From the Scampingtonian, July 27th.

Dear Chappies,—No end of a go! Can't find my people high or low. People been sloping off all round. Fancy I know why now. On Monday I saw Blunderbore's door open as I passed, and I thought I'd pop in and see what he knew about it. He was sitting in his chair, looking jolly blue.

"What's up, Blundy?" I said.

"I'm awfully hungry," said he.

"Why don't you have some grub?" I said.

"Doctors won't let me," said he. "You see, a week ago I happened to eat something that disagreed with me. Between me and you," said he, "it was a knight in armour. I didn't mind the knight, but the armour gave me a very bad turn."

"Do you know," said I, "that was my governor?"

"My dear boy," said he, "I'm awfully sorry. I feel for you. I wish I hadn't done it—sincerely. But a fellow must live. Really, I sympathise with you; let me grasp your hand."

"Not if I know it, you cad," said I; "and where's my mother?"

"That's another thing that troubles me," said he. "Tell me, did she wear a brocaded silk gown with beads? Most unlucky for us both! Beads never did agree with me. It's a warning to both of us to be more particular. Really, you must let me grasp your hand."

"Not much!" said I. "Look here, Blunderbore, I mean to show you up. I'll let some of our fellows know about you, and you see if they don't make you sit up before long."

"I feel much more like lying down," said he. "Would you mind handing me that medicine bottle?"

"Don't you wish you may get it!" said I, and cut.

I told Jack Smith about it, and he was no end riled. I must say, I feel riled myself. It's specially awkward, because the mater had our return tickets in her pocket; and I can't get away from here. I wish you'd send me a sov., some of you. I'll square up after vac.

Yours ever, Hugh a Pie.

P.S.—Here's a go! Old Blunderbore's gone at last! Smith says it was the steel armour inside him that did it. Serves him jolly well right!

From the Giants' Bay Broadsheet, July 29th.

It is with feelings almost akin to consternation that we announce the sudden and critical illness of our esteemed fellow-citizen Giant Cormoran. The regret with which we make this announcement will be shared by all those visitors to this charming retreat who during the last months have come into contact with the amiable and accommodating gentleman.

Giant Cormoran is one of the old school of Englishmen whom we can ill afford to lose. Capacious in mind and body, with a large sense of humour, of strict personal integrity, and a hearty enjoyment of life, it is indeed sad to think of him at the present moment as lying on a bed of languishing, from which it is doubtful whether he will rise more. Very little news leaks out from the sick-chamber. Dr Smith is in regular attendance, and, according to a curt bulletin published an hour ago, reports his patient's condition as exceedingly grave: "Giant Cormoran is in a state of collapse. There is a complete loss of nervous power. The patient has quite lost his head."

We have no doubt that the melancholy death of his comrade Giant Blunderbore has seriously affected his nerves. Happily, his condition spares him the additional pang of knowing that Giant Galligantus is also on the sick list, with what it is feared is a mild attack of the prevailing epidemic. Later.

The following bulletins have just appeared: "The condition of Giant Cormoran remains unchanged.

"John Smith, M.D."

"Giant Galligantus is suffering from a severe shock to the system, with complications. It is feared that the attack is of a similar nature to that of Giants Blunderbore and Cormoran.

"John Smith, M.D."

Latest.—Giant Cormoran is no more. A memoir will appear in our next. Special space will be reserved for advertisements on the cover.

From the Evening Tell-Tale, August 1st.

The Giants' Bay Mysteries.—

The Plot Thickens.—

Sudden Death of Giants.—

Rumoured Government Intervention.—

Further Wholesale Disappearances.—The plot thickens at Giants' Bay. Two of the leading giants of the place, Giants Blunderbore and Cormoran, have died of what is apparently an acute gastric epidemic. Meanwhile hundreds of inquiries are pouring into the place respecting missing relatives and friends. It is stated that an entire learned society has disappeared.

Owing to the urgent representations of the Tell-Tale and other journals, the Government has at last awakened to a sense of the gravity of the situation. At the Round Table last night a commission was appointed to inquire into the matter. It will meet this day week, and after appointing president and secretary, adjourn till October.

The police are reticent; but on inquiry at the head office we understand that search is being made in the atlas for Giants' Bay. For the information of our readers, we give a map of the locality of the mysteries, and fancy portraits of the three giants. During the present excitement, and in the interests of our subscribers, it has been decided permanently to double the price of the Tell-Tale.

From the West Anglian Anthropomorphist, August 2nd.

In the continued unexplained absence of the president and members of the society, the usual meetings will not be held in August. We may point out for the benefit of advertisers that a considerable amount of additional space will thus be available for their announcements.

From the Giants' Bay Broadsheet, August 3rd.

It is with feelings of unfeigned melancholy that we announce the demise of our excellent neighbour Giant Galligantus, after a brief illness. The lamented giant never rallied from the nervous shock which overtook him a few days since. Although details are still a-wanting, we understand that his head was seriously affected. Dr John Smith was in attendance to the last. Further particulars, with an extra supplement and portrait memoirs of the three giants, will be given in our next. In order not to disappoint our readers and advertisers, the prices in each department will be further doubled.

Departure.—John Smith, Esquire, M.D., has left Giants' Bay.

From the Hue and Cry, August 14th. Police Notice.

Whereas several persons have recently disappeared from the neighbourhood of Giants' Bay, in the county of Cornwall, a reward of One Pound will be offered to any person, not a principal, who shall give any information leading to the detection of the aforesaid.

From the Evening Tell-Tale, August 6th.

Our special correspondent at Giants' Bay writes: "The excitement here is unabated. All sorts of conjectures are afloat. General opinion seems to connect the wholesale disappearance of tourists and the sudden death of the three giants as parts of the fiendish scheme of some person unknown. The miscreant is supposed to be interested in some other watering-place.

"We have been fortunate enough to secure a personal interview with the celebrated Dr John Smith, whose remarks—in view of his recent close personal relations with the deceased giants—will be read with interest. We found the youthful doctor enjoying a fragrant weed in the verandah of his father's bijou residence in Scilly.

"'A beautiful day, doctor,' we said, taking the vacant seat beside him.

"'Is it?' replied he, placing his two feet in a graceful attitude on the elaborately-polished balustrade of the balcony.

"'Heard of you at Giants' Bay,' we remarked, by way of leading up to the subject. There was a pause, and then the doctor replied, 'Oh!'

"'A strange affair the sudden mortality in that place, doctor.'

"'What about it?' was the unexpected rejoinder, as the man of physic slowly assumed a standing attitude.

"He was dressed in a light check suit, which reflected considerable credit on the provincial tailor who made it.

"'That's the question,' we replied, with a touch of humour.

"The doctor appeared to feel the heat, but presently recovered sufficiently to call our attention to the peculiar make of his boots. They were large, with flapped uppers and clumped soles, and could hardly have cost less than a guinea the pair. We congratulated him warmly upon his possession. Dr Smith was evidently proud of them.

"'See them?' said he, pointing to the right foot.

"We nodded a friendly assent, inwardly amused at our friend's eccentricity.

"'Do you see that hill there?' said he, abruptly pointing over our shoulder.

"We turned to look. It was indeed a fine view which met our eyes—a view of which any native of Scilly might be proud. We were about to make an observation to the effect, when he interrupted us.

"'Feel them?'

We certainly did feel something—not in front of us—and not being anxious to take up more of our friend's valuable time, we thanked him for his courtesy and retired.

From the Round Table Hansard, August 25th.

Giants' Bay Select Committee.—Lord Merlin was in the chair. The committee sat for a short time to draw up rules of procedure and arrange an adjournment. It was decided to prorogue the inquiry for six months, in order to allow witnesses to attend. A brief discussion ensued on the question of costs, and a short Bill was drafted, which it is proposed to add to the estimates.

The Chairman expressed an opinion that an additional twopence on the income-tax would amply cover the costs of the commission; and it was agreed to await the passing of the Bill before fixing the date for the next meeting. The committee then adjourned.

From the Giants' Bay Broadsheet, September 10th.

Preliminary Notice.—On the 1st of April next, at the Mart, will be sold those three eligible hotels—namely, Blunderbore Hotel, Cormoran Hotel, and Galligantus Hotel, pleasantly situated in Giants' Bay, Cornwall, commanding fine views of the sea. These palatial houses, standing in their own grounds, are fitted with every comfort and replete with every convenience. Fixtures at a valuation. By order of the executors of the late Giants Blunderbore, Cormoran, and Galligantus.

Catalogues and orders to view on application.

From the Army Gazetteer, December 1st.

Captain Tom Thumb to be Major-General, vice Sir Cap a Pie, deceased.

From the Lincoln Weekly Supplement, December 25th.

The Reverend Friar Tucker has been appointed to the living lately held by the Reverend Simon Cellarer.

From the West Anglian Anthropomorphist, January 1st.

At a meeting held last week it was decided to reorganise this society. A new president was elected. It was announced that an exhibition would be offered yearly, to be called the "Hardhide Exhibition," for the best essay on the gigantic remains of south-west Britain.

From the Scampingtonian, January 25th.

