Poor Greely appreciated the statement about the stretcher more than all the rest that was said, for he was keenly alive to the difficulty of passing a broken-boned man out of a little boat into a smack or steamer in a heavy sea, having often had to do it.

The mission skipper was right, for early the next day Jim was strapped to a wonderful frame and passed into the hospital-ship without shake or shock, and his comrades were retained in the mission smack until they could be sent on shore. Greely and his men learned many lessons which they never afterwards forgot on board of the Queen Victoria—the foundation lesson being that they were lost sinners and that Jesus Christ came "to seek and to save the lost."

Slowly, and at first unwillingly, Skipper Greely took the great truths in. Several weeks passed, and he began to move about with some of his wonted energy. Much to his surprise he found himself one morning signing the temperance pledge-books, persuaded thereto by the skipper of the Queen Victoria. Still more to his surprise he found himself one Sunday afternoon listening, with unwonted tears in his eyes, to some of his mates as they told their spiritual experiences to an assembly of some hundred or so of weather-beaten fishermen. Before quitting that vessel he discovered that he possessed a powerful and tuneful voice, admirably adapted for singing hymns, and that he was capable of publicly stating the fact that he was an unworthy sinner saved by grace.

When at last he returned ashore and unexpectedly entered the Yarmouth home, Nellie could scarcely believe her senses, so great was the change.

"Jim!" she cried, with opening eyes and beating heart, "you're like your old self again."

"Thank God," said Jim, clasping her in his strong arms. But he could say no more for some time. Then he turned suddenly on curly-headed Jimmie, who had been fiercely embracing one of his enormous sea-boots, and began an incoherent conversation and a riotous romp with that juvenile fisherman.

A brighter sunshine than had ever been there before enlightened that Yarmouth home, for God had entered it and the hearts of its occupants.

Example is well-known to be infectious. In course of time a number of brother fishermen began to think as Jim Greely thought and feel as he felt. His house also became the centre, or headquarters, of an informal association got up for the purpose of introducing warmth and sunshine into poor homes in all weathers, and there were frequently such large meetings of the members of that association that it taxed Nellie's ingenuity to supply seats and stow them all away. She managed it, however; for, as Jim was wont to remark, "Nellie had a powerful intellec' for her size."

Among the frequenters of this Yarmouth home were several of the men who had once been staunch supporters of the Green Dragon, and of these the most enthusiastic, perhaps, if not the most noisy, were Black Whistler, Lively Dick, and fair-haired Charlie.



CHAPTER NINE.

A NORTHERN WAIF.

If a waif is a lost wanderer, then little Poosk was a decided waif for he had gone very much astray indeed in the North American backwoods. It was a serious matter for an Indian child of six years of age to become a waif in the dead of winter, with four feet of snow covering the entire wilderness, and the thermometer far below zero.

Yes, little Poosk was lost. His Indian mother, when she tied up his little head in a fur cap with ear-pieces, had said to him that morning— and it was a New Year's Day morning—"Poosk, you go straight to the mission-house. The feast will be a very grand one—oh! such a good one! Better than the feast we have when the geese and ducks come back in spring. Go straight; don't wander; follow in your father's tracks, and you can't go wrong."

Ah! what a compliment to father would have been implied in these words had the mother meant his moral tracks. But she did not: she referred to his snow-shoe tracks, which would serve as a sure guide to the mission-house, if closely followed. Poosk had promised to obey orders, of course, as readily as if he had been a civilised white boy, and with equal readiness had forgotten his promise when the first temptation came. That temptation had come in the form of a wood-partridge, in chase of which, with the spirit of a true son of the forest, Poosk had bolted, and soon left his father's tracks far behind him. Thus it came to pass that in the pursuit of game, our little savage became a "waif and stray." Had he been older, he would doubtless have returned on his own little track to the spot where he had left that of his father; but, being so young, he fancied that he could reach it by bending round towards it as he advanced.

Poosk was uncommonly small for his age—hence his name, which, in the Cree language, means half. He came at the tail-end of a very large family. Being remarkably small from the first, he was regarded as the extreme tip of that tail. His father styled him half a child—Poosk. But his lack of size was counterbalanced by great physical activity and sharp intelligence. Wrapped in his warm deerskin coat, which was lined with flannel, and edged with fur, and secured with a scarlet belt, with his little legs in ornamented leggings, his little feet in new moccasins, and shod with little snowshoes not more than twenty-four inches long by eight broad—his father's being five-feet by fifteen inches,—and his little hands in leather mittens of the bag-and-thumb order, Poosk went over the snow at an amazing rate for his size, but failed to rejoin his father's track. Suddenly he stopped, and a pucker on his brow betrayed anxiety. Compressing his little lips, he looked round him with an expression of serious determination in his large brown eyes. Was he not in his native wilds? Was he not the son of a noted brave? Was he going to submit to the disgrace of losing his way; and, what was much worse, losing his feast? Certainly not! With stern resolve on every lineament of his infantile visage he changed his direction, and pushed on. We need scarcely add that he soon stopped again; resolved and re-resolved to succeed, and changed his direction again and again till he became utterly bewildered, and, finally, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree, shut his eyes, opened his little mouth, and howled. It was sad, but it was natural that at so early a period of life the stoicism of the savage should be overcome by the weakness of the child. Finding after a while that howling resulted in nothing but noise, Poosk suddenly shut his mouth, and opened his eyes. There seemed to be some intimate connection between the two operations. Perhaps there was. The opening of the eyes went on to the uttermost, and then became a fixed glare, for, right in front of him sat a white rabbit on its hind legs, and, from its expression, evidently filled with astonishment equal to his own.

The spirit of the hunter arose, and that of the child vanished, as little Poosk sprang up and gave chase. Of course the rabbit "sloped," and in a few minutes both pursued and pursuer were lost in the depths of the snow-encumbered forest.

