark! A footstep!

He was certain he heard one, close at his side too. He stood still and listened. Everything was silent. He moved on again. There! he heard it distinctly! almost in step with his own. He looked up and down, everywhere; and then Geordie's words rushed back on his memory, "If ever again a coward should be laird of Singleton, that old man—"

Here he stepped forward, and again suddenly halted. The footstep that time was as distinct as his own. Pooh! what if it was? He was not going to be afraid of all the ghosts in Scotland! and he laughed out loud by way of assuring himself of his nerve. But he had hardly done so, when just above him sounded another laugh, mocking his own, and as he stepped suddenly forward, the footsteps began again as clear as ever.

This was more than Singleton had bargained for; and he sat down on the end of the gun in bewilderment and alarm. Had any one been there to see his face it would have appeared a good deal paler than was its wont; and it was certainly something more than the cold that made him shiver. He sat perfectly still and listened. There was not a sound. He strained his eyes on every hand. Nothing was visible through the darkness but the silent terrace on which he watched. What could it be? As he sat and wondered, the pike which had been resting carelessly across his knee slipped and fell on to the stone pavement with a sudden clank, which was instantly repeated overhead, just as the laugh and the footsteps had been.

Of course it flashed upon Singleton then—an echo! nothing but a simple echo among the nooks and crannies of the castle; and at a simple echo his cheek had turned pale and his heart had stood still, and his hands had actually trembled! He scorned himself bitterly for his cowardice; and once more, relieved in mind and humbled in spirit, set out on his night watch, determined this time that nothing, not even a score of ghosts, should terrify him.

And now the night began to wear on. By this time the men must be very near their rendezvous, for it was an hour past midnight, and the moon was getting down towards the west. He wondered what other clans would muster round the royal standard, and how soon the king's forces would be likely to meet the enemy. This time to-morrow he would be with his men; that is, provided the general permitted ten of them to return and relieve guard here. Supposing no one came!

At that moment Jupiter gave a very low growl, which made his master stop short in his march and listen with all his ears. For a long time not a sound was audible, and then he fancied he could just detect the tramp of a horse or horses in the far far distance. But that seemed to die away, and again all was utterly silent.

But once more, just as he was starting again on his walk, Jupiter growled, and this time rose to his feet and came to his master's side. Yes, it was the sound of horses somewhere; more than one, too. With straining ears and beating heart, the youth leant on his pike, and listened. The sound grew more and more distinct, and presently he could tell that, whoever they were, they were galloping. He ordered Jupiter to lie down and be silent. They were in the wood, somewhere. Were they bound for Singleton? Presently he was able to distinguish voices, and a minute afterwards it seemed as if every sound had ceased.

He stepped quietly, followed by Jupiter, from the east terrace to the rampart over the great gate, where he was able to command as full a view as the uncertain light would allow of the glade through the frees which led to the castle. But nothing could be seen. As he watched, the sounds commenced again, and this time he fancied he could detect a rumbling noise as of a cart accompanying the horsemen.

It was now easy to tell the meaning of all these sounds. A troop of horsemen—he could not yet guess how many—were approaching Singleton Towers; and bringing with them a gun!

The young laird's heart beat now in right earnest, but not with fear. That had been left behind with the ghosts. He forgot everything but the defence of his castle and the glory of his clan; and waited eagerly for the time of action.

The cavalcade made a halt about halfway through the wood, and in the still night air, with the light breeze carrying it, Singleton could hear the sound of voices as in hurried consultation. Then a single horseman approached; and before many minutes he could just discern in the dim moonlight a form emerging from the wood and stealthily approaching the castle.

"Let him come and spy," said Singleton, to himself.

"He will see the lights, and perhaps a few spear-heads on the walls—and he'll report as much to his chief. Ah!"

At that moment the clouds cleared away from the moon and clearly revealed the intruder. He was one of the Macfies, Singleton could see, and fully armed. He dismounted at the border of the wood, and advanced cautiously on foot to the edge of the moat. This he made no attempt to cross, but made his observations from the far side.

Singleton, taking care not to be seen, crept back into the armoury, from which he took a bugle. Bringing it out into the terrace, he sounded a few shrill notes; and then instantly seizing a lantern, ran hurriedly to and fro with it on various parts of the battlements. Then without waiting a moment he took up a musket and fired it in the direction of the scout, who, however, was by this time out of reach.

"There!" said Singleton, putting down his weapon; "that will satisfy them we are on the alert, all of us, and ready for them! Perhaps they will think better of it, and turn tail."

No! in a few minutes the sound of the advancing troop again rose in the night. They came on at a trot, dragging their gun along with them. Presently there was a gleam among the trees, and next moment some fifty horsemen appeared in view, with a cannon in their midst, which, equally to Singleton's satisfaction and surprise, they proceeded to get into position at the very entrance to the wood.

It was on this spot, it will be remembered, that the young laird had carefully levelled the gun that surmounted the great gate. Everything depended now on the skill with which he had aimed it. He gave the foe a minute or two to fix and point their weapon, and once more carefully calculated the poise of his own. Then, just as they were proceeding to load, and the horsemen were preparing to follow up the attack on the gate, he applied the match, and with a mighty roar the piece discharged.

It was an anxious moment while the smoke slowly cleared away. When it did he had the joy of beholding the enemy's gun on end and disabled, and not only it, but at least three of the enemy themselves involved in the same disaster.

He could not resist a triumphant cheer at this success, which was promptly answered by a defiant shout from the enraged Macfies as they set spurs to their horses and rushed towards the moat.

And now began the hard work of the night. For the foe thought nothing of such a narrow obstacle as a simple ditch. Some swam it on horseback, and some left their animals behind, but all—all except two whom Singleton's trusty muskets had found out—crossed in safety. The raid they made on the great gate was something terrific, and Singleton's heart trembled within him as he heard it creak before their united weight. But he worked away steadily at his post, always taking care not to expose himself, yet never wasting a shot with a bad aim.

The enemy very soon quitted the gate, and took to the more formidable work of attempting to scale the walls. And here Singleton's power was tried to the utmost. For at one part the ground sloped a considerable distance up one of the buttresses, which made the ascent from below comparatively easy, and if only the Macfies had been suitably equipped for an assault, they could not have failed to carry the place with ease.

But happily for Singleton, they had come very ill prepared, evidently expecting to walk into a defenceless stronghold without a blow—and now they were not only disappointed but disconcerted.

Yet there was no keeping them down eventually. In vain Singleton plied his weapon with deadly effect; in vain he dislodged and hurled down upon them one of the massive coping stones of the east terrace. As fast as the foremost fell back dead or wounded, others swarmed up. It was well for Singleton no attempt was made on any other part but this assailable buttress, and even this was scaled at last.

