Some time had been taken over the proper adjustment of these.

For the second reason—Mr. Mole had discovered that the hotel cellars contained some excellent brandy, and he had been taking a parting glass with the Irish diver before commencing his journey.

And as he now made his appearance on the railway platform, he was any thing but steady on his new legs.

"Better late than never, Mr. Mole," said Harvey.

"I am not late."

"Yes, sir. Two minutes more, and the train will be here."

An engine was in fact at that moment shunting some carriages which were to be attached to the train.

Mr. Mole turned on hearing the noise of the approaching locomotive.

But being, as aforesaid, slightly unsteady on his legs, he fell.

Fell right across the metals.

"Oh! help!" he cried.

But before anyone could stir, the engine was upon him.

The porters shouted, the ladies screamed with fright.

"Oh, Heaven! is it not horrible?" exclaimed a French man. "Did you not hear the bones crash as the wheels went over his legs?"

"Over his legs," shouted Harvey. "Ha, ha! if that is all, it does not matter much."

The engine stopped, and Mole was rescued from his perilous position.

He had fainted, but a glass of water restored him.

"Are you hurt, old man?" asked Dick.

"No; I think not. It's only my legs, nothing else."

"Great Heaven, what a narrow escape!"

"So it is; but here is a nuisance, both my legs cut clean off, six inches above the ankle."

"Here, porter, put this gentleman in a first-class carriage," said Harkaway senior.

"But, monsieur, he must be taken to the hospital; the surgeon is close at hand."

"Doctor be hanged! This gentleman must go to Paris by the next train."

The porters, being evidently unwilling to touch Mr. Mole, Harkaway said—

"Here, lend a hand, old man."

"All right," responded Harvey.

The pair of them immediately hoisted Mr. Mole into the carriage, the others took their seats, the engineer blew his whistle, and off they went.

To complete the horror of the spectators, who admired Mole's fortitude, and loathed the apparent barbarity of his friends, as the train was moving off, Harvey was plainly seen to cut off the old gentleman's shattered limbs, and pitch them into some empty goods waggons that were going in another direction.

"What horrid barbarians!" was the general exclamation of the bewildered spectators of the strange scene.

"A pretty object you have made of me certainly," grumbled Mole, looking down at his curtailed legs.

"Your own fault, Mr. Mole," responded Harvey.

"Lucky it was not your head, Mr. Mole," said young Jack.

"You are all against me, I see, but it does not matter."

So saying, Mole took out his pocket flask and was about to refresh himself.

But Harkaway senior, stretching out his hand, took the flask.

"No, Mr. Mole; if you have any more, I fear we shall have a more serious accident. So not a drop till the first time we stop."

"Why, this is a mail train, and only stops about every two hours."

"And I am quite sure you can exist without brandy for that little time."

"Well, I suppose I may smoke then?"

"Certainly; you shall have one of my best regalias."

Mr. Mole took the weed, and puffed away rather sulkily.

They had got about eight miles from Marseilles when suddenly the engine slackened speed, and the train drew up at a little roadside station.

"What does this mean?" said Harvey. "We ought not to stop here."

"This is our first stopping place, however, so I'll trouble you for my flask, according to promise," said Mole, with a beaming countenance.

Harkaway handed it over and was settling back again when he heard a police official asking—

"Where is the gentleman who was run over at Marseilles?"

"Here," said Harkaway.

The gendarme ran to the spot, and to his intense surprise saw the victim of the accident in the act of taking a hearty drink from his brandy flask while his left hand held a lighted cigar.

"What do you want?" demanded Mole.

"The officials at Marseilles, unable to stop the train, telegraphed to me to see that you had proper medical attendance."

"Ha, ha, ha! look here, old boy; I always carry my own physic. Taste it."

The officer took the flask, and finding that the smell was familiar, applied it to his lips.

"The fact is," said Harkaway, "the gentleman was wearing wooden legs, and they only were damaged."

"Indeed; then you think that you are able to proceed on your journey, sir?"

"Yes, if you will leave me some of my medicine."

The gendarme bowed, handed back the flask, and the train rolled away.



CHAPTER CVII.

A DUEL.