On a point of rocks which jutted out into a frozen lake, stood a small church with a small spire, small porch, and diminutive windows. The pastor of that church dwelt close to it in a wooden house or log cabin, which possessed only one window and a door. A much larger hut alongside of it served as a school-house and meeting-hall. In this little building the man of God, assisted by a Red Indian convert, taught the Red Men of the wilderness the way of life through Jesus Christ, besides giving them a little elementary and industrial education suited to their peculiar circumstances; and here, on the day of which we write, he had prepared the sumptuous feast to which reference has just been made. The pastor's wife and daughter had prepared it. There were venison pies and ptarmigan pasties; there were roasts of fowls, and roasts of rabbits, and stews of many things which we will not venture to describe, besides puddings of meat, and puddings of rice, and puddings of plums; also tea and coffee to wash it all down. There was no strong drink. Strong health and appetite were deemed sufficient to give zest to the proceedings. The company was remarkably savage to look at, but wonderfully civilised in conduct, for the influence of Christian love was there, and that influence is the same everywhere. Leathern garments clothed the men; curtailed petticoats adorned the women; both wore leggings and moccasins. The boys and girls were similarly costumed, and all had brilliant teeth, brown faces, glittering eyes, lank black hair, and a look of eager expectancy.

The pastor went to the head of the table, and silence ensued while he briefly asked God's blessing on the feast. Then, when expectation had reached its utmost point, there was a murmur. Where was the smallest mite of all the guests? Nobody knew. Poosk's mother said she had sent him off hours ago, and had thought that he must be there. Poosk's father—a very tall man, with remarkably long legs,—hearing this, crossed the room in three strides, put on his five-feet by fifteen-inch snow-shoes and went off into the forest at express speed.

Anxiety is not an easily-roused condition in the North American Indian. The feast began, despite the absence of our waif; and the waif's mother set to work with undiminished appetite. Meanwhile the waif himself went farther and farther astray—swayed alternately by the spirit of the stoic and the spirit of the little child. But little Poosk was made of sterling stuff, and the two spirits had a hard battle in him for the mastery that wintry afternoon. His chase of the rabbit was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a twig which caught one of his snow-shoes, tripped him up, and sent him headlong into the snow. When snow averages four feet in depth it affords great scope for ineffectual floundering. The snow-shoes kept his feet near the surface, and the depth prevented his little arms from reaching solid ground. When at last he recovered his perpendicular, his hair, eyes, nose, ears, sleeves, and mittens were stuffed with snow; and the child-spirit began to whimper, but the stoic sprang on him and quickly crushed him down.

Drawing his little body up with a look of determination, and wiping away the tears which had already begun to freeze on his eyelashes, our little hero stepped out more vigorously than ever, in the full belief that every yard carried him nearer home, though in reality he was straying farther and farther from his father's track. Well was it for little Poosk that day that his hope of reaching home did not depend on his own feeble efforts. Already the father was traversing the wilderness in search of his lost lamb, though the lamb knew it not.

But Poosk's disasters were not yet over. Although brave at heart and, for his years, sturdy of frame, he could not withstand the tremendous cold peculiar to those regions of ice and snow; and ere long the fatal lethargy that is often induced by extreme frost began to tell. The first symptom was that Poosk ceased to feel the cold as much as he had felt it some time before. Then a drowsy sensation crept over him, and he looked about for a convenient spot on which to sit down and rest. Alas for the little savage if he had given way at that time! Fortunately a small precipice was close in front of him, its upper edge concealed by wreaths of snow. He fell over it, turning a somersault as he went down, and alighted safely in a snow-bed at the bottom. The shock revived him, but it also quelled the stoic in his breast. Rising with difficulty, he wrinkled up his brown visage, and once again took to howling. Half an hour later his father, steadily following up the little track in the snow, reached the spot and heard the howls. A smile lit up his swarthy features, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his black eyes as he descended to the spot where the child stood.

Sudden calm after a storm followed the shutting of Poosk's mouth and the opening of his eyes. Another moment, and his father had him in his strong arms, turned him upside down, felt him over quietly, shook him a little, ascertained that no bones were broken, put him on his broad shoulders, and carried him straight back to the Mission Hall, where the feasters were in full swing—having apparently quite forgotten the little "waif and stray."

North American Indians, as is well-known, are not demonstrative. There was no shout of joy when the lost one appeared. Even his mother took no further notice of him than to make room for him on the form beside her. She was a practical mother. Instead of fondling him she proceeded to stuff him, which she was by that time at leisure to do, having just finished stuffing herself. The father, stalking sedately to a seat at another table, proceeded to make up for lost time. He was marvellously successful in his efforts. He was one of those Indian braves who are equal to any emergency.

Although near the end of the feast and with only debris left to manipulate, he managed to refresh himself to his entire satisfaction before the tables were cleared.

The feast of reason which followed was marked by one outstanding and important failure. The pastor had trained the Indian boys and girls of his school to sing several hymns, and repeat several pieces in prose and verse. Our waif, besides being the smallest boy, possessed the sweetest voice in the school. He was down on the programme for a hymn—a solo. Having fallen sound asleep after being stuffed, it was found difficult to awake him when his turn came. By dint of shaking, however, his mother roused him up and set him on his legs on a table, where he was steadied a little by the pastor's wife, and gently bid to begin, by the pastor's daughter.

Poosk was very fond of the pastor's daughter. He would have done anything for her. He opened his large eyes, from which a sleepy gleam of intelligence flashed. He opened his little mouth, from which rolled the sweetest of little voices. The Indians, who had been purposely kept in ignorance of this musical treat, were ablaze with surprise and expectation; but the sound died away, the mouth remained open, and the eyes shut suddenly as Poosk fell over like a ninepin, sound asleep, into the arms of the pastor's daughter.

Nothing more was to be got out of him that day. Even the boisterous laugh which greeted his breakdown failed to rouse him; and finally our Northern Waif was carried home, and put to bed beside a splendid fire in a warm robe of rabbit skins.



CHAPTER TEN.

HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF LIFE: FROM A YOUNG MAN'S STANDPOINT.

This world is full of niches that have to be filled, of paths that have to be trod, of work that has to be done.

Pouring continually into it there are millions of human beings who are capable of being fitted to fill those niches, to traverse those paths, and to do that work. I venture a step further and assert that every human being, without exception, who arrives at the years of maturity must, in the nature of things, have a particular niche and path and work appointed for him; and just in proportion as a man finds out his exact work, and walks in or strays from his peculiar path, will be the success of his life. He may miss his aim altogether, and his life turn out a failure, because of his self-will, or, perhaps, his mistaken notions; and there are few sights more depressing than that of a round young man rushing into a square hole, except that of a square young man trying to wriggle himself into a round hole. What the world wants is "the right man in the right place." What each man wants is to find his right place.