The young laird had stepped back hurriedly to load his weapon, when he suddenly saw a head appear above the battlements; and next moment a fierce Lowlander sprang on to the terrace.

With the butt end of his weapon Singleton felled him, while at the same moment Jupiter flew at the throat of the man next to him who was also springing on to the wall.

It was a narrow escape indeed; and but for the dog, the castle might after all have been lost. Once more the youth cleared the buttress, and this time with such deadly effect, that the enemy halted a moment before resuming the attack. This short breathing space was unutterably valuable to Singleton, for it gave him time not only to load several muskets, but to bring one of the smaller cannon in position so as to almost cover the weak point.

This precaution, however, as it turned out, was not requisite; for just as the enemy were returning with redoubled fierceness and determination to the attack, there was a shout from the wood, and a cry of "Singleton to the rescue!"

Well did the young chief know that cry. He was saved! In another moment the Macfies had too much to do to defend themselves from the sudden attack in the rear to think of renewing the assault, and the youth knew well enough how to make good use of the interval. With a loud cheer to his gallant clansmen, he kept up a dropping fire on the enemy with musket and gun, until galled on both sides, they fairly took to their heels and plunged once more into the moat.

How many came out of it and escaped, history does not record; but they left of their number under the walls of Singleton Towers twenty men dead or wounded.

It was a proud moment when the young laird flung open the great gate and let his comrades in. The leader of the party was Tam, who had implored the general of the king's forces, whom fortunately they had met on the way to the rendezvous, to be allowed to return, if only for a few hours, to share his young laird's peril. The request had been granted, and with fifteen men the delighted Tam had spurred back to Singleton as fast as their horses could carry them. Falling unexpectedly on the enemy's rear they had brought about the panic which saved the castle and rescued the young chief from his perilous position.

This was the first but by no means the last fight in which the young laird of Singleton bore a part. He grew old in warfare, and ended his days at last on the field of battle. But to the day of his death this memorable Night-Watch on Singleton Towers was ever the achievement about which he liked best to be reminded.



CHAPTER NINE.

RUN TO EARTH.

Sub-Chapter I.

ON THE TRAIL.

Michael McCrane had bolted!

There was not a shadow of a doubt about it. The moment I reached the bank that eventful morning and saw the manager's desk open, and the tin cash-box lying empty on the floor, I said at once to myself, "This is McCrane's doing."

And as I and the messenger stood there, with dropped jaws, gaping at the dismal scene, I hurriedly called up in my mind the incidents of the past week, and, reading them in the light of this discovery, I was ready to stake my reputation as a paying cashier that my fellow-clerk was a robber and a fugitive.

McCrane had not been at our bank long; he had come to us from one of the country branches, and, much to the disgust of some of us juniors, had been placed over our heads as second paying cashier. I was third paying cashier, and from the moment I set eyes on my new colleague and superior I felt that mischief was in the wind.

A mysterious, silent man of twenty-six was Michael McCrane; so silent was he, indeed, that were it not for an occasional "How will you take it?"

"Not endorsed."

"Next desk," ejaculated in the course of his daily duties, any one might have supposed him dumb. He held himself gloomily aloof from his fellow- clerks. None of us knew where he lived, or how he lived. It was an event to get a word out of him; wherever it was possible he answered by signs or grimaces. He glided into his place in the morning like a ghost, and like a ghost he glided out at night and vanished.

More than that, his personal appearance was unsatisfactory. He was slovenly in figure and habits, with a stubbly beard and unkempt hair; and although he had L150 a year his clothes were threadbare and shabby. He seemed always hard up for money. He did not go out, as most of us did, in the middle of the day to get lunch, but fortified himself with bread and cheese, which he brought in his pocket, and partook of mysteriously behind the lid of his desk.

Now and then I had come upon him while he was deeply engaged in writing what appeared to be private letters, and I could not help noticing that on each occasion when thus interrupted he coloured up guiltily and hid his letter hastily away in his blotting-paper. And once or twice lately mysterious parcels had been handed to him over the counter, which he had received with a conscious air, hiding them away in his desk and carrying them home under his coat at night.

I did not at all like these oddities, and, holding the position I did, I had often debated with myself whether it was not my duty to take the manager or head cashier into my confidence on the subject. And yet there had never till now occurred anything definite to take hold of, nor was it till this October morning, when I saw the manager's desk broken and the empty cash-box on the floor, that it came over me that McCrane was even a worse fellow than I had taken him for.

He had been most mysterious about his holidays this year. He was to have taken them in May, among the first batch, but suddenly altered his arrangements, giving no reason, and requesting to be allowed to go in September. September came, and still he clung to his desk. Finally another change was announced: McCrane would start for his fortnight's holiday on the second Thursday of October.

These changes were all arranged so mysteriously, and with such an unusual show of eagerness on McCrane's part, and as the time itself drew near he exhibited such a mixture of self-satisfaction, concealment, and uneasiness, that no one could fail to observe it. Add to this that during the last day or two he had made more than one mistake in his addition, and had once received a reprimand from the manager for inattention, at which he vaguely smiled—and you will hardly wonder that my first words on that eventful morning—the first of his long-expected holiday—were—

"Michael McCrane has bolted!"

The manager when he arrived took the same view as I did.

"I don't like this, Samuels," said he; "not at all, Samuels."

When Mr Trong called any one by his name twice in one sentence it was a certain sign that he meant what he said.

"How much was there in the box?" I inquired.

"L23 5 shillings 6 pence," said the manager, referring to his petty cash account. "There was one five-pound note, but I do not know the number; the rest was cash."

The messenger was called in and deposed that Mr McCrane had stayed the previous evening half an hour after every one else, to wind up, as he said. The witness stated that he heard him counting over some money, and that when he left he had put out the gas in the office and given him—the deponent—the key of his—the suspect's—own desk.

"Bring his book," said the manager.

I did so, and we examined it together. The last page had not been added up, and two of the lines had not been filled out with the amounts in the money column. Oddly enough, when the two cancelled cheques were looked at they were found to amount to L21.

"We must go thoroughly into this," said the manager. "It looks worse and worse. What's this?"

It was a torn piece of paper between two of the leaves of the book, part of a memorandum in McCrane's handwriting. It read thus:

[A scrap of paper is illustrated here.]

"What do you make of that?" asked the manager. A light dawned on me.

"I wonder if it means Euston, 1:30? Perhaps he's going by that train."

The manager looked at me, then at the clock, and then went to his desk and took up a Bradshaw.

"1:30 is the train for Rugby, Lancaster, Fleetwood. Samuels!"

"Sir," said I.