Term has begun. We are glad to say that our chum, a Pie—now Sir Hugh a Pie—has been unanimously elected captain of the football club.

From the Stilly Gazette, April 3rd.

At the mart on Monday were sold the three Giant Hotels of Giants' Bay. The bidding was very slack, but we understand the lots were eventually knocked down to a dealer in old bricks.

Our respected fellow-islander, Dr John Smith, has had the honour of being presented at court, where his Majesty has been pleased to confer on him several stripes, and the order of the Giant Killer. A public reception is to be held in the market-place to welcome home Sir John Smith, G.K., M.D., on his return from London.

From the Giants' Bay Broadsheet, June 1st.

The offices of this paper being now closed, subscribers are requested to forward outstanding accounts by return to Messrs. Payup and Shellout, Solicitors, London.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE COASTGUARDSMAN'S YARN.

A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL WAR.

Several summers ago I happened to be spending a few weeks at W—, a small fishing village on the Welsh coast. A beautiful little place it was, nestling in a break of the cliffs which rose majestically above it on either side and stretched in gaunt rugged walls seaward.

The beautiful bay, with its sunset lights behind the grand headland, with its deep caves and tumbled rocks, and above all its blue waters, lying sometimes calm and motionless, and at others dashing furiously at the foot of the cliffs, was enough to attract any lover of nature.

And dull little place as it was, with its one tiny inn and its handful of natives, the time I spent there, with my easel and paint-brush, was one of the most enjoyable of my life.

But beautiful as the view was from the land, I found the view from the sea still more attractive, and in order to gratify my tastes in this respect, I took pains to get myself into the good graces of one or two of the fishermen, a few of whom could speak English, and many times accompanied them on their fishing cruises in the bay, where, while they toiled at the nets, I sat and drank in the thousand beauties of the coast, or worked eagerly with my brush to commit them to canvas.

The expedition I liked best was towards the southern headland of the bay, where the cliffs were tallest and steepest and where, to add to the other attractions of the view, stood, perched like an eagle's nest on the edge of the crag, the ruins of an old castle.

By old, I do not mean Roman or even Norman. Indeed in that sense it was comparatively modern; for the building, what was left of it, looked more like one of those Tudor manor-houses which dot the country still, than a fortress. And yet, that it had been fortified was plain enough even still. On the side towards the sea it needed no protection; indeed looking up at it from below, it seemed almost to overhang its precipitous foundation. But on the land side there remained traces of a moat, and loop-holes in the walls, and a massive gate.

It was scarcely to be called a picturesque ruin, except inasmuch as every ruin is picturesque. Its bare walls rose gaunt and black out of the ground, not out of a heap of tumbled moss-grown masonry, or covered over with ivy. There were very few signs of decay about the place, ruinous as it was, and very little examination was enough to show that it had suffered not from old age, or from the cannon of an enemy, but from fire.

No one about could tell me its story, and the mystery of the place only added to its charm. Indeed I was quite glad to discover that it had not even a name, and that the country folk would as soon have thought of crossing the old moat after nightfall as they would have done of stepping over the edge of the cliff. The only thing I could learn about it, in fact, was that it was haunted, and that the one little turret which still retained a roof, and over which the only ivy visible tried to creep, was railed the Lady Tower, and was the "most haunted" spot of all.

I could not believe that the one corner of the old ruin where there still remained a sign of life and verdure, could be infested by any very terrible ghost. Still I am not quite sure whether I should have enjoyed a solitary night's rest there, and to have suggested the thing to the natives of W— would have been enough to secure my incarceration as a raving lunatic. So I did not. But by daytime I added myself one more to the spirits that haunted the place, and yielded myself up completely to its fascination.

One day towards the end of my visit I walked over to a coastguard station some miles along the shore for the sake of taking a last survey of the beautiful coast. When I reached it I found, to my pleasure, one of the W— fishing-boats just preparing to put out and sail round the headland back to the village. One of the coastguardsmen was on board, and I was glad to accept the invitation of my honest friend to form another of the party.

I found the coastguardsman a most intelligent fellow—well informed on many subjects, and even professing to be something of an art critic. I showed him one or two of my pictures, and he was graciously pleased to approve of them, especially a sketch of the ruined castle from the south, with the Lady Tower in the foreground.

The examination of this picture naturally turned the conversation on to the ruin, and I was delighted to find my companion seemed almost as interested in the subject as I was.

"It's a strange thing," said I, "that the one thing wanting seems to be a story."

"Ah! that was burnt out by the fire, sir."

I was rude enough to laugh. He fancied I was lamenting the absence of the top storey!

"I don't mean that," I said. "What I mean is, no one seems to know anything about the place or its history."

"Not they! What should they bother their heads about it for?"

"But it must have a history of some sort," said I.

"Of course it has."

"Do you know it?"

"Of course I do."

It was quite a shock to me to find any one knew anything about my ruin, and it was some time before I ventured to ask—

"Would you tell it to me?"

Instead of saying "Yes," the coastguardsman laid down his telescope, pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket, and, cutting off a small quid, put it into his mouth, looked up at the sail, shifted himself once or twice in his seat, and then, looking to see if I was ready, began—

"It's not such a wonderful yarn after all, sir. You see, something like two hundred and fifty years ago, when our Civil Wars were going on— you've heard of them, I suppose?—yonder castle belonged to a stout Charles the First's man called Fulke. He owned a good bit about this coast, I'm told, and the folk at the New Manor are sort of descendants. But direct descendants they can't be, for Fulke only had one daughter, sir, and she never married. If it hadn't been for those cruel wars she would have been married, though, for she was betrothed to a neighbour, young Morgan, who lived beyond that hill there, and mightily they loved one another too! Fulke, whose lands joined on Morgan's, was pleased enough to have the two families united, and united they would have been to this day but for the Civil Wars. I'm no great hand at dates, sir, but it was somewheres about 1642 that things began to get unpleasant.

"One day, not long before the wedding was to be, Fulke and his daughter went over to Morgan Hall; and while the young folk spent the day love- making in the garden the two old folk sat and discussed the affairs of the nation in the house. And it's safe to say the two out of doors agreed far better than the two indoors. For Morgan went with the Parliament, and told Fulke the King had no right to try and arrest the five members, and that the Parliament had done a fine thing in protecting them, and that if he'd been there he'd have called out against the King as loud as any of them. At that Fulke—who was a hot- headed man at best of times, and who went mad to hear any one say a word against the King—got up in a rage, and, taking his hat, stalked out into the garden, and taking his daughter by the arm marched away from Morgan Hall with never a word.

"It was a sad business. The young folks begged and the old Morgan sent a letter; but no, Fulke wouldn't listen to one of them, and forbade his daughter to leave the castle.

"Whether the lovers saw one another after that I don't know, but almost directly after the war blazed out and the whole country went mad. Morgan and his son had to leave these parts, and took arms under the Parliament, while Fulke brought guns and powder into his castle, and hoisted the flag of King Charles.

"The young lady had a busy time of it sheltering and entertaining the Royalists who came this way. But she had no heart in it—not that she didn't love the King, sir. Yet she loved young Morgan more.

"So things went on for four or live years. The King, as you know, sir, got the worst of it, and was driven to his wits' end. Most of his friends had fallen, and some had deserted. But so far no one had given Fulke much trouble. Either they had never heard of him, or saw there was not much to fear from him. So the Royal flag waved over the castle day and night, and the young lady did what her father bid her, and never went abroad or heard a word of young Morgan.

"But at last the King, not knowing what to do, tried to bring over the Irish to help him. And then it was the troubles in these parts began. For every one that was suspected of aiding in this venture was doomed by the Parliament.

"And Fulke was suspected. Rightly or wrongly I can't say, but I've a notion there was something in it. Anyway, his castle commanded the bay, and the Parliament made up their minds to have it. Fulke had only time to get a score or so of men with arms and provender inside his gate, when a troop of roundheads came with their guns over the lulls and sat down before it.

"The leader of the troop was a Colonel Frank, a cruel, ruffianly fellow, as you shall hear. And the second in command was no other than young Captain Morgan himself.

"He had had plenty of rough work during the war, and had done it well. And it's a pity, sir, all the Parliament's officers weren't of his sort, for he was as unlike Colonel Frank as a house-dog is to a wolf. When first ordered on this expedition he didn't know where he was going, and you can fancy his horror at finding out that he was to lay siege to the very castle that held his lady-love. At first he would have held back, and even refused. But he was under iron rules, and besides, thought he, I might help my lady more by going than staying away.

"So he came with the troop to the castle, and looked wistfully up at the little turret yonder, and prayed that she might never know that he was where he was.

"Colonel Frank came expecting an easy task with this small out-of-the- way castle. But it was not so easy as he thought. On two sides, as you see, sir, no mortal man could get at it. And on the other two, Fulke had guarded himself so well that by the end of a fortnight the Roundheads were not an inch nearer getting the place than they had been when they began.

"The rage of the colonel knew no bounds, and he vowed all sorts of vengeance. You may fancy one of his men did not join in his threats. Many a time that fortnight Captain Morgan wished a shot from the castle might find him out and end his misery. And yet whenever he was tempted to desert or quarrel with his colonel the thought of the lady left with no protector at the mercy of such a man held him to his post. All he could do was once or twice to urge the colonel to raise the siege, or come to terms with its master. But Frank was bent on vengeance, and at last poor Morgan had to desist for fear of getting suspected himself.