But the fact that man may, and often does, make a wrong choice, that he may try to traverse the wrong path, to accomplish the wrong work, and do many things in the wrong way, is a clear proof that his course in life is not arbitrarily fixed, that he has been left to the freedom of his own will, and may therefore fall short of the best, though he may be fortunate enough to attain the good or the better. Hence devolves upon every one the responsibility of putting and finding an answer to the question—How shall I make the best of life?

And let me say here in passing that I venture to address young men on this subject, not because I conceive myself to be gifted with superior wisdom, but because, being an old man, I stand on the heights and vantage ground of Experience, and looking back, can see the rocks and shoals and quicksands in life's ocean, which have damaged and well-nigh wrecked myself. I would not only try my hand as a pilot to guide, but as, in some sense, a buoy or beacon to warn from dangers that are not only unseen but unsuspected.

Every young man of ordinary common sense will at least aim at what he believes to be best in life, and the question will naturally arise—What is best?

If a youth's chief idea of felicity is to "have a good time;" to enjoy himself to the utmost; to cram as much of sport, fun, and adventure into his early manhood as possible, with a happy-go-lucky indifference as to the future, he is not yet in a frame of mind to consider our question at all. I feel disposed to say to him—in paraphrase—"be serious, man, or, if ye can't be serious, be as serious as ye can," while we consider a subject that is no trifling matter.

What, then, is best? I reply—So to live and work that we shall do the highest good of which we are capable to the world, and, in the doing thereof, achieve the highest possible happiness to ourselves, and to those with whom we are connected. In the end, to leave the world better than we found it.

Now, there is only one foundation on which such a life can be reared, and that foundation is God.

To attempt the building on any other, or to neglect a foundation altogether, is to solicit and ensure disaster.

But supposing, young man, that you agree with me in this; are fully alive to the importance of the question, and are desirous of obtaining all the light you can on it, then I would, with all the earnestness of which I am capable, urge you to begin on this sure foundation by asking God to guide you and open up your way. "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find." "Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He will bring it to pass." Without this beginning there is, there can be, no possibility of real success, no hope of reaching the best. With it there may still be partial mistake—owing to sin and liability to err— but there can be no such thing as absolute failure. Man's first prayer in all his plans of life should be—"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"

Many people think that they have put up that petition and got no answer, when the answer is obviously before their eyes. It seems to me that God's answers are always indicative, and not very difficult to understand.

An anxious father says—if he does not also pray—"What shall I train my boy to be?" God, through the medium of common sense, replies, Watch your son, observe his tastes, and especially his powers, and train him accordingly. His capacities, whatever they are, were given to him by his Maker for the express purpose of being developed. If you don't develop them, you neglect a clear indication, unless, indeed, it be held that men were made in some haphazard way for no definite purpose at all; but this would be equivalent to making out the Creator to be less reasonable than most of His own creatures!

If a lad has a strong liking for some particular sort of work or pursuit, and displays great aptitude for it, there is no need of an audible voice to tell what should be his path in life. Contrariwise, strong dislike, coupled with incapacity, indicates the path to be avoided with equal precision.

Of course, liking and disliking are not a sufficient indication, for both may be based upon partial ignorance. The sea, as a profession, is a case in point. How many thousands of lads have an intense liking for the idea of a sailor's life! But the liking is not for the sea; it is for some romantic notion of the sea; and the romancer's aptitude for a sea life must at first be taken for granted while his experience is nil. He dreams, probably, of majestic storms, or heavenly calms, of coral islands, and palm groves, and foreign lands and peoples. If very imaginative, he will indulge in Malay pirates and wrecks, and lifeboats, and desert islands, on which he will always land safely, and commence a second edition of Robinson Crusoe. But he will scarcely think, till bitter experience compels him, of very long watches in dirty unromantic weather, of holy-stoning the decks, scraping down the masts, and clearing out the coal-hole. Happily for our navy and the merchant service there are plenty of lads who go through all this and stick to it, their love of the ocean is triumphant—but there are a few exceptions!

On the other hand, liking and fitness may be discovered by experience. I know a man who, from childhood, took pleasure in construction and invention. At the age of nine he made a real steam engine which "could go" with steam, and which was small enough to be carried in his pocket. He was encouraged to follow the providential indication, went through all the drudgery of workshops, and is now a successful engineer.

Of course, there are thousands of lads whose paths are not so clearly marked out; but does it not seem reasonable to expect that, with prayer for guidance, and thoughtful consideration on the part of the boy's parents, as well as of the boy himself, the best path in life may be discovered for each?

No doubt there are many difficulties in the way; as when parents are too ambitious, or when sons are obstinate and self-willed, or when both are antagonistic to each other. If, as is not infrequently the case, a youth has no particular taste for any profession, and shows no very obvious capacity for anything, is it not a pretty strong indication that he was meant to tread one of the many subordinate paths of life and be happy therein? All men cannot be generals. Some must be content to rub shoulders with the rank and file. If a lad is fit only to dig in a coal pit or sweep the streets, he is as surely intended to follow these honourable callings as is the captain who has charge of an ocean steamer to follow the sea. And even in the selection of these lowly occupations the path is divinely indicated, while the free-will is left to the influence of common sense, so that the robust youth with powerful frame and sinews will probably select the pit, and the comparatively delicate man will prefer the crossing.

I repeat, to say that any creature was called into being for no purpose at all, is to question the wisdom of the Almighty. Even if a babe makes its appearance on this terrestrial scene, and wails out its brief career in a single day, it was sent here for a special purpose, else it would not have been sent, and that purpose must have been fully accomplished, else it would not have died.

To my mind this is an exceedingly cheering view of things, for it encourages the belief that however poor or feeble may have been our efforts to live a good life, these efforts cannot have been made in vain, even although they may fall very far short of the "best." And there is also this very hopeful consideration to comfort us, that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, that wisdom sometimes proceeds out of the mouths of babes, and that "we little know what great things from little things may rise."

To be sure, that cuts both ways, for, what sometimes are called "little sins" may result in tremendous evil, but, equally, efforts that seem insignificant may be the cause of great and unexpected blessing.