"You had better take a cab to Euston, you have just time. If he is there stop him, or else follow him, and bring him back. If necessary, get the police to help you, but if you can bring him back without, so much the better. I'm afraid the L23 is not all; it may turn out to be a big robbery when we go through his book. I must trust to your judgment. Take some money with you, L20, in case of emergency. Be quick or you will be late. Telegraph to me how you succeed."

It was a word and a blow. A quarter of an hour later my hansom dashed into the yard at Euston just as the warning bell for the 1:30 train was sounding.

"Where for, sir?" asked a porter. "Any luggage?"

I did not know where I was for, and I had no luggage.

I rushed on to the platform and looked anxiously up and down. It was a scene of confusion. Groups of non-travellers round the carriage doors were beginning to say a last good-bye to their friends inside. Porters were hurling their last truck-loads of luggage into the vans; the guard was a quarter of the way down the train looking at the tickets; the newspaper boys were flitting about shouting noisily and inarticulately; and the usual crowd of "just-in-times" were rushing headlong out of the booking-office and hurling themselves at the crowded train.

I was at a loss what to do. It was impossible to say who was there and who was not. McCrane might be there or he might not. What was the use of my—

"Step inside if you're going," shouted a guard.

I saw a porter near the booking-office door advance towards the bell.

At the same moment I saw, or fancied I saw, at the window of a third- class carriage a certain pale face appear momentarily, and, with an anxious glance up at the clock, vanish again inside.

"Wait a second," I cried to the guard, "till I get a ticket."

"Not time now," I heard him say, as I dashed into the booking-office.

The clerk was shutting the window.

"Third single—anywhere—Fleetwood!" I shouted, flinging down a couple of sovereigns.

I was vaguely aware of seizing the ticket, of hearing some one call after me something about "change," of a whistle, the waving of a flag, and a shout, "Stand away from the train." Next moment I was sprawling on all fours on the knees of a carriage full of passengers; and before I had time to look up the 1:30 train was outside Euston station.

It took me some time to recover from the perturbation of the start, and still longer to overcome the bad impression which my entry had made on my fellow-passengers.

Indeed I was made distinctly uncomfortable by the attitude which two, at any rate, of these persons took up. One was a young man of the type which I usually connect with detectives. The other was a rollicking commercial traveller.

"You managed to do it, then?" said the latter to me when finally I had shaken myself together and found a seat.

"Yes, just," said I.

The other man looked hard at me from behind a newspaper.

"Best to cut your sort of job fine," continued the commercial, knowingly. "Awkward to meet a friend just when you're starting, wouldn't it?" with a wink that he evidently meant to be funny.

I coloured up violently, and was aware that the other man had his eye on me. I was being taken for a runaway!

"Worth my while to keep chummy with you," said the heartless man of the road. "Start a little flush, don't you?"

I ignored this pointed inquiry.

"Not bank-notes, I hope—because they've an unkind way of stopping them. Not but what you might get rid of one or two if you make haste. But they're ugly things to track a chap out by, you know. Why, I knew a young fellow, much your age and build, borrowed a whole sheaf of 'em and went up north, and made up his mind he'd have a high old time. He did slip through a fiver; but—would you believe it?—the next he tried on, they were down on him like shooting stars, and he's another two years to do on the mill before he can come another trip by the 1:30. They all fancy this train."

This style of talk, much as it amused my fellow-passengers and interested the man in the corner, made me feel in a most painful position. My looks and blushes, I am aware, were most compromising; and my condition generally, without luggage, without rug, without even a newspaper, enveloped me in such an atmosphere of mystery and suspicion that I half began to wonder whether I was not an absconding forger myself.

Fortunately the train stopped at Willesden and I took advantage of the halt to change my carriage, explaining clumsily that I should prefer a carriage where I could sit with my face to the engine, whereat every one smiled except myself and the man in the corner.

I tried hard to find an empty carriage; but the train was full and there was no such luxury to be had. Besides, guards, porters, and station- masters were all shouting to me to get inside somewhere, and a score of heads attracted by the commotion appeared at the windows and added to my discomfort. Finally I took refuge in a carriage which seemed less crowded than the rest—having but two occupants.

Alas! to my horror and dismay I discovered when the train had started that I had intruded myself on a palpably honeymoon couple, who glared at me in such an unfriendly manner that for the next hour and a half, without respite, I was constrained to stand with my head out of the window. Even in the tunnels I had no encouragement to turn my head round.

This was bad enough, but it would have been worse had it not happened that, in craning my head and neck out of the window, I caught sight, in the corner of the carriage—next to mine, of half of the back of a head which I felt sure I knew. It belonged, in fact, to Michael McCrane, and a partial turn of his face left no doubt on the matter. I had run my man down already! I smiled to myself as I contemplated the unconscious nape of that neck and recalled the gibes of the commercial traveller and the uncomfortable stare of the man in the corner.

What should I do? The train would stop for two minutes at Bletchley, and not again until we reached Rugby. Should I lay my hand on his shoulder at the first place or the second?

I wished I could have dared to retire into my carriage and consult my timetable about trains back. But the consciousness of the honeymoon glare at my back glued me to the window. I must inquire at Bletchley and act accordingly.

We were beginning to put on the break, and show other signs of coming to a halt, when I was startled by seeing McCrane stand up and put his head out of the window. I withdrew as hastily as I could; not daring, of course, to retreat fully into the carriage, but turning my face in an opposite direction, so as to conceal my identity. I could not guess whether he had seen me or not, it had all occurred so quickly. If he had, I might have need of all my strategy to run him to earth.

As the train pulled up I saw him lower his window, and, with anxious face, make a sudden bolt across the platform.

That was enough for me. I darted out too, much to the satisfaction of my fellow-travellers.

"When's the next train back to Euston?"

"Take your seats!" bawled the guard, ignoring me.

"When does the next train go to Euston?"

"There's a time-table there."

I went; keeping one eye on the train, another on the spot where my man had vanished, and feeling a decided inconvenience from the lack of a third with which to consult the complicated document before me. In a rash moment I ventured to concentrate my whole attention on the timetable. I had found Bletchley; and my finger, painfully tracing down one of the long columns, was coming very near to the required latitude, when I became aware of a whistle; of a figure, bun in hand, darting from the refreshment-room to a carriage; of a loud puff from the engine.

I abandoned the time-table, and rushed in the same direction. Alas! the train was in full motion; a porter was standing forbiddingly between me and my carriage, and the honeymoon couple were blandly drawing down the blinds in my very face! Worst of all, I saw the half-profile of Michael McCrane, inflated with currant bun, vanish; and as the end carriage whirled past me I received a friendly cheer from the commercial traveller, and a particularly uncomfortable smile from his silent companion in the corner.

I was left behind! The bird had flown out of my very hand; and there was nothing now but to return in confusion and report my misfortunes at the bank.