"About three weeks after the siege had begun, when the Roundheads were beginning to lose spirit, and Morgan's hopes were beginning to rise once more, a trooper rushed into the colonel's tent to say he had found a small cave below the top of the cliff which seemed to run up under the castle. The colonel's eyes blazed at the news, and he ordered the man to lead him instantly to the spot. Do you see a square grey patch on the face of the cliff up there, sir, nearly at the top, under the south corner?"

"Yes; what is it?"

"That's the mouth of the cave. At least, it's not a cave now, for it's filled up. But it was there the trooper, under cover of night, led the colonel and the captain. They didn't do more than mark the place then, for fear an alarm might be given by a sentinel within.

"'Now,' says Colonel Frank, 'the castle's ours; and not a soul inside it shall be there by this time to-morrow.'

"'What shall you do?' says Captain Morgan, pale, and with a shaky voice.

"'Do? Art thou a dunce, Morgan? Without doubt, at the end of that cave is a way up into the castle; and though the passage be too narrow for all my troop, three men and a captain will suffice to lay faggots and light them at the door. What say you, comrade?'

"'What!' cries Morgan, 'would you burn the place? No, no, colonel; we will capture it if we can, but it is no soldier's work to burn men in their beds!'

"'Fool!' exclaims the colonel, in a passion, 'it is no captain's work to read sermons to his colonel, sirrah! These rebels shall be smoked out like all other vermin!'

"'But,' says the captain once more, and very pale—'but I hear there is a lady in the castle, and—'

"'Peace, sir, on your peril!' exclaims the colonel, 'and hold yourself ready to obey orders when I shall give them.'

It was no use saying more, young Morgan saw that. As it was, he knew his colonel half suspected him of some treachery, and for the rest of that day put a watch upon him. Twenty times that day he was on the point of risking all consequences and declaring to his officer's face he would have no hand in this bad business. But the thought of how much worse that might be for the folk in the castle kept him to his post.

"Well, sir, the day passed, and they kept up a show of besieging the place on the land side, and took care to keep all Fulke's guns turned that way. But at nightfall Colonel Frank called Morgan to him and ordered him to take six men, whom he named, and try the passage.

"'If you find a sentinel at this end,' says the colonel, 'see he is overpowered and taken before an alarm can be given. Over the cliff will be the shortest way with him. The men you take know their business; and see you perform yours!' he says, with a scowl. 'I and the rest of the troop will be ready to storm the place as soon as we see the flames. Go now, lose no time; and, hark you, there is no quarter to-night for traitors!'

"This last remark may have been meant for the captain, who knew that, at heart, he was a traitor to the Parliament that night; or it may have been meant for the inmates of the castle. Anyway, it sounded ugly enough, and it was all Morgan could do to hold his peace and make no reply.

"He found the six men waiting for him without, and in the darkness they crept stealthily round to the edge of the cliff, where a narrow ledge led down to the end of the cave.

"It was a perilous step down, especially to those unaccustomed to the way. But the spot had been carefully marked in the daytime, and presently the little band all stood there at the entrance. Morgan in his secret heart wished some sentinel of the besieged might have perceived them, and so given an alarm. But no; such was the security Fulke felt in the secrecy of his cave that it never entered his head to guard it.

"The men entered one by one, with a man carrying a light in front. The passage was too narrow to allow of two abreast, and too low for any one to stand upright in it. So, single file, on hands and knees, they crawled forward.

"At last, when they had gone some way, and the sound of the sea grew faint in the distance, Morgan halted his men.

"'Give me the light,' says he, 'and stay here while I go forward and see how the passage ends.'

"He crawled forward to the front of the file and took the torch from the hands of the foremost man. But when he began to move forward he noticed that two of the band followed him at a short distance.

"'Did I not order you to remain with the rest?' demands he, angrily.

"'Pardon, captain. The colonel bade us keep close to you,' says one of the men, sourly.

"Morgan's blood ran cold in his veins, and his last hope of giving a friendly warning to those in the castle vanished. However, it was no time to quarrel, and he answered, with a forced laugh, 'The colonel flatters me by his attention. But, as he is anxious for my welfare, come on, my men, and keep your eyes on me.'

"The three went forward, till the cave became so narrow that they could scarcely drag themselves farther. In one place a little chink in the roof let in a faint ray of moonlight from above.

"At length they could get no farther, and Morgan, turning his head, said, 'It's a false scent, after all; the cave leads nowhere!'

"But at that moment over their heads they heard a sound of feet, and presently of voices. At first they could distinguish nothing, but after a while Morgan's ears caught some words.

"'Pray, master, get you to bed for this one night. The scoundrels can do nothing till the morning.'

"'I need no rest, I tell you,' said another voice, sternly. 'How stands the provender, Peter?'

"'It will last three days, master; and the shot will hold out for two. The water, alas! is already exhausted.'

"'Ah! And my child—how is she?'

"'In good heart, master; she was sleeping like a child as I passed her room just now.'

"Morgan could forbear no longer. He turned quickly to his men and said, in a loud voice, which might be heard by the unseen watchers overhead, 'My torch has gone out. Crawl back, one of you, to the rest and bring another, for if the castle is to be fired to-night—'

"There was a startled movement above, which told him his object had been gained. The voices grew silent, and the footsteps moved suddenly. For a moment his two companions did not comprehend what had happened. But it flashed on them soon enough, and they were ready for the emergency.

"One of the two suddenly lit a small ball of hemp saturated in some inflammable substance, which he had carried with him, and, fixing it on to the point of his sword, held it up to the boards above, at the same time that the other drew his pistol and pointed it at Morgan's head.

"Not a word was said, and not one of the three stirred, until a sharp crackling of the wood above told its own tale. The soldier still held up his brand till the place was well alight. Then withdrawing it, and beckoning to his companion, he began to retreat towards the mouth of the cave, saying as he did so, with a mocking laugh—

"'Farewell, master traitor, I doubt not your business keeps you where you are. We shall miss your company.'

"Morgan did not hear them. He sprang desperately towards the now blazing boards. But it was too late to stay the fire, and the heat and falling embers drove him back.

"Still he could not go, but stayed there half suffocated, determined at least not to desert his post while a glimmer of hope remained.

"In a few moments there was a crash and a shower of sparks at his feet. The trap-door had fallen in.

"Heedless of the peril or the pain, he sprang once more at the opening, and this time, how he knew not, succeeded in lifting himself into the blazing apartment. Many a time had he been there before in happier days.

"He rushed across to the door and out into the great hall of the castle. Not a man was there to stop him. He heard voices and shouts outside, but the castle seemed to have been left to its fate. There was yet time, thought he, before the flames reached so far, to rush up to his lady's room and save her.

"He sprang up the staircase. Halfway up he saw a figure before him, ascending too. He called, and the man turned suddenly. Morgan knew him in a moment. It was Fulke himself. The old Royalist, seeing himself pursued by a soldier in the dress of a Roundhead, concluded the enemy had already entered his castle, and with the fury of a desperate man, drew his sword and threw himself upon the stranger. Morgan had no time to hesitate. The delay of a moment might cost his lady her life.

"With a rapid pass of his sword, he struck Fulke across the arm, and as the weapon dropped from the old soldier's hand, Morgan rushed past, on towards the lady's chamber.

"Another obstacle still awaited him. This time it was a groom unarmed, who encountered him. He too, defenceless as he was, sprang wildly upon the intruder to dispute the passage. But Morgan put him by with the flat of his sword and crying—

"'Look to your master below. I will see to the lady,' darted on.

"After that it was all like a dream. He was dimly conscious of rushing down those steps shortly after, with a precious burden in his arms. How he struggled through the smoke and fire, or how he kept his feet on that tottering staircase, no one knows. It's enough to say he struggled forward down the stairs and across the hall as far as the outer door, where some one snatched his unharmed burden from his arms and carried her to a place of safety, where already her father, tended by his faithful servant, was recovering consciousness.

"The courtyard by this time was crowded with troopers, Royalist and Roundhead, and above the roar of the flames and the crashing of falling roofs there rose the report of guns and the clash of swords. Morgan, half stunned and like a man in a dream, was standing propped up against a tree a helpless spectator of the scene, when suddenly one of his own men rushed up to him and saluted.

"'The colonel, sir, is dead. He was under yonder wall as it fell. The men, sir, look to you for orders.'

"Morgan sprang to his feet like one electrified.

"'Call the men off,' he cried hoarsely, 'instantly—without another blow, and bring the prisoners to the camp—to me. Lose not a moment, friend.'

"The order was obeyed. The Roundheads were glad enough to get clear of the tottering walls without being too particular as to who escaped and who was captured.

"Among the prisoners who next morning were reported to the captain as safe were Fulke, his daughter, and one manservant.

"Morgan's heart failed him. He could not, dared not see them. He ordered them to be kept in safe custody, and, meanwhile, summoned two of his most trusty soldiers to receive orders respecting them.