If, then, as I sincerely believe, every living being has a special work to do—or, rather, has a variety of appropriate paths in any one of which he may walk with more or less advantage to himself and his fellow-men—it behoves every young man to find out what path is the best one for him, and to walk in it vigorously. Fatalism is folly. No one believes in it. At least no one in this country acts upon it. When I say that every being has a special work to do, I don't mean that it has been decreed exactly what each man has to do. Were this so, he would have to do it, nolens volens, and there would be no such thing as responsibility—for it would be gross injustice to hold a man responsible for that which he could by no means prevent or accomplish. That which has really been decreed is that man shall have free-will and be allowed to exercise that free-will in the conduct of his affairs. It is a most mysterious gift, but there it is—an unquestionable fact—and it must be taken into account in all our reasoning. There is a confusion here into which men are sometimes liable to fall. Man's will is absolutely free, but his action is not so. He may will just as he pleases, but all experience tells us that he may not do just as he pleases. Whether his intentions be good or bad, they are frequently and effectively interfered with, but his will—never.

Seeing, then, that there is a best way for every one, and that there are sundry common sense methods by which the path may be discovered, it may be well to consider for a moment whether there are not some obstacles which stand in the way of a young man's success in life, not only because they are providentially allowed to lie there, but because the young man himself either carelessly or unwittingly has planted them in his own path.

Selfishness is one of those obstacles. And by selfishness I do not mean that gross form of it which secures for the man who gives way to it a bad name, but those subtle phases of it which may possibly be allied with much that is good, amiable, and attractive. It is not unfrequently the consequence of that thoughtlessness which results in evil not less than does want of heart.

Talking too much about oneself and one's own affairs, and being too little interested in the affairs of others, is one aspect of the selfishness to which I refer. Some men, the moment they meet you, begin to talk energetically about what they have been doing, or thinking, or about what they are going to do, and if you encourage them they will go on talking in the same strain, totally forgetting that you may chance to be interested in other things. Such men, if they begin young, and are not checked, soon degenerate into "bores," and no bore, however well-meaning or even religious, ever succeeded in making the best of life. The cure for this is to be found—as usual—in the Scripture: "Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to thy word." And what says the word? "Look not (only) on your own things, but upon the things of others."

I have a friend who was the confidant of a large number of his kindred and of many other people besides. It was said of him that everybody went to him for sympathy and advice. I can well believe it, for he never spoke about himself at all that I can remember. He was not unusually wise or superlatively clever, but he had "a heart at leisure from itself to soothe and sympathise." The consequence was that, in spite of a good many faults, he was greatly beloved. And it is certain, reader, that to gain the affection of your fellow-men is one of the surest steps in the direction of success in life. To be too much concerned in conversation about yourself, your affairs and your opinions will prove to be a mighty obstruction in your way. Perhaps one of the best methods of fighting against this tendency is to resolve, when meeting with friends, never to begin with self, but always with them. But it is hard to crucify self! This mode of procedure, be it observed, would not be a hypocritical exhibition of interest where none was felt, but an honest attempt to snub self by deliberately putting your friends' interests before your own.

It is probable that we are not sufficiently alive to the influence of comparatively insignificant matters on success in life. Illegible handwriting, for instance, may go far to retard or arrest a youth's success. It sometimes interferes with friendly intercourse. I once had a friend whose writing was so illegible, and the cause of so much worry in mere decipherment, that I was constrained to give up epistolary correspondence with him altogether. There can be little doubt that many a would-be author fails of success because of the illegibility of his penmanship, for it is impossible that an editor or publisher can form a fair estimate of the character or value of a manuscript which he has much difficulty in reading.

There is one thing which men are prone to do, and which it would be well that they should not do, and that is, "nail their colours to the mast" in early youth. The world is a school. We are ever learning—or ought to be—and, in some cases, "never coming to a knowledge of the truth!" Is not this partly owing to that fatal habit of nailing the colours? I do not for a moment advocate the holding of opinions loosely. On the contrary, whether a man be young or old, whenever he gets hold of what he believes to be true, he ought to grasp it tenaciously and with a firm grip, but he should never "nail" it. Being fallible, man is liable to more or less of error; and, therefore, ought to hold himself open to correction—ay, even to conversion. New or stronger light may convince him that he has been wrong—and if a man will not change when he is convinced, or "fully persuaded in his own mind," he has no chance of finding out how to make the best of life, either from a young, or middle-aged, or old man's standpoint. Why, new or stronger light—if he would let it illumine him—might even convince him that his opinion was not only true, but involved much greater and grander truths than he supposed. It is difficult to go more minutely into details, even if it were advisable to do so. I may fittingly conclude by saying that the sum of all that might be written is comprehended in the statement that obedience to God in all things is the sure and only road to success.

Of all the bright and glorious truths with which our fallen world is enlightened, there is one—a duplex truth—which lies at the foundation of everything. It is unchangeable. Without it all other facts would be valueless, and I would recommend every man, woman, and child to nail it to the mast without hesitation, namely—"God is love," and "Love is the fulfilling of the law."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

FORGIVE AND FORGET: A LIFEBOAT STORY.

Old Captain Bolter said he would never forgive Jo Grain—never. And what Captain Bolter said he meant: for he was a strong and self-willed man.

There can be no doubt that the Captain had some ground of complaint against Grain: for he had been insulted by him grossly—at least so he thought. It happened thus:—

Joseph Grain was a young fisherman, and the handsomest, tallest, strongest, and most active among the youths of the little seaport town in which he dwelt. He was also one of the lifeboat's crew, and many a time had his strong hand been extended in the midst of surging sea and shrieking tempest to save the perishing. Moreover, he was of a frank, generous disposition; was loved by most of his comrades; envied by a few; hated by none.

But with all his fine qualities young Grain had a great and serious fault—he was rather fond of strong drink. It must not, however, be supposed that he was a drunkard, in the ordinary sense at least of that term. No, he was never seen to stagger homeward, or to look idiotic: but, being gifted with a robust frame and finely-strung nerves, a very small quantity of alcohol sufficed to rouse within him the spirit of combativeness, inducing him sometimes to say and do things which afterwards could not be easily unsaid or undone, however much he might repent.

One afternoon Grain and some of his mates were sauntering towards the little lighthouse that stood at the end of their pier. It was an old-fashioned stone pier, with a dividing wall or parapet down the middle of it. As they walked along, some of the younger men began to question Jo about a rumour that had recently been spread abroad.

"Come, now, Jo," said one, named Blunt, "don't try to deceive us; you can't deny that you're after Cappen Bolter's little gal."