Stay! I could telegraph to detain my man at Rugby. Let me see. "To Station Master, Rugby. Detain Michael McCrane—bank robbery—tall, dark—third-class—left Euston 1:30—I follow—Samuels." How would that do? I was pleased with the look of it; and, in the fullness of my heart, consulted the station-master.

He eyed me unfavourably.

"Who are you?" he had the boldness to inquire.

"I'm from the bank."

"Oh!" he said; and added, "your best plan is to follow him in the supplemental. It will be up in five minutes. He's sure to be bound for Fleetwood, and you'll catch him on the steamer. They won't stop him on the road without a warrant. They don't know you."

I admitted the truth of this, and, after some inward debate— particularly as I had a ticket through—I decided to take advice, and avail myself of the "Supplemental."

It was painfully supplemental, that train—a string of the most ramshackle carriages the line could muster, and the carriage in which I found myself smelt as if it had been in Billingsgate for a month. However, I could sit down this time. There was neither honeymoon, commercial traveller, nor man in the corner to disturb my peace; only a rollicking crowd of Irish harvest men on their way home, in spirits which were not all of air.

I was claimed as one of their noble fraternity before we were many stages on the road; and although I am happy to say I was not compelled to take part in their potations, for the simple reason that they had none left to offer me, I was constrained to sing songs, shout shouts, abjure allegiance to the Union Jack, and utter aspirations for the long life of Charlie Parnell and Father Mickey (I believe that was the reverend gentleman's name), and otherwise abase myself, for the sake of peace, and to prevent my head making acquaintance with the shillalahs of the company. I got a little tired of it after a few hours' incessant bawling, and was rather glad, by the assistance of a few half-crowns (which I fervently trusted the manager would allow me to charge to his account), to escape their company at Preston, and seek the shelter of a more secluded compartment for the rest of the way.

I found one occupied by two files of soldiers in charge of a couple of deserters, and in this genial company performed the remainder of the journey in what would have been something like comfort but for the ominous gusts of wind and rain which, as we neared the coast, buffeted the carriage window, and promised a particularly ugly night for any one contemplating a sea voyage.

Sub-Chapter II.

BOWLED OUT.

When we reached Fleetwood it was blowing (so I heard some one say) "half a cap." I privately wondered what a whole cap must be like; for it was all I could do, by leaning hard up against the wind, and holding on my hat—a chimney-pot hat, by the way—to tack up the platform and fetch round for the Belfast steamer, which lay snorting and plunging alongside.

It takes a very good sailor to be cheerful under such circumstances. I felt profoundly melancholy and wished myself safe at home in my bed. The sight of the black and red funnel swaying to and fro raised qualms in me which, although still on terra firma, almost called for the intervention of a friendly steward. Alas! friend there was none.

In my desperation I was tempted basely to compromise with duty. How did I know Michael McCrane was on the steamer at all? He might have dropped out at any one of a dozen wayside stations between Bletchley and here. Indeed the probability was that he had. Or—and I felt almost affectionately towards him as the thought crossed my mind—even if he had come so far, he, like myself, might be a bad sailor, and prefer to spend the night on this side of the angry Channel. I could have forgiven him much, I felt, had I been sure of that.

In any case, I asked myself earnestly, was I justified in running my employers into the further expense of a return ticket to Belfast without being reasonably sure that I was on the right track? And was I reasonably sure? Was I even—

On the steerage deck of the steamer below me, with a portmanteau in one hand and a brand-new hat-box and a rug in the other, a figure staggered towards the companion ladder and disappeared below. That figure, even to my unwilling eyes, was naught else but a tragic answer to my own question.

Michael McCrane was on board, and going below!

A last lingering hope remained.

"Hardly put off to-night, will you?" said I to a mate beside me, with the best assumption of swagger at my command.

He was encasing himself in tarpaulins, and appeared not to hear me.

I repeated my inquiry, and added, in the feeble hope that he might contradict me, "Doesn't look like quieting down."

"No," said he, looking up at the sky; "there'll be a goodish bit more of it before we're over. All aboard there?"

"No," I shouted, rushing towards the gangway; "I'm not!"

Oh, how I wished I could have found myself just left behind. As it was I was precipitated nearly head first down the gangway, amid the by no means friendly expletives of the sailors, and landed at the bottom a clear second after my hat, and two seconds, at least in advance of my umbrella. Before I had recovered all my component parts the Royal Duke was off.

It was not the slightest comfort to me to reflect that if only I had dashed on board the moment I saw my man, and arrested him there and then, we might both be standing at this moment comparatively happy on that quay whose lights blinked unkindly, now above us, now below, now one side, now the other, as we rolled out of the harbour.

"Bit of a sea outside, I guess," said a voice at my side.

Outside! Then what was going on now did not count! I clapped my hat down on my head and made for the cabin door.

It had entered my mind to penetrate into the steerage at once and make sure of my runaway; but when I contemplated the distance of deck between where I now stood and where I had seen him disappear; and when, moreover, as the boat's head quitted the lee of the breakwater a big billow from the open leapt up at her and washed her from stem to stern, something within me urged me to go below at once, and postpone business till the morning.

I have only the vaguest recollection of the ghastly hours which ensued. I have a wandering idea of a feeble altercation with a steward on hearing that all the berths were occupied and that he had nowhere to put me. Then I imagine I must have lain on the saloon floor or the cabin stairs; at least, the frequency with which I was trodden upon was suggestive of my resting-place being a public thoroughfare.

But the treading under foot was not quite so bad as being called upon to show my ticket later on. That was a distinctly fiendish episode, and I did not recover from it all the night. More horrible still, a few brutes, lost to all sense of humanity, attempted to have supper in the saloon, within a foot or two of where I lay. Mercifully, their evil machinations failed, for nothing could stay on the table.

Oh, the horrors of that night! Who can say at what angles I did not incline? Now, as we swooped up a wave I stood on my head, next moment I shivered and shuddered in mid-air. Then with a wild plunge I found myself feet downward, and as I sunk my heart and all that appertained to it seemed to remain where they had been. Now I was rolling obliquely down the cabin on to the top of wretches as miserable as myself. Now I was rolling back, and they pouring on to the top of me. The one thought in my mind was—which way are we going next? and mixed up with it occasionally came the aspiration—would it were to the bottom! Above it all was the incessant thunder of the waves on the decks above and the wild wheezing of the engines as they met the shrieking wind.

But I will not dwell on the scene. Once during the night I thought of Michael McCrane, and hoped he was even as I was at that moment. If he was, no dog was ever in such a plight!

At last the early dawn struggled through the deadlights.

"At last," I groaned, "we shall soon be in the Lough!"

"Where are we?" said a plaintive voice from the midst of the heap which for the last few hours had regularly rolled on the top of me whenever we lurched to larboard.