"That night a small boat was brought round to the bottom of yonder cliff, where you see the little creak, sir. And in it Fulke and the young lady and their servant were rowed secretly to W—, where a fishing-boat waited to carry them to Ireland. That's the story, sir."

"And what became of Morgan?" said I.

"No one heard of him after this affair, sir. And they do say he was punished as a traitor. But whatever the end of him was, he never repented his night's work at the burning of Fulke Castle."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.

A GRANDFATHER'S YARN.

Sub-Chapter I.

"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather—

There was a general silence and a settling of ourselves in our seats, as the wavering voice of the old man uttered these magical words.

No one had asked him to tell a story, some of us had almost forgotten that he was sitting there in his big chair, one of the group which crowded round his own Christmas fire at Culverton Manor.

He was an old, old man, was my grandfather. The proverbial "threescore years and ten" was an old story with him, and even the "fourscore" awarded to the strong was receding into the distance. Yet there he sat, in his old straight-back chair, hale and bright, as he looked round on us his descendants, sons and daughters grey-haired already, grandchildren, who some of them were staid heads of families themselves, and the little group of great-grandchildren, who knew as well as any one that when their father's grandfather began to talk of "the days when he was young," it was worth their while to hold their peace and prick up their ears.

"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather, stroking his old grizzled moustache, "I was a cornet in the Buffs. It was in the year— heigho! my memory's getting rusty!—it was in the year 1803, I believe, when every one was expecting the French over, and I was quartered with my regiment at Ogilby. Ogilby is an inland town, you know, thirty miles from here; and as there was not much immediate danger of Bonaparte dropping in upon us there without good warning, we had a lazy rollicking time of it in that bright little place.

"We young officers, boys that we were, thought it a fine thing to live as grand gentlemen, and spend our pay half a dozen times over in all sorts of extravagances. And, I recollect with sorrow, I was as bad as any of them.

"Our colonel was an easy-going old soldier, who had been a wild blade himself once, and held that it was little use looking too sharply after us, so he didn't look after us at all; and we in consequence did just as we pleased.

"Sometimes we invited all the gentry round to feast with us at mess, and pledged our pay months in advance to load the table with the most costly delicacies. At other times we would sally forth, and out of sheer mischief organise a riot in the town, and end the night with broken heads, and now and then in the lock-up. And when we were tired of this, we got up I know not what gaieties to pass the time.

"As I said, I was as bad as any of them—worse perhaps. For I had had a good home and careful training, and knew all the time I was joining in the excesses of my comrades that I was a fool and a prodigal, and a traitor to my better self. And yet I went in, and might have gone on to the end of the chapter, had not an event happened to me which served to pull me up short.

"One evening that winter our festivities culminated by a grand entertainment given by the officers of our mess to all the countryside. Compared with this, our former efforts in the same direction had been mere child's play. We had hired the largest assembly room in the town, and decorated it regardless of all expense. The wine merchants and confectioners for miles round had been exhausted to furnish our supper, and the tailors and milliners driven nearly distracted over our toilets. Ogilby had never seen such a brilliant entertainment, and the officers of the Buffs had never achieved such a triumph.

"I was among the last to leave the gay scene, and as I stepped out into the chill winter air, and called for my horse, the clock of the church was striking four. My man had to help me to my saddle, for, what with the sudden change of air, added to the excesses of the evening, I was not steady enough to do it myself. My man was the son of an old tenant of my father's, and as he had known me from childhood, I was used to allowing him more familiarity than most gentlemen allow to their servants. I was, therefore, not surprised when, on reaching my quarters, after helping me to alight, he stopped a moment to speak to me before I entered the house.

"'By your leave, Master Hal,' said he, saluting, 'I thought you might like to know there is bad news from Culverton.'

"'How?' I demanded, scarcely taking in what he said.

"'Bad news, begging your honour's pardon. I had it in a letter from Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your—'

"'Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it?'

"'It is news of the squire, Master Hal!' said the man, seriously.

"'My father!' I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.

"'He is ill, please your honour. He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe says his life is despaired of.'

"'Ill a week, and I never heard!' I exclaimed. 'Why did no one tell me?'

"'Your honour may remember you have not examined your letters for these three days past.'

"It was true. In the whirl of excitement, with late nights and later mornings, and never-ending frivolity, my very letters had lain on my mantelshelf unopened!

"My man turned to take my horse away to the stable. His action recalled me suddenly to myself.

"'Hold!' I said; 'leave the horse here, Tucker, and help me into the saddle again.'

"Tucker gazed at me in astonishment, but did as he was bid.

"'I am going to Culverton,' I said, shortly, taking up the reins.

"'To Culverton! At this hour, and in this weather!' said Tucker, in tones of alarm. 'Stay at any rate till you have had a night's rest, for you need it, master, and till I can put up what you need for the journey.'

"'Let go my horse, man!' I cried, excitedly, setting spurs to the animal and abruptly ending the honest fellow's remonstrance.

"The thought of my father lying ill, dying perhaps, and me here revelling in Ogilby, made it impossible for me to contemplate a moment's delay, even so much as to change my gay attire or provide myself with necessaries for the journey. Culverton was thirty miles distant. I had a good horse, and with all my dissipation I was capable of a fair share of endurance. I therefore yielded to my impulse, and halting only to leave word with a comrade whom I met to explain my absence to the colonel, I dashed off into the night on my way to Culverton.

"What were my thoughts during those first few hours I need hardly tell you. I hope and trust none of you will ever be tortured by the self- reproach of which I was then the victim.

"For some distance out of Ogilby the roads were pretty good, and I made tolerable progress; so that when morning broke about seven I was at least a dozen miles on my journey. I could scarcely brook the delay of a few minutes at the first village to rest my horse and swallow a hurried breakfast; but I knew that for the rest of the way accommodation, either for man or beast, was very limited, and, therefore, prudence made the unwelcome delay a necessity.

"Once more in the saddle I hoped to make up for lost time; but in this I was fated to be disappointed. For scarcely had I got beyond the village when the weather suddenly changed. The chill morning air freshened to a wind which brought snow with it, light at first, but increasing in heaviness as the day went on. The road rapidly became covered, and my horse, unable on the treacherous foothold to maintain the canter of the morning, was compelled to slacken into a trot.

"I was in no gear for weather like this, as you may suppose. I still wore the light festive attire of the previous night, covered only with my military cape, which I now drew more closely around me at every step. How I wished I had taken Tucker's prudent advice! But it was too late to help it now.

"What troubled me most was not the cold, or the driving snow in my face, but the slow pace at which progress was now possible. I had hoped to reach Culverton by noon, but by noon I had accomplished scarcely two- thirds of the distance, and every moment the difficulties of the way were increasing. My horse trudged on gallantly. The trot had long since given place to a walk, and the walk in turn often became a sheer struggle for progress through the drifts and obstacles of the uncertain road.

"As for me, I was nearly frozen in my saddle, and more than once was compelled to dismount and tramp along beside my horse in the deep snow in order to keep the blood going in my veins. And all the while the thought of my father lying there at Culverton, neglected perhaps, with no son at hand to tend him, drove me nearly frantic.

"The afternoon dragged on, and towards dark the snow ceased to fall. That was at least some comfort, for to battle through that storm in the dark would have been an impossibility. As it was, my good horse was even now ready to drop, and I was in little better plight. If either of us failed it meant an entire night in the snow, and that would be little short of certain death. It was a dreary prospect.

"However, as I say, the snow ceased to fall, and towards night the sky overhead began to clear, until presently the moon shone out and lit up the wintry scene. But for this light we might have lost our way hopelessly, for the road lay over a heath, which being all covered in snow, we had only the wayside posts to direct us and keep us on the beaten track.

"It must have been near eight o'clock, sixteen hours since I had left the assembly at Ogilby, when I caught sight in the moonlight of a small cottage a little way removed from the road on our right. The sight of this, the first habitation we had passed for hours, was welcome indeed. I could scarcely stand with hunger, fatigue, and cold, and my brave horse was stumbling at every step. Our only chance of reaching Culverton that night was in seeking such rest and refreshment as this place might afford, and I therefore gladly turned aside and led my weary steed along the by-path that led up to it.

"It was a small tumbledown cottage, or rather barn, and my fond hopes as to fire and refreshment were dashed at once. It was empty. The broken door stood ajar, the roof was nearly fallen in, and everything within and without testified that for weeks at any rate it had been deserted. Still it had walls and a roof, and so if we were not to have board we might at least for an hour or so help ourselves to lodgings.

"I led my horse in, and after much groping about was delighted to discover in one corner of the hovel a sort of stall, which had evidently at one time or other been occupied by a cow. The ground was still strewn with a little old and very vile straw, which, however, was an unexpected luxury to us both, and a mere mouthful of stale hay remained in the trough. To these desirable quarters I conducted my faithful companion, who without ceremony devoured the hay, and then, too exhausted to stand, dropped into a recumbent posture, and lay stretched on his side on the straw. I quickly followed his example, creeping as close to his side as I could for the sake of the warmth, and thus we lay in the dark, resting as we had never rested before after our day's work.