"Well, I won't deny it," replied Jo, with sudden energy and somewhat forced gaiety, while the blood mounted to his bronzed cheeks: "moreover, I don't care who knows it, for there's not a sweeter lass in all the town than Mary Bolter, an' the man that would be ashamed to own his fondness for her don't deserve to have her."

"That's true," said a young fisherman, named Guy, with a nod of approval—"though there may be two opinions as to which is the sweetest lass in all the town!"

"I tell 'ee what, Jo," remarked a stern and rather cross-grained bachelor, named Grime, "you may save yourself the trouble of givin' chase to that little craft, for although old Bolter ain't much to boast of—bein' nothin' more than the skipper of a small coastin' craft—he thinks hisself far too big a man to give his darter to a fisherman."

"Does he?" exclaimed Grain, with vehemence, and then suddenly checked himself.

"Ay, that does he," returned Grime, with something of a sneer in his tone.

It chanced that Jo Grain had been to the public-house that day, and the sneer, which at other times would have been passed over with indifference, stung him—coupled as it was with a slur on his lowly position. He looked fiercely at Grime, and said, in a loud, angry tone: "It's a matter of moonshine to me what Bolter thinks of himself. If the girl's willin' to have me I'll wed her in spite o' the old grampus."

Now, unhappily for Jo Grain, the "old grampus" chanced at that very time to be sunning himself, and enjoying his pipe on the other side of the pier-wall, and heard distinctly what Jo said. Moreover, there was some truth in what Grime had said about the old skipper looking down on the young fisherman's position: so that, although he could not deny that Jo was a first-rate man, and knew that Mary was fond of him, he had hitherto felt a strong disinclination to allow his darling and only child to wed, as he considered it beneath her. When, therefore, the speech above quoted broke harshly on his ears, the matter became finally settled in his mind. He dropped his pipe, set his heel on it, and ground it to powder. He also ground his teeth, and, turning round with a snort, worthy of the creature to which he had been compared, sailed wildly homewards.

Next day Jo Grain chanced to meet him in the street, and held out his hand as usual; but the captain, thrusting both hands deep into his trousers pockets, looked the young man firmly in the face—

"No, Grain," he said sternly. "I've done with you!"

"Why so, Captain Bolter?" asked Jo, in great surprise.

"Because," hissed the Captain, as his wrath rose, "an old grampus don't choose to have anything more to do with a young puppy!"

Instantly his reckless speech of the day before flashed into Jo's mind.

"Forgive me, Captain Bolter," he said respectfully: "forgive me, and try to forget it—I didn't mean it, believe me—I—I wasn't quite myself, sir, when—"

"No!" interrupted the Captain fiercely; "I'll never forgive you, nor forget it."

With that he turned away and left Jo Grain to meditate on the folly of indulging in a stimulant which robbed him of his self-control. But youth is very hopeful. Jo did not quite believe in the Captain's sincerity. He comforted himself with the thought that time would soften the old man's feelings, and meanwhile he would continue to court Mary when opportunity offered.

The Captain, however, soon proved that he was thoroughly in earnest: for, instead of leaving his daughter under the care of a maiden aunt, as had been his custom previously, during his frequent absences from home, he took her to sea with him, and left Jo with an extra supply of food for meditation.

Poor Jo struggled hard under this his first severe trial, but struggled in his own strength and failed. Instead of casting away the glass which had already done him so much damage, he madly took to it as a solace to his secret grief. Yet Jo took good care that his comrades should see no outward trace of that grief.

He was not, however, suffered to remain long under the baleful influence of drink. Soon after the departure of Captain Bolter, a missionary visited the little seaport to preach salvation from sin through Jesus Christ, and, being a man of prayer and faith, his mission was very successful. Among the many sins against which he warned the people, he laid particular stress on that of drunkenness.

This was long before the days of the Blue Ribbon movement: but the spirit of that movement was there, though the particular title had not yet arisen. The missionary preached Christ the Saviour of sinners, and Temperance as one of the fruits of salvation. Many of the rough fishermen were converted—bowed their heads and wills, and ceased to resist God. Among them was Joseph Grain.

There was not, indeed, a remarkably great outward change in Jo after this: for he had always been an amiable, hearty, sweet-tempered fellow: but there was, nevertheless, a radical change; for whereas in time past he had acted to please himself, he now acted to please his Lord. To natural enthusiasm, which had previously made him the hero of the town, was now superadded the enthusiasm of a soldier of the Cross: and when lifeboat duty called him, as in days gone by, to hold out his hand to the perishing, even while in the act of saving their bodies he prayed that the result might be salvation to their souls.

You may be sure that Jo did not forget Mary: but his thoughts about her were wonderfully changed: for in this affair of the heart despair had given place to trust and submission.

Time passed by, and one night in the dreary month of November the storm-fiend was let loose on the shores of England. All round the coast the crews of our lifeboats assembled at pier-heads and other points of vantage to watch the enemy and prepare for action. Among others Jo Grain and his comrades assembled at their post of duty.

It was an awful night—such as, happily, does not often visit our shores. Thick darkness seemed to brood over land and sea. Only the robust and hardy dared to show face to the keen, withering blast, which was laden with sleet. Sometimes a gleam of lightning would dart through the raging elements; occasionally the murky clouds rolled off the sky for a short time, allowing the moon to render darkness hideously visible. Tormented foam came in from the sea in riven masses, and the hoarse roaring of the breakers played a bass accompaniment to the yelling blast, which dashed gravel and sand, as well as sleet, in the faces of those who had courage enough to brave it.

"There—wasn't that a light?" cried the coxswain of the lifeboat, as he cowered under the shelter of the pier-wall and gazed seaward with difficulty.

"Ay," responded Blunt, who was bowman of the boat; "there it goes again."

"And a rocket!" shouted Jo Grain, starting up.

"No mistake now," cried the coxswain. "Look alive, lads!"

He ran as he spoke to the spot where the lifeboat lay ready under the shelter of the pier, but Jo was on board before him. Almost simultaneously did a dozen strong and fearless men leap into the noble craft and don their cork life-belts. A few seconds sufficed. Every man knew well his place and his duty. The short, powerful oars were shipped.

"Give way!" cried the coxswain.

There was no cheer—no onlooker to encourage. Silently the strong backs were bent, and the lively boat shot away towards the entrance of the harbour like a "thing of life."