"Off the Isle of Man," was the reply. "Shouldn't wonder if we get a bit of a sea going past, too."

Off the Isle of Man! Only half way, and a bit of a sea expected as we went past!

I closed my eyes, and wished our bank might break before morning! Whether the "bit of sea" came up to expectations or not I know not. I was in no condition to criticise even my own movements. I believe that as time went on I became gradually amalgamated with the larger roiling heap of fellow-sufferers on the floor, and during the last hour or so of our misery rolled in concert with them. But I should be sorry to state positively that it was so.

All I know is that about a hundred years after we had passed the Isle of Man I became suddenly awake to the consciousness that something tremendous had happened. Had we struck in mid-ocean? had the masts above us gone by the board? were we sinking? or what?

On careful reflection I decided we were doing neither, and that the cause of my agitation was that the last wave but one had gone past the ship without breaking over her. And out of the next dozen waves we scrambled over I counted at least five which let us off in a similar manner!

Oh, the rapture of the discovery! I closed my eyes again lest by any chance it should turn out to be a dream.

The next thing I was conscious of was a rough hand on my shoulder and a voice shouting, "Now then, mister, wake up; all ashore except you. Can't stay on board all day!"

I rubbed my eyes and bounded to my feet.

The Royal Duke was at a standstill in calm water, and the luggage- crane was busy at work overhead.

"Are we there?" I gasped.

"All except you," said the sailor.

"How long have we been in?"

"Best part of an hour. Got any luggage, mister?"

An hour! Then I had missed my man once more! Was ever luck like mine?

I gathered up my crumpled hat and umbrella, and staggered out of that awful cabin.

"Look here," said I to the sailor, "did you see the passengers go ashore?"

"I saw the steerage passengers go," said he; "and a nice-looking lot they was."

"There was one of the steerage passengers I wanted particularly to see. Did you see one with a portmanteau and hat-box?"

"Plenty of 'em," was the reply.

"Yes; but his was quite a new hat-box; you couldn't mistake it," said I.

"Maybe I saw him. There was one young fellow—"

"Dark?"

"Yes; dark."

"And tall?"

"Yes; tall enough."

"Dismal-looking?"

"They were all that."

"Did you see which way he went?"

"No; but I heard him ask the mate the way to the Northern Counties Railway; so I guess he's for the Derry line."

It was a sorry clue; but the only one. I was scarcely awake; and, after my night of tragedy, was hardly in a position to resume the hue and cry. Yet anything was preferable to going back to sea.

So I took a car for the Northern Counties station. For a wonder I was in time for the train, which, I was told, was due to start in an hour's time.

I spent that hour first of all in washing, then in breakfasting, finally in telegraphing to my manager—

"Fancy tracked him here rough crossing—will wire again shortly."

Then having satisfied myself that none of the steamer passengers could possibly have caught an earlier train, and determined not to lose the train this time, I took a ticket for Londonderry, and ensconced myself a good quarter of an hour before the appointed hour in a corner of a carriage commanding a good view of the booking-office door.

As the minutes sped by, and no sign of my man, I began to grow nervous. After all he might be staying in Belfast, or, having got wind of my pursuit, might be escaping in some other direction. It was not a comfortable reflection, not did it add to my comfort that among the passengers who crowded into my carriage, and helped to keep out my view of the booking-office door, was the gloomy, detective-looking individual whose demeanour had so disconcerted me during the first stage of this disastrous journey.

He eyed me as suspiciously as ever from behind his everlasting newspaper, and under his scrutiny I hardly dared persevere in my own look-out. I made a pretext of buying a newspaper in order to keep near the door. To my dismay the whistle suddenly sounded as I was counting my change, and the train began to move off. At the same moment a figure, carrying in one hand a portmanteau and in the other a hat-box, rushed frantically into the station, and made a blind clash at the very door where I stood. I shrunk back in a panic to my distant corner, with my heart literally in my mouth. There was a brief struggle on the doorstep; the hat-box flew in, and the door was actually opened to admit the owner, when a couple of porters laid violent hands upon him and dragged him off the train.

It was not I who had been left behind this time, but Michael McCrane; and while he and his portmanteau remained disconsolate in Belfast, I and his hat-box were being whirled in the direction of Londonderry in the company of a person who, whatever he may have thought of McCrane, without doubt considered me a fugitive!

It was a trying position, and I was as much at sea as I had been during the agitated hours of the terrible night, I tried to appear calm, and took refuge behind my newspaper in order to collect my ideas and interpose a screen between myself and the critical stare of my fellow- passenger. Alas! it was avoiding Scylla only to fall into Charybdis. The first words which met my eyes were:—

"Bank Robbery in London.—

"A robbery was perpetrated in —-'s bank on Wednesday night, under circumstances which point to one of the cashiers as the culprit. The manager's box, containing a considerable amount of loose cash, was found broken open, and it is supposed the thief has also made away with a considerable sum in notes and securities. The cashier in question has disappeared and is supposed to have absconded to the north. He is dark complexioned, pale, mysterious in his manners, and aged 26. When last seen wore a tall hat, gloves, and a grey office suit."

Instinctively I pulled off my gloves and deposited my hat in the rack overhead, and tried to appear engrossed in another portion of the paper. But I could not refrain from darting a look at my fellow-traveller. To my horror I perceived that the paper he was reading was the same as the one I had; and that the page between which and myself his eyes were uncomfortably oscillating was the very page on which the fatal paragraph appeared.

I was dark, I was pale (after my voyage), and who should say my manners were not mysterious?

In imagination I stood already in the box of the Old Bailey and heard myself sentenced to the treadmill, and was unable to offer the slightest explanation in palliation of my mysterious conduct.

In such agreeable reveries I passed the first hour of the journey; when, to my unfeigned relief, on reaching Antrim my fellow-traveller quitted the carriage. No doubt his object was a sinister one, and when I saw him speak to the constable at the station, I had no doubt in my own mind that my liberty was not worth five minutes' purchase. But even so, anything seemed better than his basilisk eye in the corner of the carriage.

I hastily prepared my defence and resolved on a dignified refusal to criminate myself under any provocation. What were they doing? To my horror, the "detective," the constable, the guard, and the station- master all advanced on my carriage.

"In there?" said the official.

My late fellow-traveller nodded. The station-master opened the door and entered the carriage. I was in the act of opening my lips to say—

"I surrender myself—there is no occasion for violence," when the station-master laid his hand on the hat-box.

"It's labelled to C—," he said; "take it along, guard, and put it out there. He's sure to come on by the next train. Right away there!"

Next moment we were off. What did it all mean? I was not under arrest! Nobody had noticed me; but McCrane's hat-box had engaged the attention of four public officials.