"Paris at last," exclaimed Harvey.

"That's a good job, for I am tired of sitting, and want to stretch my legs; don't you, Mr. Mole?" said young Jack.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jack," replied Mr. Mole.

Harkaway senior, who had been looking out of the window, drew in his head and said—

"Well, Mr. Mole, you are in a nice fix."

"How?"

"I don't see any——"

"Any what?"

"Any cabs."

"The ——"

"Don't swear."

"My dear Mr. Harkaway, now if you were without legs, would not you swear?"

"Can't say, having the proper number of pins."

"You'll have to walk," said Harvey. "There's not a cab in the station."

"But how can I walk?"

"Don't you remember the hero in the ballad of Chevy Chase?"

"Who was he?"

"The song says Witherington, but we will call him Mole."

"'For Mole, indeed, my heart is woe, As one in doleful dumps; For when his feet were cut away, He walked upon his stumps.'"

By this time the train had stopped, and all the party got out, except Mole.

As Harkaway had said, there was no vehicle in the station nor outside of it, so Mr. Mole was obliged to remain till his friends could hit upon some plan for removing him.

A porter was the first to make a suggestion.

"An artificial limb maker lives opposite, monsieur," said he.

"Ah!"

"If I carried monsieur over, he might have some—ah—substitutes fitted on."

"A capital idea!" exclaimed Harvey; "over with him." And before Mole could remonstrate, he was hoisted to the porter's shoulders, and trotted across the street.

Great was the joy of the Parisian gamins at having such a sight provided for their amusement.

Mole, however, bravely bore the chaff, half of which he did not understand.

The maker of artificial limbs soon fitted poor Mole with a pair of legs.

But alas!

No sooner had he stood upon them than his friends burst out in a loud laugh.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded Mr. Mole, who felt inclined to stand on his dignity as well as on his new legs.

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"I wonder you don't remember what Goldsmith says," continued Mole.

"What does he say, Mr. Mole?"

"Don't you remember that line about 'the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.' I fear your mind must be very vacant, Mr. Harvey."

"He had you there, Uncle Dick," said young Jack.

"Pooh! But look at his legs."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed young Jack in turn.

Mr. Mole's trousers, it will be recollected, had been cut away below the knees immediately after his railway accident, and now he stood in a pair of nicely-varnished boots, above which could be seen the various springs and hinges of his mechanical limbs.

The trouser legs were not longer in proportion than a small boy's knickerbockers.

By this time, however, a cab or two had turned up, and, the ladies having been fetched from the railway waiting-room, the whole party proceeded to one of the many good hotels Paris possesses.

* * * *

The third evening after their arrival, young Jack and Harry Girdwood strolled out together.

They no doubt would have enjoyed the company of the two girls, but little Emily and Paquita had been roving about the town all day long, and were too tired to go out that evening.

"What is this place, Jack?" asked Harry, as they both paused in front of a narrow, but brilliantly-lighted doorway.

"A shooting gallery, I fancy."

"Shall we go in?"

"Certainly; but I don't fancy the French are very great 'shootists,' as the Yankees say."

"All the more fun, perhaps."

And without more talk, the youngsters walked in.

It was a long room, divided by slight partitions into four different galleries, and at the end of each of these was a target in the shape of a doll.

After watching others for a time, Harry took half a dozen shots at one of the figures, which he struck four times.

Young Jack then tried, and was equally successful.

"Good shooting, young gentlemen," said one of the spectators, an Englishman; "but if you want to see real pistol practice, look at this Frenchman."

And he pointed to a tall, dark man who was just preparing to fire.

The target he had before him was not a little doll like the others, but a full-sized lay figure dressed in black, closely buttoned up, and holding in its hand an empty pistol pointed towards the live shooter.

"He is a noted duellist," said the Englishman, "and has killed more than one adversary."

Jack and Harry looked at him with considerable curiosity, with which was mixed a tinge of loathing.

The duellist had brought his own pistols, one of which he carefully loaded, and having placed himself in position, rapidly aimed and fired.

Instantly the lay figure showed a spot of white on its black coat, which, after all, was only made of a kind of paste or varnish, which chipped off when struck by the bullet.