No description can adequately convey to landsmen the work to be done and the conditions under which it was performed. On passing the shelter of the pier-head the boat and her crew were met not only by the tumultuous surging of cross seas, but by a blast which caught the somewhat high bow and almost whirled them into the air; while in its now unbroken force the cold blast seemed to wither up the powers of the men. Then, in the dark distance, an unusually huge billow was seen rushing down on them. To meet it straight as an arrow and with all possible speed was essential. Failure here—and the boat, turning side on, would have been rolled over and swept back into the harbour, if not wrecked against the breakwater.

The coxswain strained at the steering oar as a man strains for life. The billow was fairly met. The men also strained till the stout oars were ready to snap; for they knew that the billow must be cut through if they were to reach the open sea; but it was so high that the bow of the boat was lifted up, and for one instant it seemed as if she were to be hurled backward right over the stern. The impulse given, however, was sufficient. The crest of the wave was cut, and next moment the bow fell forward, plunging deep into the trough of the sea. At the same time a cross-wave leaped right over the boat and filled it to the gunwales.

This initial danger past, it was little the men cared for their drenching. As little did the boat mind the water, which she instantly expelled through the discharging tubes in her floor. But the toil now began. In the teeth of tide and tempest they had to pull with might and main; advancing foot by foot, sometimes only inch by inch. No rest; no breathing time; nothing but continuous tearing at the oars, if progress was to be made, while the spray enveloped them perpetually, and at frequent intervals the "solid" water, plunging inboard, almost swept the heroes from their seats.

But if the raging sea through which the lifeboat struggled was dreadful, much more terrible was the turmoil on the outlying sands where the wreck was being gradually dashed to pieces. There the mad billows held high revelry. Rushing in from all sides, twisted and turned in their courses by the battered shoals, they met not far from, the wreck with the shock of opposing armies, and clouds of foam sprang upward in dire, indescribable confusion.

The vessel in distress was a small brig. She had been lifted like a plaything by the waves, and hurled high on the sand, where, although now unable to lift her up, they rolled her to and fro with extreme violence. Rocket after rocket had been sent up, until the drenching seas had rendered the firing of them impossible. The foremast had already gone by the board, carrying most of the crew with it. On the cross-trees of the mainmast only two remained—a man and a woman, who could barely maintain their hold as the battered craft swayed from side to side.

"The end comes at last, darling Mary," said the man, as he grasped the woman tightly with one arm and the mast with the other.

"No, father—not yet," gasped the woman; "see—the lifeboat! I felt sure that God would send it."

On came the gallant little craft. There was just light enough to enable those on the wreck to see dimly her white and blue sides as she laboured through the foam towards them.

"They have missed us, father; they don't see us!" cried the girl.

The blast blew her long hair about, adding wildness to the look of alarm which she cast on the man while speaking.

"Nay, darling, it's all right. They've only pulled a bit to wind'ard. Keep on praying, Mary."

When well to windward of the wreck the anchor of the lifeboat was let go, and they began to drop down towards the vessel by the cable. Then, for the first time, the men could draw a long breath and relax their efforts at the oars, for wind and waves were now in their favour, though they still dashed and tossed and buffeted them.

Soon they were nearly alongside, and the man on the cross-trees was heard to shout, but his words could not be made out.

What could it be that caused Jo Grain's heart to beat against his strong ribs with the force of a sledge-hammer and his eyes to blaze with excitement, as he turned on his thwart and crouched like a tiger ready to spring?

There was tremendous danger in drawing near: for, at one moment, the boat rushed up on a sea as if about to plunge through the rigging of the vessel, and the next she was down in a seething caldron, with the black hull looming over her. It was observed that the two figures aloft, which could barely be seen against the dark sky, were struggling with some difficulty. They had lashed themselves to the mast, and their benumbed fingers could not undo the fastenings.

"Haul off!" shouted the coxswain, as the boat was hurled with such force towards the vessel's hull that destruction seemed imminent.

"No, hold on!" roared Jo Grain.

The men obeyed their coxswain, but as the boat heaved upwards Jo sprang with all his might, and fell into the rigging of the wreck. A few seconds later and he was on the cross-trees, knife in hand, and the lashings were cut.

At the same moment a rending crash was heard, and again the stentorian voice of the coxswain was heard shouting to the men. The lifeboat was pulled off just in time to escape from the mainmast as it fell, burying its cross-trees and all its tangled gearing in the sea.

The bowman and young Guy leaned over the side, and at the risk of their lives grasped at a drowning man. They caught him, and Captain Bolter was dragged into the boat insensible. A moment later and a hand was seen to rise in the midst of the wreckage. Guy knew it well. He grasped it and held on. A few seconds more and Jo Grain, with blood pouring down his face, from a deep cut in his head, was raised to the gunwale.

"Have a care," he gasped faintly.

His right arm encircled an inanimate form. Both were dragged on board, and then it was seen that the form was that of Mary Bolter, uninjured though insensible.

To haul up to the anchor was a slow process and laborious, but it was done cheerily, for the hearts of the men were aglow with satisfaction. Three lives saved! It was what Blunt styled a grand haul. Not many, indeed: but was not one that of a loved comrade, and was not another that of "the sweetest lass in all the town," in spite of young Guy's difference of opinion?

It was grey dawn when the lifeboat returned to port under sail, with a small flag flying in token of success, and it would have done your heart good, reader, to have seen the faces of the crowds that lined the pier, and heard the ringing cheers that greeted the gallant rescuers as they brought the rescued safe to land.

Six hours after that Captain Bolter sat at the bedside of Jo Grain.

"You've been hard hit, Jo, I fear," he said kindly.

"Yes, rather hard, but the doctor says I'll be all right in a week or two; and it's little I'll care about it, Captain, if you'll only agree to forgive and forget."

The Captain seized Jo's hand and tried to speak, but could not. After an abortive effort he turned away with a grunt and left the room.

Six months after that, Joseph Grain, transformed into a coast-guardsman, led "the sweetest lass in all the town" to the village church, and young Guy, still objecting to the title, was groom's-man.

"Jo," said Captain Bolter that day, at parting, "I've forgiven you long ago, but I can't forget; for you said the truth that time. I was an old grampus, or a fool, if you like, and I'm not much better now. However, good-bye, dear boy, and take care of her, for there's not another like her in all England."