"Free and easy way of doing things on this line," said an Englishman in the carriage; "quite the regular thing for a man and his luggage to go by different trains. Always turns up right in the end. Are you going to Derry, sir?" he added addressing me.

"No," said I, hastily. "I'm getting out at the next station."

"What—at —" and he pronounced the name something like "Tobacco."

"Yes," I said, pining for liberty, no matter the name it was called by.

At the next station I got out. It was a little wayside place without even a village that I could see to justify its claim to a station at all. Nobody else got out; and as soon as the train had gone, I was left to explain my presence to what appeared to be the entire population of the district, to wit, a station-master, a porter, and a constable who carried a carbine. I invented some frivolous excuse; asked if there wasn't a famous waterfall somewhere near; and on being told that the locality boasted of no such attraction, feigned to be dismayed; and was forced to resign myself to wait three hours for the next train.

It was at least a good thing to be in solitude for a short time to collect my scattered wits. McCrane was bound for C—, and would probably come in the next train, which, by the way, was the last. That was all I had a clear idea about. There was a telegraph office at the station, and I thought I might as well report progress to my manager.

"On the trail. Expect news from C—. Wire me there, post-office, if necessary."

The station-master (who, as usual, was postmaster too) received this message from my hands, and the remainder of the population—I mean the porter and the constable—who were with him at the time read it over his shoulder. They all three looked hard at me, and the station-master said "Tenpence!" in a tone which made my blood curdle. I was doomed to be suspected wherever I went! What did they take me for now?

I decided to take a walk and inspect the country round. It annoyed me to find that the constable with his carbine thought well to take a walk too, and keep me well in view.

I tried to dodge him, but he was too smart for me; and when finally to avoid him I took shelter in a wayside inn, he seated himself on the bench outside and smoked till I was ready to come out.

I discovered a few more inhabitants, but it added nothing to my comfort. They, too, stared at me and followed me about, until finally I ran back to the station and cried out in my heart for the four o'clock train.

About five o'clock it strolled up. I got in anywhere, without even troubling to look for Michael McCrane. If he should appear at C—, well and good, I would arrest him; if not, I would go home. For the present, at least, I would dismiss him from my mind and try to sleep.

I did try, but that was all. We passed station after station. Some we halted at, as it appeared, by accident; some we went past, and then, on second thoughts, pulled up and backed into. At last, as we ran through one of these places I fancied I detected in the gloaming the name C— painted up.

"Is that C—?" I asked of a fellow-traveller.

"It is so! You should have gone in the back of the train if you wanted to stop there."

Missed again! I grew desperate. The train was crawling along at a foot's pace; my fellow-traveller was not a formidable one. I opened the door and jumped out on to the line.

I was uninjured, and C— was not a mile away. If I ran I might still be there to meet the back of the train and Michael McCrane.

But as I began to run a grating sound behind me warned me that the train had suddenly pulled up, and a shout proclaimed that I was being pursued.

Half a dozen passengers and the guard—none of them pressed for time— joined in the hue and cry.

What it was all about I cannot imagine; all I know is that that evening, in the meadows near C—, a wretched Cockney, in a battered chimney-pot hat, and carrying an umbrella, was wantonly run to earth by a handful of natives, and that an hour later the same unhappy person was clapped in the village lock-up for the night as a suspicious character! It had all been tending to this. Fate had marked me for her own, and run me down at last. Perhaps I was a criminal after all, and did not know it. At any rate, I was too fatigued to care much what happened. I "reserved my defence," as they say in the police courts, and resigned myself to spend the night as comfortably as possible in the comparative seclusion of a small apartment which, whatever may have been its defects, compared most favourably with the cabin in which I had lain the night before.

It was about ten o'clock next morning before I had an opportunity of talking my case over with the inspector, and suggesting to him he had better let me go. He, good fellow, at once fell in with my wishes, after hearing my statement, and in his anxiety to efface any unpleasant impressions, I suppose, proposed an adjournment to the "Hotel" to drink "siccess to the ould counthree."

The proposed toast was not sufficiently relevant to the business I had on hand to allure me, so I made my excuses and hastened to the telegraph office to ascertain whether they had any message for me there.

They had. It was from my manager, as I expected; but the contents were astounding—

"Return at once. Robber captured here. Keep down expenses."

It would be hard to say which of these three important sentences struck me as the most cruel. I think the last.

I was standing in the street, staring blankly at the missive, when I was startled beyond measure by feeling a hand on my shoulder, and a voice pronouncing my name—

"Samuels!"

It was Michael McCrane. But not the Michael McCrane I knew in the City, or the one I had seen going below on board the steamer. He wore a frock-coat and light trousers, lavender gloves, and a hat—glorious product of that identical box—in which you might see your own face. A rose was in his button-hole, his hair was brushed, his collar was white, and his chin was absolutely smooth.

"Whatever are you doing here?" he asked.

"Oh," faltered I, for I was fairly overcome, both by my own misfortunes and his magnificent appearance, "nothing; only a—a little business run, you know, for the manager."

"I didn't know we had any customers in these parts."

"Well no. But, I say, what are you doing here?"

"Business too," said he—"grave business. By the way, Samuels, have you got any better clothes than these?"

Here was a question. And from Michael McCrane!

"Because," he went on—and here he became embarrassed himself—"if you had—in fact, you'd do as you are, because you won't have to wear your hat. What I mean is, that now you are here—I'd be awfully obliged if you'd be my best man—I'm to be married this morning. I say, there's the bell beginning to ring. Come on, Samuels."



CHAPTER TEN.

NEW LIGHT ON AN OLD FABLE.

Part I.

A DISCOVERY.

What cannot one discover on an old bookstall? Who would have supposed I should have had the luck to pick up the extraordinary collection of newspaper-cuttings which are here presented to the reader?

The extracts speak for themselves. They present in a moderately connected form the story of a famous epoch in English history, and shed a flood of light on transactions which have long since passed into the region of myth.

Although the dates of months and days are given, the actual year to which the extracts refer is unfortunately left in obscurity. But from internal evidence, and certain references to current events, it is supposed that the date cannot have been later than the reign of King Arthur—or at any rate before the Saxon period.

I may say that in reading over the present account and the mythological story of Jack the Giant Killer, I am struck by several discrepancies in the commonly received tradition, and in the account of the manners and customs of the times here revealed. I make no attempt to reconcile the two versions, though I am decidedly of opinion that of the two the present may be accepted by the reader as the more authentic.

At any rate it is an editor's duty to give his story as he receives it, and to leave his readers to form their own conclusions.

The following, then, is an exact transcript of the newspaper extracts to which we have referred:

From the Stilly Gazette, June 30th.