"My own fear was lest I should fall asleep. In spite of my anxiety about my father, and my bitter reproaches against myself, I felt a stupor come over me which it was almost more than human nature to resist. Once or twice I dozed off for a moment, and then woke by an effort, each time more painful, until I was tempted at last to give in and resist no longer, whatever it cost.

"I had just come to this resolve when I became suddenly aware of the sound of voices in the cottage. Whoever they belonged to, I felt sure they must have entered after me, for I had explored every corner of the place when I took possession. They had probably entered during one of my fits of drowsiness."

My first impulse was to discover myself to the new comers, and see if they could help me and my horse in our distress. But on second thoughts I decided to remain where I was until I could ascertain at least who the intruders were, and if they had any better right in the cottage than I had. I was wide awake now, and raising myself noiselessly from my horse's side, I crawled to the side of the stall and peered over.

"By the uncertain light of a small fire of sticks which they had made, I saw two men sitting on the floor regaling themselves with bread and meat and the contents of a bottle. The sight of these good things made me still more inclined to disclose my presence, but prudence again forbade; besides which there was something strange about the look of the men, and the place where they were, which excited my curiosity.

"For a long time they continued their meal in silence. It went to my heart to see the victuals disappearing at such a rate, as you may suppose.

"At length, when, for the present at any rate, their appetites seemed to be appeased, they began to talk once more.

"'You're sure there's no mistake this time?' said one.

"'I have his own word for it,' replied the other. 'I tell you, Tom, he's planned it all out like Bonaparte himself.'

"'All I can say is,' said he who was called Tom, 'I hope something will come of it, for I'm sick of all this doing nothing.'

"'You may be sure something will come of this,' replied the other; 'and it will be something worth the while too, unless I'm mistaken, for the old gentleman is very rich; see here,' said he, producing some papers from his pocket, 'this is what he says.'

"He began to read a letter, and you may fancy how I, listening behind the partition, started as I heard it.

"'Jack,' it said, 'I'm watched and can't come. You and Tom must do it without me. Be you know where by eight on Friday night, and I'll send one I can trust to show you the way and help you through with it. You may rely on him, though he's a queer dog. Here's a map of the grounds of Culverton, but you won't need it, for he I send knows the place well. The steward is on our side, and will leave the back door unlatched. The strong box stands in the study, the second door on the left after you pass the great clock. The old man lies ill, and only two maids are in the house besides. The young puppy is away at Ogilby. Bring what you get to the tower by the river on Saturday night. There are jewels in the desk in the old man's room. He cannot hurt—if he tries he must be quieted—you know how.'

"I was so horrified that for a moment or two I scarcely knew whether I was awake or dreaming. My poor father, not only ill, but in peril of robbery, and perhaps murder! And I, what could I do? My impulse was to spring from my retreat and make one desperate effort to overpower the villains. But I was too weak to do it. Besides I was unarmed, whereas they had each his pistol. What could I do?

"The man who had read the letter carefully put it, along with the rough map of the Culverton grounds, into the fire, and the two sat and watched the papers as they burned.

"'He's a good man of business,' said Tom.

"'Middling,' replied the other; 'and if he—'

"At that moment my horse gave a sudden start in his sleep. The quick ears of the two villains instantly caught the sound.

"'Hullo!' said one in a whisper, 'what was that?'

"'Hist!' said the other, holding up his hand, 'strike a light, Tom.'

"While Tom obeyed I softly dropped on my hands and knees and crawled back to my old place beside the horse, where I lay motionless, and to all appearance in a profound sleep.

"'I'm sure I heard something,' said Tom, holding up the lantern. From where they were they could see nothing but the side of the stall. They therefore crept round stealthily; and as I lay I saw the light suddenly turn on the horse.

"'A nag, as I'm a Dutchman, and saddled too!' exclaimed Tom.

"'If that's so, the rider's not far off,' said the other, grimly, taking the lantern and advancing.

"It was all I could do to lie motionless, breathing heavily, as the light fell full on my face.

"'Ah! found him!' was the exclamation, as both rushed towards me.

"I heard the cocking of a pistol close beside me, and was conscious of a rude plucking at my arm.

"'Come, get up there! What do you do here? Get up, do you hear?'

"I had one hope left, and it was a desperate one.

"I roused myself slowly, and with many feints, from my mock slumber, and rubbed my eyes and yawned, and stared first at one, then the other.

"'Get up,' again cried the men, still pulling my arm roughly, 'and say what you're doing here.'

"'Doing here?' I drawled as unconcernedly as I could, stretching myself at the same time, 'That's a pretty question to ask me. What were you doing not to be here at eight o'clock, I'd like to know?'

"The men let go my arms, and looked at me in bewilderment.

"'Why,' said one, 'are you—'

"'There,' said I, 'we don't mention names in our trade. You'll learn that when you grow older, and you'll learn to be punctual too,' I added, testily.

"The men looked half abashed.

"'We were here at eight,' they said.

"'No, you were not. I was here at eight to the minute, and I had time to fall asleep, as you see, before you came. But never mind that. You know what business is on foot, I suppose?'

"'Yes, I had it all from—'

"'Hush! no names, you dolt; what did I tell you before?'

"The men were perfectly sheepish now, and I began to breathe again. It was well I had been described in the letter as a 'queer dog,' for it is an easy part to act, even to save one's own life. Besides, this would account sufficiently well for my unbusinesslike attire.

"My great fear was lest the real person referred to in the letter should arrive on the scene before I had quitted it. I therefore ordered an immediate departure.

"'We've lost an hour already with your dilatoriness,' I growled; 'don't let us lose any more. As it is, it is a chance if we reach Culverton before morning. Come, lead out my horse, and bring what food you have with you, for I'm starving.'

"Before five minutes had passed we were safe out of the cottage and in the high-road—I, mounted on my faithful and partly refreshed horse, eating ravenously of the scraps of bread and meat my companions had left, while they trudged along in the snow one on either side.

"In this manner we progressed for an hour or so in silence, until about one o'clock there appeared on the side of a distant hill a twinkling light. I knew it at once. It had guided me home often and often before now, and it was doing so again. But in what strange company!

"'That's Culverton, on the hill there,' said I.

"The men, who were nearly dead beat with their tramp through the deep snow, said nothing, but plodded on doggedly. It was nearly an hour more before we reached the outskirts of the estate, and by this time so exhausted were they that when I cried a halt they fairly sat down in the snow.

"I was strongly tempted to leave them there; but a desire to bring them to condign punishment prevented me. They were armed, and I was not. Besides, the reference in the letter to my father's steward made me anxious to sift the matter to the bottom.

"'Come, come,' said I, 'at that rate you'll never see the strong box. Get up, men!'

"They struggled to their feet. Had they been anything but the villains they were I could have pitied them, they looked so miserable.

"'Hold my horse,' said I, dismounting, 'while I go and reconnoitre. I know every inch of the ground. Keep in the dark, whatever you do, under the hedge there. So. Are you loaded?'

"'I am,' said Tom, sullenly taking out his pistol.

"'So am I,' said the other.

"'Give me one of the pistols,' I said, as coolly as I could. 'You won't want both here, and I may want one.'

"Tom handed me his.

"'Now keep a look-out here, and when you hear me whistle over the wall, come sharp, mind!'

"So saying, I left them, and went on towards the house.

"Except in my father's room no lights were burning, and I began to hope that what the letter had said about the steward might after all prove to be false. I went quietly up to the back door and turned the handle. It was open. The story was true, then, and in my rage and indignation I could hardly contain myself to act my part any longer. However, I made a desperate effort.

"Holding the door slightly open I whistled softly. There was no answer. I whistled again louder. This time there was a sound of some one moving, and the faint nicker of a candle, and presently I heard a voice whisper—

"'Is it all right?'

"'All right,' I whispered back. 'And you, steward?'

"'Yes. All ready. Come in.'

"I entered. My hat was over my eyes, and in the faint candle-light the false servant did not know me. I followed him to his room.

"'You're late,' he said, reaching down some keys from a nail. 'Where are the rest?'

"'Outside,' I replied in a low whisper.

"But, low as it was, the voice was not disguised enough to escape the quick ear of the steward. He turned sharply round and looked at me, while I at the same moment, throwing off my cap, sprang towards him and presented my pistol.

"He was too stunned and terrified to do anything but drop on his knees and utter incoherent entreaties and ejaculations for pity.

"'How is my father?' I inquired, not heeding his entreaties, and pointing the pistol still at his head.

"'Better,' he faltered—'much better. Oh, Master—'

"'Come with me,' I replied, turning to the door.

"He accompanied me like a lamb. Had my father been worse I had intended to lock him up a prisoner in his own room. As it was, I took him silently and stealthily through the village and delivered him up then and there into the hands of the watch.

"This villain secured, it only remained to make sure of the other two. And this, as it happened, was a very easy task. For both, exhausted by their long, forced march and utterly benumbed by the cold, had fallen into a drowsy stupor under the hedge where they had been left, crouching beside my faithful steed for warmth. In this state it was simple work to secure them and march them off to custody, where at any rate they were not less comfortable for a time than they had been.

"A further visit next morning to the 'tower by the river,' which was well known to the watch as a rendezvous of thieves, served to secure the rest of the conspirators: and the law of the land shortly afterwards put it out of their power one and all to practise their wicked craft again.