"Except one," murmured young Guy, as he squeezed his friend's hand and quietly attached an old slipper to their cab as they drove away. Thereafter he swaggered off to a certain familiar cottage to talk over the wedding with one whom he considered the sweetest lass in all the town.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

"RESCUE THE PERISHING."

Proverbial philosophy asserts that the iron should be struck when it is hot. I sympathise with proverbial philosophy in this case, but that teacher says nothing whatever about striking the iron when it is cold; and experience—at least that of blacksmiths—goes to prove that cold iron may be struck till heat is evolved, and, once heated, who knows what intensity of incandescence may be attained?

I will try it. My hammer may not be a large one. A sledge-hammer it certainly is not. Such as it is I wield it under the impulse of great heat within me, and will direct my blows at the presumably cold iron around. I say presumably,—because if you, good reader, have not been subjected to the same influences with myself you cannot reasonably be expected to be even warm—much less white-hot.

The cause of all this heat was Dr Barnardo's splendid meeting held recently in the Royal Albert Hall. I came home from that meeting incandescent—throwing off sparks of enthusiasm, and eagerly clutching at every cold or lukewarm creature that came in my way with a view to expend on it some of my surplus heat!

The great Albert Hall filled is enough of itself to arouse enthusiasm, whatever the object of the gathering may be. Ten thousand human beings, more or less, swarming on the floor, clustering on the walls, rising tier above tier, until in dim distance the pigmy throng seems soaring up into the very heavens, is a tremendous, a solemn, a heart-stirring sight, suggestive—I write with reverence—of the Judgment Day. And when such an assembly is convened for the purpose of considering matters of urgent importance, matters affecting the well-being of multitudes, matters of life and death which call for instant and vigorous action, then the enthusiasm is naturally intensified and needs but little hammering to rouse it to the fiercest glow.

It was no ordinary gathering this—no mere "annual meeting" of a grand society. It was indeed that, but a great deal more. There was a "noble chairman," of course, and an address, and several speeches by eminent men; but I should suppose that one-half of the audience could not well see the features of the speakers or hear their words. These were relatively insignificant matters.

The business of the evening was to present to the people a great Object Lesson, and the only figure on the platform that bulked large—at least in my esteem—was that of Dr Barnardo himself, and a magical master of the ceremonies did the doctor prove himself to be.

Being unable to induce the "West End" to visit the "East End," he had simply cut several enormous slices out of the slums and set them down in the Royal Albert Hall for inspection.

The display was set forth interestingly and with emphasis, insomuch that things almost spoke for themselves, and wherein they failed to do so the Doctor supplemented in a satisfactorily sonorous voice.

One of the slum-slices was a large one. It consisted of thirteen hundred children—boys and girls—in bright, light, smart dresses, who clustered on the orchestra and around the great organ, like flowers in June. Looking at their clean, wholesome faces, neat attire, and orderly demeanour, I thought, "Is it possible that these are the sweepings of the streets?" The question was tellingly answered later on; but here it may be stated that this beautiful band of 1300 was only a slice—a sample—of the Doctor's large family, which at present numbers nearly 3500. (It now, in 1893, numbers nearly 5000.)

It was grand to hear them sing! The great organ itself had to sing small beside them, for wood and metal can never hope to equal the living human voice, even though it be but a voice from the slums. Not only hymns but humorous songs they sang, and heroic. A telling effect was produced while singing one of the latter by the sudden display of 1300 Union Jacks, each the size of a 'kerchief, which the singers waved in time to the chorus. It seemed as though a stiff breeze had swept over the flower-bed and kissed the national flag in passing.

Another surprise of this kind was given during the stirring song of The Fire Brigade, when 1300 bits of gold and silver paper, waved to and fro, seemed to fill the orchestra with flashing fire.

But much of this was for show, to tickle our eyes and ears and prepare the way, as it were, for the grave and stern realities yet to come.

There was a mighty platform covered with crimson cloth in the centre of the hall in front of the orchestra. On it were several mysterious objects covered with sheets. At a signal—a whistle—given by the Doctor, a band of sturdy boys, clad in their work-a-day uniform, scampered down the central passage of the hall, jumped on the platform, flung off the sheets, and discovered carpenters' benches, saws, hammers, wood—in short, all the appliances with which they carry on the various trades at their "Home" in the East End. In a few seconds, as if by magic, the platform was a workshop in full swing—hammering, sawing, chiselling, wood-chopping, clattering, and indescribable din, which was enhanced, but not drowned, by the applause of the astonished audience. The little fellows worked as though life depended on their activity, for the space, it seemed to me, of half a minute. Then the shrill whistle sounded again, and the work ceased, as if the springs of life had been suddenly cut off. Dead silence ensued; each worker remaining in the attitude in which he had been petrified—a group of artisan statuary in colour!

The Doctor was thus enabled quietly to explain that the display represented only a very few of the trades taught and carried on by his rescued boys at Stepney Causeway.

At another signal the splendidly drilled young fellows scampered off, carrying not only their tools, but their benches, tables, stools, and even debris along with them, and, disappearing in less than a couple of minutes, left not a chip or shaving behind.

It would take a good many pages of close writing to give anything like a detailed account of all that I saw. I must pass over much in order to emphasise one or two very telling incidents. The Doctor presented a sample of all his wares. One of these was a very touching sample— namely, a band of cripples, who made their way slowly on crutches down the passage to the platform—for it is one of the noteworthy points in this Mission that no destitute boy is turned away, whether he be well or ill, crippled or sound. So, also, there was a small procession of neat, pleasant-looking nurses, each leading one or more mites of forsaken humanity from "Babies' Castle."

But it seemed to me that the kernel of the nut had been reached, and the foundation of the God-like Mission laid bare for our inspection, when the raw material was led forth. We had got accustomed by that time to turn an expectant gaze at a far distant door when the Doctor's voice ceased or his whistle sounded. Presently a solitary nurse with the neat familiar white cap and apron appeared at the door leading two little creatures by the hand. A hush—a distinct though indescribable sensation—as of profound pity and pathos,—passed over the vast assembly as a little boy and girl direct from the slums were led forward. The nurse had to walk slowly to accommodate her pace to theirs. Half naked, ragged, dirty, unkempt, bereft of their natural guardians, or forsaken by them—helpless, yet left to help themselves almost before they could walk! Forward they came to the central platform, casting timid, wondering glances around at the mighty host of well-to-do beings, not one of whom, perhaps, ever knew what it is to hunger for a whole day and lie down at night with a door-step for a pillow. Oh, it was pitiful! the Doctor advanced to these forlorn ones and took them by the hands with inexpressible tenderness, and then, facing the assembly, broke the silence and presented the human material which it was, under God, his mission in life to rescue.