"Straight to the heart," said the Englishman.

"That's good shooting," exclaimed Harry Girdwood.

The Frenchman fired again, making an equally good shot.

When he had fired ten, young Jack for the first time broke silence.

"I don't believe he could do that in the field with a live adversary and a loaded pistol opposite him."

The Frenchman again pulled the trigger, but the eleventh shot flew wide of the mark.

Almost foaming with passion at having missed his aim, he dashed the weapon to the ground.

"I must request the gentleman who spoke to stand the test."

"With great pleasure," responded Jack, coolly.

The Frenchman stared at the speaker.

"Bah! I don't fight with boys."

"Then I shall proclaim to all Paris that you are a cur, and try to back out of a quarrel when your challenge is accepted."

"Very well, then, you shall die in the morning. Henri,"—this to a friend—"arrange with the English boy's second if he has one; if he has not, find him one."

The Englishman who had previously spoken at once stepped forward and offered his services.

"Although," said he, "I should much prefer to see this affair settled peacefully."

"I am entirely in your hands, sir," responded Jack.

And he retired to the other side of the room.

"Jack, Jack! what demon possessed you to get into such a mess?"

"No demon, Harry, but some of my father's hot blood. He was always very prompt to accept a challenge."

"He will not let you fight."

"He will not know till it is settled. Listen to me, Harry, if you tell him or anyone else, or try to stop the plan that my second may propose, I swear I'll never speak to you again."

"But you stand every chance of being killed."

"Harry, we have both of us faced death many times, and I am sure I am not going to turn my back on a Frenchman."

Poor Harry could say nothing more.

The Englishman rejoined them.

"I can't get that fellow to accept an apology——!"

"That's right," interposed Jack.

His second looked surprised at the youth's coolness, and continued—

"So I must parade you in the Bois de Boulogne at sunrise. It's about an hour's drive."

"Where shall we meet you?"

The second hesitated, and then named a time and place.

"Now," said Jack, "I will go and have a little sleep; not at home, but somewhere in this neighbourhood."

They went to a respectable hotel close by, and Jack, having made a few simple arrangements (including a message to Emily), in case of being killed, laid himself on his bed, and was soon slumbering peacefully.

* * * *

About a quarter of an hour after the sun had risen, they were all upon the ground.

Jack and Harry with their second, and the Frenchman with his.

There was also a surgeon present.

Little time was lost.

The pistols were loaded, according to previous arrangement between the two seconds, with a lighter charge than usual, so that Jack might possibly escape with only a flesh wound instead of having a hole drilled right through him.

The combatants were then placed half facing each other, fifteen paces apart.

"There is a grave suspicion afloat that your adversary has an ugly knack of pulling the trigger half a second too soon," whispered Jack's second, "so I am going to give him a caution."

A pistol was placed in the hand of each, and then Jack's second spoke.

"Listen, gentlemen. You will fire when I give the word three. If either pulls the trigger before that word is pronounced, it will be murder."

He looked at the Frenchman, and then counted—

"One, two, three!"

But before the word "three" had fully passed his lips, the Frenchman's pistol was discharged.

Young Jack, however, prepared for such a trick, had just a moment before turned full towards him and stared him in the face.

This manoeuvre was entirely successful.

The Frenchman's unfair, murderous aim was disconcerted, and his bullet whistled harmlessly past our hero's ear.

Jack then deliberately levelled his pistol at the Frenchman, who trembled violently, and showed every symptom of the most abject terror.

"I thought so," exclaimed Jack. "A vile coward as well as a murderer."

And he discharged his own pistol in the air.

"Why did you not shoot the villain?" exclaimed Harry Girdwood, the surgeon, and Jack's second simultaneously.

"It would be doing him too much honour, gentlemen. I leave him to the hangman."

"You should have killed him," growled the surgeon, glancing after the discomfited duellist, who was sneaking off, unattended even by his own second.

"I don't feel bloodthirsty just at present, and I have proved the words that gave rise to the challenge."

"That is true, but some other poor devil may not be so lucky."

"I fancy after this morning's expose anyone may refuse to go out with him without fear of dishonour."