"As for me, that night taught me a lesson or two that I've not forgotten to this day, and which in my turn I've tried to teach to some of you here. I went back to Ogilby a wiser man than I had left it, and, thank God, a better one."

"And what did the poor horse do?" asked the youngest of the Culvertons.

"Why, he carried me back as merrily as if he'd never seen snow in all his life."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

OUR NOVEL.

A SUMMER HOLIDAY ACHIEVEMENT.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE PLOT.

It was a bold undertaking, no doubt, at our tender age, to propose to take the world by storm. But others had done it before us.

We had read our Wonderful Boys and our Boyhood of Great Men carefully and critically. We had seen that Mozart had composed music at six, and written it down very untidily too; we had seen that Marlborough had, by sheer cheek, been made an officer at about our age; that David Wilkie, one of the dullest of boys, had painted pictures while at school; that Scott, a notorious blockhead, had written poetry at thirteen; and that James Watt, at the same age, with very little education, had pondered over the spout of a tea-kettle.

All this we had seen, and been very greatly impressed, for surely, if some of these very ordinary boys had succeeded in startling their generation, it would be strange, if we two—Sydney Sproutels and Harry Hullock, who had just carried off the English composition prize at Denhamby—couldn't write something between us that would make the world "sit up."

That English composition prize had really been a great feather in our caps. It was the first thing of the kind we had done—not the first English composition, but the first sustained literary effort—and it had opened our eyes to the genius that burned within us.

The exercise had been to expand the following brief anecdote into an interesting narrative which should occupy two pages of Denhamby paper with twenty lines in a page:—

"Orpheus, son of Oeagrus and Calliope, having lost his wife, Eurydice, followed her to Hades, where, by the charm of his music, he received permission to conduct her back to earth, on condition that he should not look behind him during the journey. This condition he broke before Eurydice had quite reached earth, and she was in consequence snatched back into Hades."

I need not say that two pages of Denhamby paper were all too short to express all we had to say on this delightful subject. I, being by nature a poet, could have used all my space in describing the beauties of the spring morning on which Orpheus made his unusual expedition; while Hullock, whose genius was of a more practical order, confided to me afterwards that if he had had room he had intended to introduce a stirring conversation between the widower and his wife's ghost, in which the latter would make certain very stringent conditions before consenting to return once more to household duties.

However, by dint of severe self-denial, we both managed to restrain our muses to the forty lines prescribed, and sent in our compositions with quite a feeling of envy for the examiner who would have to read them.

When the results were announced, the doctor publicly stated that "though many of the compositions were meritorious, yet, on the whole, those of Sproutels and Hullock showed most originality, and, indeed, gave considerable promise. The prize would be shared between them."

Of course, after that, all question as to our calling in life was at an end, and the sooner we "fleshed" our pens before the world the better. So it was arranged that Hullock was to get his father and mother to invite me for the midsummer holidays, and that before Denhamby saw us again, "Our Novel" should be started.

The Hullock family, it is necessary to say here, consisted of my partner, his two parents, a maiden aunt, and a sister. Mr Hullock, a good and worthy little man, who had not had all the advantages of education which his son possessed, was a retired coal merchant, spending the afternoon of his days at Saint Leonards.

His wife, as kind and motherly as she was tall and portly, treated me like her own son from the moment I entered her house.

And with her to look after me, and Alice to fall in love with, and Harry to collaborate with, I was about as comfortable as a restless genius could be—that is, I should have been so had it not been for the damp and frigid influence of Aunt Sarah, who sympathised neither with genius nor youth, and certainly not with the two in combination. Twenty times a day she grieved me by calling me "silly little boy," and twenty times a day she exasperated me by reminding Harry, and, through him, me, that "little boys should be seen and not heard."

However, we decided to ignore this uncongenial influence, and bury our sorrows in "Our Novel."

"Tell you what," said Harry, as we walked on the pier the first evening, "we ought to look sharp and get our plot."

"Wouldn't it be better to settle on the characters and get the plot afterwards?"

"All serene!" said Harry; "can you suggest any one for a hero?"

Harry said this in a half significant, half off-hand manner, which made it evident to me he expected I should at once nominate him.

But, in my judgment, Harry hardly possessed all the qualifications necessary for the hero of our novel. So I replied, half significantly, half off-handedly too—

"Hadn't you better think of some one?"

Here we were in a fix at the very start. For Harry insisted he would much rather that I should select, and I was equally anxious for him to do it.

At length we compromised the matter and decided we should make the hero a mixture of two fellows—the fellow Harry liked best and the fellow I liked best.

After this amicable arrangement it was comparatively clear sailing. We had not to look far for the heroine, and it occurred to both of us that it would be original as well as pleasant to make the villain a female and middle-aged. As for minor characters, we were able to draw on our acquaintance at Denhamby to supply them, and, failing that, Harry was magnanimous enough to offer his father and mother as "not bad for some of the side plots."

We had got our characters. That one walk on the pier settled them all. We also stopped a bit to watch the people, we entered into conversation with a sailor (who turned out to be deaf), and insinuated ourselves into the front of a street row, all with a view to reproducing our observations on life into "Our Novel."

The street row indeed furnished an inspiration for our plot. It was the arrest of a make-believe Italian female organ-grinder, whose offence appeared to be that she was carrying about in a cradle attached to the organ an infant that did not belong to her. And as the infant brought her in much more money than her music did, she protested in very strong English against having it removed.

With the quickness of genius we saw in this incident the pivot on which our novel should be made to turn.

The baby was the heroine, the organ-grinder the villain who had stolen her from her high-born station in life. Two of the characters fitted at a blow! We had even got the high-born parents ready if required, and when sixteen years later the little truant was to discover her noble station, we had our hero ready to take her home!

Between the pier-gate and Warrior Square we had the whole story worked out.

"What has kept you little boys out so late?" asked a voice as we entered Mr Hullock's hall. "It's not right. You should have been in bed by eight."

It was Aunt Sarah! and we secretly condemned her on the spot to a public execution in our last chapter.

As we undressed that evening another point was cleared up.

"We can't keep the hero hanging about sixteen years before we bring him in," said Harry.

"Humph," I observed, "unless we said 'sixteen years passed' at the end of the first chapter, and then we might get him in in the second."

"It strikes me," said Harry dubiously, "he ought to be in it all through. What do you say to making him another stolen baby belonging to another organ? Just as likely to have two stolen as one."

It did occur to me that if it came to that, all the characters in the story might begin life in this romantic way. However, there seemed no objection to starting the hero in an organ-grinder's cradle, and we closed with the suggestion at once and got into bed.

I woke very early. I had the hero on my mind. I wanted him to be a good one after the best model, and I could not help thinking that the Harry in him ought not to be overdone. Besides, if he was to make himself pleasant to the heroine, the less he was like Harry and the more he was like Harry's chief friend the better. For sisters in fiction never make much of their brothers, but they often make a lot of their brothers' friends.

I nudged Harry with my elbow, in order to represent the case to him from this point of view. I did it delicately and in a most conciliatory manner.

"I was thinking, old man, as Alice is the heroine and you're her brother, I might—don't you know—perhaps you'd like if—well, what I mean to say is, perhaps I'd better do the gush, when it comes to that."

Happily Harry was scarcely awake, and did not take in all my meaning.

"All serene," said he, "we'll have as little of that as we can."

"I mean I think you'd do the parts about the villain and that sort of thing better—don't you?"

But as Harry was asleep again I had to take silence for consent.

The day that followed was an anxious one. It is easy enough to get your characters, but it is awful having to fix their names. And it is simple work getting a plot, compared with the agony of dividing it up into forty chapters!

This was the task before us to-day, and we retired as before to the pier-head with pencils and paper, in order to do it beyond the sound of Aunt Sarah's voice.

We endured agonies over the names. The hero's name should naturally have been a judicious combination of the names of the two fellows we had in our minds' eyes. But neither "Sydrey Sproutock" nor "Hardney Hulltels" exactly pleased us. Finally we decided to call him Henry Sydney, and, strange to say, it occurred to me it would be best as a rule to speak of him by his surname, while Harry was equally strong about calling him by his Christian name. At last we agreed that when we, the authors, spoke of him it should be as Sydney, and that when the heroine or any one else mentioned his name it should be as Henry—Harry explaining that "as they're to be kids together there won't be anything strange in her calling him by his Christian name." The heroine, after much searching of heart, we christened Alicia Dearlove, and the villain Sarah Vixen.

The other names we made up from a local directory which we were lucky enough to stumble across in the pavilion.

Then came the formidable work of slicing up our novel into forty pieces. We wrote the figures down the side of a long sheet of paper, and looked with something like dismay at the work we had set before us.

"Seems a lot of chapters," said Harry; "couldn't we make it thirty?"

"Wouldn't run to six shillings if we did," said I.

That settled it, and we set ourselves to fill up the blanks.

"Chapter the First," wrote I. "Theft of Alicia—Sorrow of her Parents— The Organ-grinder's Lodgings—Suspicions of the Police—The Hero in the Room underneath."