Despatches from the mainland report that the season is now in full swing. The charming seaside resorts on this attractive coast are crowded with visitors. It is remarked, as a singular indication of the uncertainties attending excursion traffic, that the proportion of arrivals is greatly in advance of the departures. This is particularly noticeable in the neighbourhood of Giants' Bay, where the well-known hospitality of the residents appears to have an extraordinary fascination for visitors. It is rumoured that although fresh arrivals take place daily, and no departures are announced, the number of visitors remains comparatively stationary, and the place has at no time been inconveniently crowded. Altogether there seems to be every prospect of a prosperous season.

From the Giants Bay Broadsheet, July 2nd.

Fashionable Arrivals.—Giant Blunderbore's Hotel: Sir Cap a Pie, Lady a Pie, the Misses a Pie, Master Hugh a Pie, and suite, from London; the Reverend Simon Cellarer, from Lincoln; Monsieur et Madame Froggi and infant, from Rouen, etcetera, etcetera.

Giant Cormorants Hotel: Fifty members of the West Anglian Anthropomorphic Society, under the conduct of Professor Hardhide.

Giant Galligantus's Hotel: Eighty-two visitors have arrived within the last two days. There will be vacancies in a week.

Notice.—The band will play daily in Blunderbore Park. Public receptions by the Giants in the pump-room every afternoon. Private "At Homes" every evening. Applications should be made early.

Departure.—Since our last report one visitor has left Giants' Bay. As he omitted to discharge his hotel bill, we forbear, pending proceedings, to publish his name.

From the West Anglian Anthropomorphism, July 1st.

A party of fifty of our members, under the distinguished conduct of Professor Hardhide, our President, have gone to explore the natural and animal beauties of Giants' Bay. It is expected that the excursion will result in much valuable information respecting the celebrated tall men of that famous resort. Our colleagues, we understand, are occupying Giant Cormoran's commodious hotel, and are much delighted with the arrangements made by their genial host for their comfort. A meeting of the society is summoned for September 1st, to hear the report of their interesting investigations.

From the Rouen Weekly Supplement, July 1st.

Nous avons l'honneur d'annoncer que nos concitoyens distingues, Monsieur Alphonse Froggi, avec sa charmante femme et jolie enfant sont partis hier par le paquet. On dit que leur destination est la Baie des Geantes, a l'Angleterre, ou ils resteront a l'Hotel Geant Blunderbore.

From the London Times, July 1st.

Major-General Sir Cap a Pie has been ordered for his health to the south coast, and leaves to-day, with family and suite, for Giant Blunderbore's Hotel, Giants' Bay.

From the Lincoln Daily Gossip, June 30th.

After a season of unusual fatigue we are happy to be able to announce that our eloquent townsman, the Reverend Simon Cellarer, has at last decided to give himself a long-earned rest, and has left this day (Tuesday) for Cornwall, where he will spend a few weeks in seclusion at Giants' Bay. The reverend gentleman has, we are glad to say, taken his tricycle with him.

From the Excursionist's Guide.

Advertisement.—Cheap Daily Excursions. Special facilities. Return tickets at the price of single. Magnificent air. Sea bathing. Fine hotels—Blunderbore, Cormoran and Galligantus. Hundreds of visitors daily.

From the Scampingtonian (the Holiday Number of the Scampington School Magazine).

The following from a Pie minor will be read with interest by our readers:—

"Blunderbore's, Giants' Bay.

"Dear Chappies,—I don't think much of Cornwall. The gingerbeer's beastly bad, and there's not a single chap here can play tennis. The bathing's only so so, and not a boat to be had except an old barge, which Blunderbore uses as a skiff. He's a regular rum Johnny, old Blunderbore; stands about 18 feet in his stockings, 108 inches round the chest, and got a voice to match. He's the boss of this place, and tries to be civil, people say. There's a jolly mixed lot at this hotel. A French chap who doesn't know his own language, at least he pretended not to when I talked to him and said, 'Il regarde comme un mouille jour.' Any ass would know what that meant; you would yourselves. Then there's a lot of old fogies who belong to a society or something, and go and measure, old Blunderbore round the chest and biceps, and photograph him, and all sorts of tomfoolery. How'd they like it themselves? They say they're working in the interests of science. I'd like to catch any one working in the interests of science on my biceps! Rather a rum go yesterday. The governor and mater were asked to an 'At Home' at Blunderbore's private house. I was asked too, but backed out. They went in full toggery, and haven't turned up again at the hotel. I asked Blunderbore, and he said he saw the last of them about eleven last night, and was very sorry when their visit came to an end. I suppose they've gone and lost themselves on the way home. I shall have to go and look for them. Blunderbore wants me to go to his next party, but I shall get out of it if I can. Ta, ta, chappies. It's jolly slow here. The only lively chap is a parson from Lincoln with a tricycle; also a medical fellow just turned up called Jack, a sort of dark horse, who doesn't talk to anybody.

"Yours ever,—

"Hugh a Pie.

"'P.S.—The fellow called Jack is a swell with the boxing-gloves. He doubled me up in two rounds, and it's not everybody could do that.'"

From the West Anglian Anthropomorphist, July 10th. [A communication from the learned President.]

I anticipate the more detailed account of this singular neighbourhood, which I hope to make when I address you at the meeting on September 1st, by a few preliminary notes on some most extraordinary anthropological discoveries which certain members of the society have recently made among the inhabitants of Giants' Bay. At a very early period of the world's history, midway, it is conjectured, between the glacial and basaltic epochs—that is to say, about 100,000 years before the creation of the world—there appears to have prevailed an unusual divergence in the normal stature of the mammal bipeds in the county of Cornwall.

Fossil remains indicate the primeval existence of an undersized race whose average height has been ascertained to be 4 feet 8.30562 inches. This precise figure has been calculated by a member of this society, from the measurement of an apparently human footprint discovered in the chalk deposit thrown up in course of the erection of a public lamp, in the vicinity of the Assembly Room. As the heavy rains of the last few days have unfortunately obliterated this interesting impression, the society is to be congratulated on the prescience of the member who was energetic enough to measure it while still existent.

In contrast to this diminutive race we have discovered traces of a gigantic race, still in existence. Three of these remarkable beings inhabit this locality, where they occupy high positions as proprietors of the leading hostelries of the place. Indeed, I may say that the members of the society at the present time at Giants' Bay have the good fortune to be quartered on the premises of one of these singular specimens of a mammoth prehistoric civilisation. An opportunity is about to be given to each member singly to inspect the phenomenon thus opportunely brought under observation.

It need hardly be stated that the collaboration of the individual reports which it is proposed to make promises to result in one of the most important contributions to anthropological science which has ever been placed on record. The preliminary inspection is to be made by the president to-morrow; and it is expected that the complete report will be ready for the public about the end of the month.