"True; that is one good thing."

They re-entered their carriage and returned to Paris.

Just as young Jack alighted from the vehicle, he found himself seized by the collar and shaken violently.

He turned hastily.

"Dad!"

"You young rascal!" exclaimed Harkaway senior, "where have you been all night?"

"Why—I—I arranged to go out early in the morning for a drive with this gentleman and Harry, so I took a room here at this hotel so as to be close to the rendezvous."

"That is the truth, but not all the truth. Sir, may I ask you the object of your very early excursion with my son?"

"Well, sir, the fact is, this young gentleman became involved last night in a little dispute which necessitated an exchange of pistol shots, and your son, I must say, behaved in a most gallant manner."

"Not touched, Jack?"

"No, dad."

"Did you shoot t'other fellow?"

"No, father; I only shoot game—human or brute. I leave gamekeepers and hangmen to exterminate vermin."

"Well, now, cut along home. Your mother is in no end of a funk about you."

* * * *

So Jack went home, and, having explained the reason of his absence, was soon forgiven by all, except little Emily, who boxed his ears, declaring it was evident he did not care about her, or he would not have risked his life in such a manner.

Then she refused, for a whole hour, to speak to him; at the expiration of which time she kissed him, and asked his pardon for having shown such bad temper.

"All right, Em. You're a brick."

"Don't talk slang, sir."

* * * *

That same evening they left Paris, and at an early hour the next morning were in London.



CHAPTER CVIII.

"LAST SCENE OF ALL, THAT ENDS THIS STRANGE, EVENTFUL HISTORY."

"Jack."

"Yes, father."

"What do you think you are going to be? I mean what business or profession?"

This conversation took place about a week after their return to England.

"Would you like to be a doctor or a lawyer, or become a great financier in the City?" continued Harkaway senior.

"Neither of those, thank you. I have been too much used to plenty of fresh air and exercise to settle down to an indoor occupation; the sea is my choice."

"It is not your mother's choice, so you may just give up that notion at once and for ever."

"Well, next to that I should like to have a nice compact farm of about six hundred acres in a part of the country where there is good shooting, hunting and fishing."

"Ah, that's better."

"Then we'll consider that settled, dad."

"Yes; but you must finish your education first; that has been much neglected."

So the result was that both young Jack and Harry Girdwood were sent to reside for a year with a clergyman, who was also a farmer, and, who undertook, while improving their general education, to give them a practical knowledge of agriculture.

* * * *

The year passed away, and the two young men returned home for a brief holiday before settling down, for Harry was also to be a farmer, Dick Harvey having undertaken to put him into a farm.

They were sitting at breakfast one morning when two letters were brought, both with foreign postmarks.

Harkaway senior opened them.

"This concerns you, my dear," said he to Paquita.

"How so?" asked the girl.

"It is from your father. And you must prepare to hear bad news."

"He is dead! he is dead!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears.

When some time had passed, she was calmed sufficiently to hear the letter read.

It was a deathbed letter, in which the writer stated that, remembering the noblehearted Englishman, Harkaway, he appointed him sole trustee of his wealth, to be given as a marriage portion to Paquita.

Documents were enclosed to put Harkaway in possession of the writer's riches and he concluded by praying Heaven to bless his daughter.

A postscript was added in a different hand.

"The writer of this died on the 4th of April last, the day after he signed this letter and the enclosed documents which are witnessed by me."

"ANTONIO DELAVAT, Surgeon."

Paquita's grief at the death of her father was great, but in little Emily and Mrs. Harkaway she found two comforters who did their best to assuage her sorrows.

* * * *

But the other letter.

"Why, this is from our old Australian friend, Rook!" exclaimed Harkaway.

"Rook!"

"Yes. And this is what Rook has to say for himself.

"'If ever a man had reason to be grateful to another, surely I have cause to bless the day I met you. For thanks to you, I am no longer an outcast, but have atoned for the past—aye, and refunded with interest that sum of money which was the cause of my being sent here. Through your kindness I was enabled to go into business as a farmer, and I have prospered so that I am now one of the richest men in this part of Australia; but I owe all my prosperity to you, so I will not boast of it. Being better educated than many of the settlers, I have been appointed magistrate for the district; but whenever I can be lenient without being unjust, I humble myself, remember what I once was, and try to give the culprit another chance. Heaven has greatly prospered me, and I pray that Heaven's blessings may rest on you and yours.'"