"Hold hard!" cried Harry; "that's too much for one chapter. We shall have to make that do for four of 'em, or else we shall run out in ten."

"How on earth can you make four chapters of that?" said I.

"Well, you can make 'Theft of Alicia' spin out into one."

"Oh, ah! Why, all there is to say is that Aunt Sarah—I mean Mother Vixen—came across her in the square and collared her. However are you to make a dozen pages of that?"

"Oh," said Harry, "we shall have to make her call at public-houses on the way, and that sort of thing, and describe the scenery in the square, and have the nursemaid go off to see the militia band go by, and leave the baby on the seat. Bless you, it'll spread out!"

Harry seemed to know all about it.

So we went, on with our skeleton, trotting our little foundling round town on the organ, where she witnessed with infant eyes street rows, cricket matches, bicycle races, a murder or two, and such other little incidents of life which we deemed calculated to enliven our story.

About the twelfth chapter she and our hero had already exchanged tender passages.

In the twentieth chapter her real father and mother happen to see her in the street (she being then sixteen), and are immediately struck by her resemblance to their lost baby.

By chapter twenty-five our hero had saved the lives of his future mother and father-in-law, and had rescued the heroine, single-handed, from a Hatton Garden mob.

In the twenty-ninth chapter Aunt Sarah had committed her murder with every circumstance of brutality and unpleasantness, the victim being one of our schoolfellows whom we neither of us loved.

Then for a chapter or two there was some very active police play, interspersed with a few love scenes between the hero and heroine, who— though it never occurred to us at the time—must have enjoyed independent means, which made it quite unnecessary for them to follow the ordinary avocations of organ-grinders.

About the thirty-fifth chapter there was to be a sudden drawing-in of threads from all quarters.

Sub-Chapter thirty-sixth was to be devoted to Sarah in the condemned cell.

Thirty-seventh—Alicia discovers her name by seeing it marked on a pocket-handkerchief she had been using at the time she was stolen.

Sub-Chapter thirty-eighth—The hero discovers his name by being told it by a solicitor who has known all about it all the time.

Sub-Chapter thirty-ninth—All comes right; everybody goes back to their mothers and fathers, and a quiet wedding ensues.

Sub-Chapter forty—Execution of Sarah. Finis.

We were tired and hungry by the time our paper was full, but we were jubilant all the same.

"Stunning fine plot!" said Harry. "If we only work it out it ought to be as good as Nicholas Nickleby."

"Rather! By the way, we ought to have one or two funny chaps in it to work off some of our jokes. There's that one about the sculptor dying a horrid death, you know—because he makes faces and busts! I'd like to get that in somehow."

"All serene! That might come in in the last chapters. I've got the Family Jest-Book at home; we might pick a few things out of that, and then settle where they come in, and work in for them as we go on."

We accordingly made a judicious selection, and having marked the initials of the character who was to bring them in against each, and also the number of the chapter in which they were to "come on," we really felt as if everything was now ready for our venture.

We went to bed early, so as to get a good night and arise fresh to our work, not, however, before we had made an expedition to the stationer's and expended half a crown in manuscript paper, J and D pens, blotting- paper, blue-black ink, and forty small paper-fasteners.

These provided, and the servant being particularly charged to call us at five o'clock, we retired to rest, and slept with our "skeleton" under the pillow.

Sub-Chapter II.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

A grave question arose the moment we opened our eyes next morning. Who was to write the first chapter? A great deal depended on how it was done. The style of the first chapter would give tone to the whole novel, and, so to speak, show the way for all the other chapters.

"I thought," said Harry, in his suspicious off-hand way, "if you took the even numbers and I took the odd, that might do."

Might it? That would mean he would write Chapter One. I wanted to write Chapter One. On the other hand, it would mean I should have Chapter twelve, with the execution in it, which would suit me very well. I mentioned the fact, and could see that Harry had forgotten it, for he tried hard to back out of his arrangement.

"I think you'd do the first chapter best," said he. "There's some scenery in it, you know, and you're more of a dab at that than I am."

But my modesty preferred the even numbers, and our novel looked very like being water-logged before she had even been launched.

A compromise was, however, arrived at. As the question of style was very important, it was decided we should both write Chapter One, and then, after comparing the two attempts, arrange our further procedure accordingly.

So I with a J pen, and Harry with a D retired to opposite corners of the room and plunged headlong into the "Theft of Alicia." It was a hard morning's work, and by the time the breakfast-bell rang we were both getting the steam up. The sight of Aunt Sarah brooding over the tea- tray had but one meaning for us, and Sister Alice's pretty face and soft voice spoke to me only of that baby I had left in my chapter lying on the seat in the square.

"Now, little boys, are you going to play on the beach to-day?" said the villain, as the meal concluded.

"No, aunt," said Harry. "Syd and I have got some work we are doing."

"What work?" demanded Aunt Sarah.

"English composition," said Harry boldly.

And under cover of this truthful announcement we escaped.

It was midday before I laid down my pen and gathered my scattered sheets together. Harry had been done before me, but he had only written eleven sheets, so our pace was about equal.

"Done?" said he, as I sat back in my chair.

"Yes; lock the door," said I.

I must beg the reader's pardon if I do not lay before them the whole of the two lucubrations. They must be content with a few impartially chosen selections.

My chapter began with a poetical description of London in early morning.

"London in the morning! What a scene! The whistle of the workmen's trains sounds, and the noise of vegetable carts going to Covent Garden Market, give the place an animated appearance. Very few people are awake, and those that are look sleepy.

"In such a scene as this a hideous-looking woman, about fifty years old, with a long nose and a shabby barrel-organ, wended her way from some of the slums near Farringdon Street Station in the direction of Euston Square.

"It was not a very pretty walk. There were no birds twittering in the trees, or cuckoos. You could not hear the gentle roar of the ocean, and what flowers there were, were in pots on the window-sills.

"The ugly woman chose the road where there were most public-houses, and I am sorry to say that any one who had walked close beside her would have heard her talking to herself in very bad language."

Here followed the description of a few of the public-houses and their natural beauties, and my narrative proceeded—

"In this way the wicked woman reached Euston Square. She was greatly intoxicated, and not able to play the tunes on her organ correctly. Nobody gave her anything, which was not surprising, and the police moved her on all round the square.

"At last it was plain she would have to do something to get some money.

"After thinking over all the different things, she thought she would steal a baby and get money that way. So, seeing a baby lying on a seat close by, whose nurse had gone off to see a militia band marching towards Gower Street, she stole it and went off as fast as she could.

"There was a cradle hanging on to the organ, and when people saw the baby in it the wicked woman got as much money as she liked.

"My reader will have guessed by this time that the baby, which was of the feminine gender, is the heroine.

"She was really high-born.

"Her father was a retired coal merchant. He was a very little man and dropped his h's.

"Her mother was what the vulgar would call a 'whopper.' Let not the reader think she whopped her baby or her husband. On the contrary, she was kind, but big.

"They lived at Highbury, and the nurse always took the baby out for walks before breakfast."

It was at this point that it had suddenly flashed across me that I had left out the joke allotted to Chapter One, and as the narrative was well advanced, I ought to work up for it without delay. So I proceeded.

"We left Alicia, for that was the name of our heroine, being wheeled back on the organ to Hatton Garden. It was an unpleasant journey. The bad woman called at a lot more public-houses, and left Alicia and the organ outside in the rain.

"It was a wonder Alicia was not stolen again. She began to cry. People who came by couldn't make out what it was, for she was hidden under the quilt, and some thought instead of an organ it must have been some strange animal.

"An organ that cried like a child would be a very queer animal, nearly as queer as an author whose tale comes out of his head; and some of the people said so."

I was hot and tired by the time I had worked off this piece of humour, and began to wish I saw my way to the end of my twelve sheets. Two more I occupied with a picture of the organ-grinder's quarters in Hatton Garden, and concluded with the following poetical passage:—

"Little thought the wicked Vixen as she huddled her stolen infant into a damp corner of the filthy room, how much would happen before Alicia and her poor parents next met.

"We know very little of what is going to happen, and perhaps it is a good job. At any rate it was a good job for Alicia as she lay fast asleep.

"The world is all before the little baby—It doesn't know what's all in store for it—If it did know, it seems to me that maybe it wouldn't like the prospect—not a bit.

"End of Chapter One."

Harry looked a little uncomfortable as I finished reading my chapter aloud. I concluded he felt rather out of it, and I was not surprised. For on the whole it read well, and in some respects I flattered myself it had rather a pull on Nicholas Nickleby.

Harry wisely reserved his criticisms until he had read his own chapter, which I awaited with a smile of brotherly resignation.

"You know," explained he, before he began, "I tried to get more incident than you, that's why I left out the scenery."

Aha! my scenery had fetched him, then! I wondered what his incident would be like.

"Fire away!" said I.

"Her name was Sarah Vixen—[I'm beginning now]—Her name was Sarah Vixen. She was a horrid old maid. One morning she went and played her organ in Euston Square. She played 'Wait till the clouds roll by,' and 'Sweethearts' waltz', and the 'Marseillaise,' one after the other, after which she paused and watched a tennis match which was going on in the square.