From the Giants Bay Broadsheet, July 10th.

Fashionable Arrival.—Blunderbore Hotel: John Smith, M.D.; no address.

Announcement.—The band will play every evening in the hall of Blunderbore Hall, during the receptions. Applications for private interviews should be made at once. Owing to the unusual number desirous of an introduction, Giant Blunderbore will not be open to make any fresh appointment for a fortnight, when priority will be given to the first applicant.

Departure.—A few visitors have already left the bay, including Major- General Sir Cap a Pie and lady, who, however, have left their family at the Blunderbore Hotel, and are expected to return. Monsieur and Madame Froggi also remain, but their infant has departed.

From the Stilly Gazette, July 15th.

Our Giants' Bay correspondent reports a steadily maintained influx of visitors. As a proof of the popularity of this Elysian spot, it may be remarked that only one visitor has left within the last fortnight.

From the Evening Tell-Tale, London, July 15th.

Mysterious Affair at a Seaside Watering-Place.—

Disappearance of a Lincoln Clergyman.—A remarkable rumour reaches us from Giants' Bay. Among the numerous visitors to this popular place of resort during the last fortnight was the Reverend Simon Cellarer, an eminent divine hailing from Lincoln. Mr Cellarer, who travelled to Giants' Bay on his tricycle, and was staying at the Blunderbore Grand Hotel, has, it appears, been missing since the 8th inst., when he was seen in his usual good health and spirits exercising on his machine in the grounds of the hotel.

As abrupt departures are not uncommon at seaside places of resort, no notice of his absence appears to have been taken for a day or two. On his failure to return, however, after three days, inquiries were at once instituted, and the reverend gentleman's tricycle was found, apparently undamaged, in the grounds. Further search was rewarded by the discovery of his boots and spectacles in the vicinity: but up to the time of going to press we have no intelligence that the gentleman himself has come to light.

From the London Times, July 18th.

Advertisement.—Lost, strayed, or stolen, a father and mother, answering to the name of Sir Cap and Lady a Pie. Respectable, well-dressed, quiet manners. Last seen at Blunderbore Hotel, Giants' Bay, July 8th. The former was in full armour. Any one giving information as to what they are up to will receive half a crown reward. If they return, all shall be forgiven.—Apply to Hugh a Pie, at the above address.

From the Giants Bay Broadsheet, July 20th.

Giant Blunderbore is, we regret to say, indisposed. He is suffering from a sharp attack of dyspepsia. For the present his receptions will be suspended. Giants Cormoran and Galligantus, though also to some extent sufferers from the same complaint, have very kindly undertaken to receive visitors daily from two till eight.

Notice.—In future, no one in armour, or occupying the office of president of any learned society, will be admitted.

From the Evening Tell-Tale, July 22th.

The Giants' Bay Mystery.—

Alleged Further Disappearances.—

Extraordinary Rumours.—Up to the present time no trace has been found of the missing clergyman at Giant's Bay. Sinister rumours prevail of other persons being missing, including a distinguished military gentleman and his lady, and a foreign infant. The police we understand, do not attach much importance to this or any other rumour.

From the Lincoln Weekly Supplement, July 22th.

Great gloom has fallen over this otherwise cheerful city in consequence of the rumoured disappearance of our esteemed and reverend townsman, the Reverend Simon Cellarer, from Giants' Bay.

With its usual enterprise, the Supplement has despatched a special commissioner to the scene of the mystery, with instructions to interview the leading persons in the place, including the giants, and make a full report of the circumstances attending the abrupt disappearance of the reverend missing one.

Full particulars may be expected in our next; which, to meet the demands of our numerous readers, will be charged twopence instead of a penny. It is proposed to reserve one sheet for advertisements. Applications for space should be made at once.

From the Anthropomorphist, July 25th.

We regret to say we are unable to publish a further instalment of the report of the deeply interesting investigations being made at the present time by our members in Giants' Bay.

Contrary to expectation, no communication has been received for several days. We shall endeavour to accommodate the extra matter which may be expected in our next by issuing a double number, which will be charged one shilling instead of sixpence. In response to numerous requests we beg to intimate that a limited number of advertisements will be inserted, for which application should be made at once.

Part II.

From the Stilly Gazette, July 24th.

We understand that the last arrival at Giants' Bay has been our talented young fellow-islander Dr John Smith. Dr Smith has arrived at the Bay at an opportune time, as we hear that Giant Blunderbore is ill, and will doubtless avail himself of his guest's well-known professional services.

From the Giants' Bay Broadsheet, July 27th.

The following bulletin has been issued: "Giant Blunderbore is still suffering from the effects of his recent sharp attack of indigestion; but is better. His appetite is good; and he feels able to resume his receptions."

Later.—Giant Blunderbore has had a slight relapse, and some anxiety is felt as to his condition. Dr Smith, of Scilly, at present resident in the hotel, has been called in, and a consultation is about to take place. Meanwhile Giants Cormoran and Galligantus are prepared to receive visitors daily at 3 and 8 p.m.

From the Evening Tell-Tale, July 28th.

The Missing Tourists.—

Extraordinary Rumours.—No News of the Lincoln Clergyman.—

Fifty Scientific Men Missing.—The most astonishing rumours continue to come in from Giants' Bay. In addition to the disappearance recorded in a recent issue, we have received information that a whole congress of anthropomorphists has been missing for a week. They were quartered at Cormoran's Hotel, where their personal effects still remain.

Many conjectures are afloat, the most reasonable of which appears to point to the probability of the unfortunate tourists having been engulfed in the sands, which at certain states of the tide are said to be highly dangerous along this coast.

Later.—At the Round Table to-night a question was asked as to the extraordinary disappearances reported from Giants' Bay. The Home Secretary requested the hon, member to give notice of the question for this day week.

From the Giants Bay Broadsheet, July 28th.

The following bulletins have been issued:—

12:30 p.m.—Giant Blunderbore is decidedly worse. Contrary to medical advice, he partook of a hearty meal last night. Dr Smith is still in attendance.

4 p.m.—Giant Blunderbore lies in a hopeless state. He has again disregarded medical advice, and eaten solid food. Dr Smith is still in attendance.

8 p.m.—It is with the deepest regret that we have to announce the death of our esteemed patron Giant Blunderbore, which took place suddenly this evening, after a somewhat painful operation. Details are not yet forthcoming; but we expect to issue an extra double number to-morrow, with a coloured photograph of the deceased. As only a limited number will be printed, copies should be ordered early. The attention of advertisers is drawn to the present unusual opportunity.

Latest.—Just as we go to press we hear that Dr Smith has been summoned to attend Giant Cormoran, who is ailing of a complaint which presents symptoms similar to those of the late Giant Blunderbore.