"Bravo, Rook!" said Harvey and Harry Girdwood.

* * * *

"What are you thinking about, Jack!" asked Harry, a day or two after.

"About old Mole."

"What about him?"

"Why, we haven't had a good lark with him since we left Marseilles."

"True."

"The old man will get rusty if we don't wake him up a little."

"Well, what is your idea?"

"Haven't any at the present; but something will turn up."

And something did turn up that very day.

Now it should be known that Mole, although he passed the greater time with his old friends, had taken a small cottage close by so that he might not entirely wear out their hospitality.

He generally slept there, but spent his days with the Harkaways.

Jack and Harry called upon the old man, and were admitted to his presence, as he was putting the finishing touches to his toilet.

This consisted in anointing his bald head with some wonderful fluid, warranted to produce a luxuriant growth of hair.

This gave the youths an idea, and having invited him to dinner, they departed to carry out their joke.

All passed off pleasantly during the evening, but Jack and Harry were absent about an hour. During that time they procured access to Mole's premises, and having emptied his bottle of hair restorer, filled the phial with liquid glue, after which they returned to the house.

"I must go early," said Mr. Mole, rising. "I have to attend court as a juryman in the morning."

"Then you won't be able to dress your hair properly," said Jack.

"Oh, yes; I shall put on a good dose before I leave home, that will last till evening," replied Mole.

He went home, but overslept himself, and had to dress in a hurry.

Mole had got to the door, when he remembered the hair restorer, and going back, applied a plentiful dose with a sponge.

He reached the court very hot.

By that time the glue had set, and he found he could not remove his hat.

"Isaac Mole!" shouted the official who was calling the jury.

"Here!" replied Mole, as he rushed to the box.

A murmur of astonishment was heard.

"Hats off in court!" shouted the usher.

"Really, I——"

"Everyone must be uncovered in court."

"But, I assure you, I can't——"

"Are you a Quaker?" demanded the judge.

"No; but I wish to explain that I kept my hat on because——"

"I can not listen to any excuse except the one I mentioned. Take off your hat instantly."

"But I say I kept it on because——"

"This is intolerable. Do you mean to insult the court! Take your hat off instantly, or I will fine you for contempt."

"Well, I must say it's hard I can't say a word."

"You are fined five pounds, and if you don't remove your hat——"

"I want to explain."

"Officer, remove that man's hat."

The tipstaff approached Mole and hit the offending hat with his stick, but it did not move.

Then he struck it harder, and the crown went in.

"This is too bad!" screamed Mole.

But the tipstaff was wroth, and picking up a large law book smashed it flat.

This was too much for Mole.

"You mutton-headed idiot, if you and the judge had a particle of sense, you would know that I did not remove my hat, because I couldn't. It is glued on."

Mole, however, was led away in custody and a fresh juryman sworn.

But Jack and Harry, who had been highly amused spectators, thought the joke had gone far enough, so they tipped a solicitor through whom an explanation was made, and Mole was released. He also got off serving on the jury.

They left the court together.

But another surprise was in store for them.

"How are you, gentlemen?" said a very familiar voice, and, lo! Figgins the orphan stood before them.

Figgins had not remained in Marseilles like the others, and therefore, had escaped being arrested for counterfeit coining.

He reached London in safety, and having taken the upper part of a house within half a mile of St. Paul's Cathedral, resolved never more to trust himself beyond the City boundaries.

Yet, in his retirement, his conscience pricked him for having left so hurriedly the friends who had rescued him from many a danger.

And Mole, too, his own particular travelling companion.

"I must go and see him once more," thought the orphan.

So one fine day he plucked up courage to venture a short journey on an English railway, and knowing where the elder Harkaway lived, was speedily instructed how to find Mole.

So now behold him shaking hands all round.

"I thought I must see you once more," said he, "but it is a great undertaking, you know, for my travels made me more timid than ever I was."