"It was a four-handed match between two rather good-looking boys who wore red and green ribbons on their straws—[those were the Denhamby colours]—and two big London fellows. The schoolboys won the toss, and the fair one served first. He put in a very hot service just over the net, which broke sharp as it fell, and bothered the Londoners completely. The dark hand-in played close up to the net, and was very neat in the way he picked up balls and smashed them over."

Harry paused and looked doubtfully at me for a moment, and then went on.

"The schoolboys pulled off the first three games, and then the Londoners scored a game, owing to the wind. A large crowd collected to see the match, and shouts of 'Well put over!' greeted the schoolboys on every hand. The Londoners didn't score another game in the first set, and scored nothing in the second.

"The crowd became thicker and thicker every moment. In the last game the fair schoolboy spun a ball into the far left-hand corner, which the Londoner could not reach, and the match ended in a glorious victory for the two schoolboys, who, apparently unaware of the cheers of the crowd, walked home arm-in-arm as if nothing had happened.

"On their way they met a runaway horse, and loud cries of 'Take care!' 'Get out of the way!' met them on all sides. A nursemaid was wheeling a child across the road at that moment, and quick as thought the fair boy sprang at the horse and brought him to a standstill just in time. The crowd seeing it, rushed with a great cheer to the young hero, but he seeing it, took his friend's arm and walked on as if nothing had happened.

"'What are you so pale for?' asked his friend.

"'Oh, nothing very much. I have broken my arm; but it really doesn't matter much.'

"While he spoke he fainted, and if it had not been for his friend, might have fallen.

"Meanwhile the baby, left to herself in the perambulator in the middle of the road, began to cry, which attracted the notice of Vixen, who, seeing she was a nice child, went and lifted her out of her perambulator, and put her in her cradle on her organ while nobody was looking, and took her to her home."

"'Whose home?' I asked.

Harry did not condescend to notice this interruption. He may have guessed I was jealous. All that about the heroic fair boy had been taking an unfair advantage of me, and I think he knew it. For I was of a dark complexion! His narrative went on to describe a fight in the organ-grinder's lodgings, and a burglary, followed by a fire at the residence of the parents of the lost child. As a matter of course, the fair boy with his broken arm turned up on the fire-engine, and brought most of the family down the escape with his sound arm. Then by a sudden transition the scene changed back to the organ-grinder's "cottage," on the ground floor of which in another cradle slept another infant, a boy, fair, of course, and beautifully made, showing great promise of physical force and heroism of disposition.

"He was older than Alicia, and could speak a little. There was no one in the room, and as he sat up in his cradle he felt very sad. Presently two young organ-grinders came into the room. One was dark and vicious, the other was fair [of course] and had a pleasant expression. They took no notice of the baby, but sat and smoked and asked riddles of one another. The fair one [of course!] was far the cleverer of the two, and caused much laughter by his wit.

"'Can you tell me,' said he, in a pleasant silvery voice very unlike an organ-grinder, 'why an author is a queer animal?'

"'Give it hup,' said the vulgar one, who always put his 'h's' wrong.

"'Because his tale comes out of his head!'

"It was long before the vulgar one saw it, and then he laughed so much that the baby began to cry, and they had to go into the next room for fear of disturbing it. Having left the door open, the fair baby got out of its cradle, and, being old enough to walk, went quietly upstairs, and there what should he see in a cradle in the room above but Alicia! This was the first time the two met. They did not say much, but Cupid's arrow went through them both from that minute. That's all," said Harry.

There was a silence, which at last I broke.

"And which chapter do you think we'd better put in?"

"That's just what I was going to ask you," said Harry.

"You see," said I cautiously, "you've got rather a lot about that fair chap in yours, and he's not in the plot."

"Oh, he turns out somebody," said Harry.

"Who?"

"I don't know yet."

"He's not the hero, of course?" said I decisively; "he's to be a mixture of both."

"Oh, of course," said Harry. "But, I say, don't you think there's rather too much about scenery in yours? There's very little of that in Nicholas Nickleby, or poetry either."

"No; that struck me as one of the weak points of Nicholas Nickleby," said I.

"I thought it was settled the hero was to be in it from the first?" said Harry, falling back on another line of defence.

"So he is. I shall say in the next chapter that he was in the room underneath all the time," said I, rather testily.

"Oh, well," said Harry, "of course if you think yours is the best, you'd better stick it in. I'm out of it, if you're going in for poetry."

"You're not obliged to do any poetry," said I. "Thanks. I shouldn't try unless I was sure of writing something that wasn't doggerel," said Harry. This was hitting me on a tender point. "Look here," said I, starting up, "do you mean to tell me I write doggerel?"

"I didn't say so."

"You meant it. I'd sooner write doggerel than stuff I'd be ashamed to read in a 'penny dreadful.' Call yourself a fair boy!"

Alas for our novel! We spent half an hour that evening in anything but a literary competition.

Aunt Sarah remarked on Harry's black eye and my one-sided countenance at breakfast next morning, and inquired artlessly if English composition had caused them. We truly answered, "Yes."

Our friendship was quickly restored; but our poor novel, after that one evening, has never lifted up its head again. We have sometimes vaguely talked of finishing it, but we have been careful to avoid all discussion of details, still less all reference to Chapter One. In fact, we have come to the conclusion that it is better not to startle the world at too early an age. If you do, you are expected to keep it up, and that interferes with your enjoyment of life.

When our Novel does come out, well, we think Conan Doyle, Wells, and those other fellows will sit up.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Preface.

OUR OWN PENNY-DREADFUL.

I am always coming across old manuscripts. I am not sure of the date of the following, but I fancy it must have been written for a prize, which, strange to say, it failed to secure. The only conditions were that the story should have lots of "go" in it, that the incidents should be natural, the tone elevating, and the characters carefully studied.

I ask any of my readers if this does not fulfil all these conditions? I know when it was returned to me as "not quite the style we care about," I was extremely angry, and replied that I should very much like to see what style they did care about, if not this. They had not the common politeness to reply!

Another publisher to whom I submitted it actually wrote back that he was not in the habit of publishing "penny dreadfuls." I was never so insulted in all my life!

However, as a specimen of the kind of story some boys read, and some editors do not publish, the reader shall have my "penny dreadful," and decide for himself whether it has not lots of "go," is not strictly true to nature, elevating in tone, and carefully studied. If it is not, then he had better not read it!

The Plaster Cast; Or Septimus Minor's Million.

A Thrilling Story in Fifteen Chapters, by the Author of "Blugram Blunderbuss, or the Dog-Man."

Sub-Chapter I.

THE MURDER!

The golden sun was plunging his magnificent head angrily into the sheen of the bronze Atlantic when Septimus Minor scaled the craggy path which leads from Crocusville to the towering cliff above.

The wind came and went in fitful gusts, which now and again carried Septimus off his feet, and sometimes lifted him a foot or two over the edge of the rugged cliff in time for another eddy to carry him back.

Nature this evening suited the gusty humour of Septimus Minor's breast.

"The crisis of my life approaches!" he said to himself, as a magnificent wave from below leapt eight hundred feet in the air, and fell, drenching him from head to foot. "I am fifteen years old next week, and something here,"—here he laid his right hand on his left side—"tells me I am a man."

As he spoke, another wave leapt skyward, and out of it emerged the form of a man.

"Yes!" cried Septimus. "Her father!"

Septimus was the youngest of seven children, most of whom were orphans. But we digress.

"Belay there—haul in your mainslacks, and splice your marline-spike. Where are you coming to?" cried Peeler, the coastguardsman—for such, we need hardly say, was the rank of the new arrival.

"How are you?" said Sep, in an off-hand way.

"Blooming," said the not altogether refined Peeler.

A gust of wind lifted them both up the twenty remaining yards of the cliff, and left them standing on a sheltered crag at the extreme brink.

"Spin us a yarn," said Sep.

The setting sun cast a lurid flash over the figures of that strangely assorted pair. The next moment it had set, and nothing was visible but the reflection of the end of Sep's cigar in the glass eye of his interlocutor.

Septimus Minor had lived in Crocusville ever since he could remember, and the coastguardsman some years longer. Hence Sep's request.

Mr Peeler was a fine specimen of his class. He wore a sou'wester and boots to match, and round his shoulders—

But why all this minute detail concerning one who is to disappear—if he had but known it!—before that howling night—

"Twas in '52 she grounded," said he, transferring something from his right cheek to his left. "Hang me on the Union Jack," (that was a nautical expression by which Peeler added solemnity to his statement) "if there was not exactly one million Spanish doubloons on board."

Sep whistled, but immediately checked himself, and sat down on the wind to hear the rest.

"Bust my buttons if mortal man knows where she lies!" continued Peeler, "save and except yours 'umbly. Stand by, my shaver, and cast your cock- eye on this bit of rag."

And he produced from his pocket a greasy piece of parchment with a map upon it.

"There," said he, laying his broad thumb on a red cross somewhere in the West Pacific, "there she lies—full of gold, my boy. Shiver my jury- masts if she don't."

The wind on which Sep was sitting lifted him to his feet, as he grasped the map and gazed with quivering excitement on the mysterious red mark.