"Timid?" ejaculated Mole; "why, on one or two occasions you displayed bravery almost equal to my own."

"Mildly, Mr. Mole," said Jack.

"Ah, Mr. Harkaway, you three gentlemen are brave men, but I am only a poor timid orphan."

"That need not make you timid."

"But it does. So I have resolved never to trust myself out of London again."

"Then I am afraid we shall not meet very often, Mr. Figgins," said Mole, "for I, you know, hate town life."

"If you do come to town, though, you will call?"

"Certainly."

"Then, gentlemen, I will wish you farewell. I am deeply grateful for all you did when we were abroad——"

"Don't mention it."

"Mr. Mole, farewell. You know I feel more like an orphan than ever now I am parting from you."

"Don't talk like that, Figgins," said Mole.

"I can't help it, indeed, I can't. Farewell, my dear friend, farewell!"

And Figgins retired to his City home, where he still lives, though he is getting very feeble.

Still, he brightens up whenever he speaks of his old friend and travelling companion, Mole.

* * * *

It is hard to part with old friends, but the decrees of fate cannot be avoided, so we must conclude our story.

It will be hardly necessary, we fancy, to inform our readers that young Jack eventually married little Emily, and Harry Girdwood led Paquita to the altar.

And as weddings are very much alike, we will not describe the ceremony, but content ourselves with saying that as much happiness as this world can afford was and is theirs.

Jack and Harry have extensive farms near each other, and are wealthy country gentlemen.

They are fond of outdoor sports, and have recently established a pack of harriers, Tinker and Bogey being respectively first and second whips. In each establishment there was formerly a room kept always ready for Mr. Mole, who went from one to the other as it pleased him, sure of a hearty welcome always.

But, alas! poor Mole is now no more.

Age preyed on his shaken body, and at length laid him on his deathbed.

Even then he could not help referring to the matrimonial portion of his life.

"I have been too much married, Jack. I am 'a wictim to connubiality,' if I may be allowed to quote Sam Weller; but never again, dear boy."

And when only half conscious, he would repeat—"Never again, dear boy," expressing his firm determination not to marry again.

Poor Mole!

After all, he ended his days in peace, and died regretted by all his friends, who, if they had laughed at his failings, also remembered his kindly disposition.

He left behind him sufficient of this world's goods to enable his faithful Chloe to give the twins a good education.

They are now rollicking schoolboys, but will have a fair start when their guardians, Jack and Harry, fancy they are fitted to begin their battle with life.

* * * *

Old Jack—he is getting old now—lives with Emily not far from his son, and with them, of course, is Dick Harvey.

Often on a fine day Old Jack will lead his grandchildren to the village churchyard, and while the youngsters deck poor old Mole's grave with flowers, will relate to them the best incidents of the old man's life.

Not far from poor Mole's grave is another tomb, in which rest the earthly remains of Monday, Prince of Limbi, who had grown grey in the service of Mr. Harkaway.

A much severer winter than usual laid the seeds of a complaint which speedily carried him off.

Sunday, whose head is fast becoming white as snow, took his death much to heart, and even now frequently strolls into the quiet churchyard to indulge in pensive recollections of his old friend by the side of his grave—aye, and perchance to reflect on his own end, which he knows full well must be fast approaching.

Monday had been thrifty, and when the days of mourning were over, his widow retired to Oxford to pass the remainder of her days with many good presents from Jack Harkaway, given in remembrance of his faithful servant Monday, the Prince of Limbi.

* * * *

Readers, our tale is told; and we leave Harkaway to the repose he has so well earned.

But if you would prosper as he has done, be like him, truthful, brave, and generous.

In bringing to a conclusion the long series of Harkaway stories, Mr. Edwin J. Brett cannot let the occasion pass without thanking the readers for the patience with which they have followed the hero's career, and the praise they have always bestowed upon the story or stories.

To invent the plot and incidents has been a labour of love on the part of Mr. E. J. Brett, and it seems now like parting from old and intimate friends, to say adieu to all the characters whose lives have been the subject of the story. But there must be an end to all things, even to Harkaway.

THE END.