Then turning abruptly to the flower-bed in the orchestra, he signalled with his finger. A flower that might well have been styled a rosebud—a neat little girl in pink with a natty straw hat—tripped lightly down and stood on the platform beside the poor waifs. Looking up once more to the entranced audience and pointing to the children, the Doctor said—

"Such as these are, she was but a few months ago, and such as she is now they will soon become, with God's blessing."

I may not quote the words correctly, but that is my recollection of the substance.

The Doctor was not content, however, to show us the foundation and progress of his work. He showed us the work, as it were, completed, in the form of a band of sturdy young men in their working costume, ready to start as rescued, trained, useful, earnest labourers for the fields of Manitoba—young men who all had once been lost waifs and strays.

Still further, he, as it were, put the copestone on his glorious work by presenting a band of men and women—"old boys and girls"—who had been tested by rough contact with the world and its temptations, and had come off victorious "by keeping their situations with credit" for periods varying from one to nine years—kept by the power of Christ!

When I saw the little waifs and looked up at the bands of happy children before me, and thought of the thousands more in the "Homes," and of the multitudes which have passed through these Homes in years gone by; the gladness and the great boon to humanity which must have resulted, and of the terrible crime and degradation that might have been—my heart offered the prayer, which at that moment my voice could not have uttered—"God bless and prosper Dr Barnardo and his work!"

I hear a voice from the "Back of Beyont," or some such far off locality—a timid voice, perhaps that of a juvenile who knows little, and can scarce be expected to care much, about London—asking "Who is Dr Barnardo?"

For the sake of that innocent one I reply that he is a Scavenger—the chief of London Scavengers! He and his subordinates sweep up the human rubbish of the slums and shoot it into a receptacle at 18 Stepney Causeway, where they manipulate and wash it, and subject it to a variety of processes which result, with God's blessing, in the recovery of innumerable jewels of inestimable value. I say inestimable, because men have not yet found a method of fixing the exact value of human souls and rescued lives. The "rubbish" which is gathered consists of destitute children. The Assistant Scavengers are men and women who love and serve the Lord Jesus Christ.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A KNOTTY QUESTION.

"Tom Blunt," said Richard Sharp, "I deny your premises, condemn your reasoning as illogical, and reject your conclusions with scorn!"

The youth who made this remark with very considerable assurance and emphasis was a student. His fellow-student received it with an air of bland good-nature.

"Dick," said he, "your oratory is rotund, and if it were convincing might be impressive; but it fails to some extent in consequence of a certain smack of self-assertion which is unphilosophical. Suppose, now, that we have this matter out in a calm, dispassionate manner, without 'tooth,' or egotism, or prejudice, which tend so powerfully to mar human disputation and render it abortive."

"With all my heart, Tom," said the other, drawing close to the fire, placing one foot against the mantelpiece, as being a comfortable, though not elegant posture, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and placing his hands in that position—with all the finger tips touching each other—which seems, from the universal practice of civilised society, to assist mental elucidation. "I am quite prepared. Come on!"

"Stay; while my mind is working I like to have my hands employed. I will proceed with my monkey while we talk," said Blunt, taking up a walking-stick, the head of which he had carved into the semblance of a monkey. "Sweet creature!" he added, kissing the object of his affection, and holding it out at arm's-length. "Silent companion of my solitary rambles, and patient auditor of my most secret aspirations, you are becoming quite a work of art. A few more touches of the knife, and something like perfection shall have been attained! Look here, Dick, when I turn it towards the light—so—isn't there a beauty about the contour of that upper lip and nose which—"

"Don't be a fool, Tom," interrupted his friend, somewhat impatiently; "you seem to me to be growing more and more imbecile every day. We did not sit down to discuss fine art—"

"True, Richard, true; but there is a power in the consideration of fine art, which, when judiciously interpolated in the affairs of life, tends to soften the asperities, to round away, as it were, the ruggedness of human intercourse, and produce a tranquillity of mind which is eminently conducive to—to—don't you see?"

"No, I don't see!"

"Then," continued Blunt, applying his knife to one of the monkey's eyes, "there arises the question—how far is this intellectual blindness the result of incapacity of intellectual vision, or of averted gaze, or of the wilful shutting of the intellectual eyelids?"

"Well, well, Tom, let that question alone for the present. Let us come to the point, for I wish to have my mind cleared up on the subject. You hold that gambling is wrong—essentially wrong."

"I do; but let us not have a misunderstanding at the very beginning," said Blunt. "By gambling I do not mean the playing of games. That is not gambling. What I understand by gambling is betting on games—or on anything—and the playing of games for the purpose of winning money, or anything that possesses value, great or small. Such gambling I hold to be wrong—essentially, morally, absolutely wrong, without one particle of right or good in it whatever."

As he spoke Blunt became slightly more earnest in tone, and less devoted to the monkey.

"Well, now, Tom, do you know I don't see that."

"If you did see it, my dear fellow," returned Blunt, resuming his airy tone, "our discussion of the subject would be useless."

"Well, then, I can't see it to be wrong. Here are you and I. We want to have a game of billiards. It is uninteresting to play even billiards for nothing; but we each have a little money, and choose to risk a small sum. Our object is not gain, therefore we play for merely sixpenny points. We both agree to risk that sum. If I lose, all right. If you lose, all right. That's fair, isn't it?"

"No; it is undoubtedly equal, but not necessarily fair. Fair means 'free from blemish,' 'pure,' in other words, right. Two thieves may make a perfectly fair division of spoil; but the fairness of the division does not make their conduct fair or right. Neither of them is entitled to divide their gains at all. Their agreeing to do so does not make it fair."

"Agreed, Tom, as regards thieves; but you and I are not thieves. We propose to act with that which is our own. We mutually agree to run the risk of loss, and to take our chance of gain. We have a right to do as we choose with our own. Is not that fair?"

"You pour out so many fallacies and half truths, Dick, that it is not easy to answer you right off."

"Morally and politically you are wrong. Politically a man is not entitled to do what he chooses with his own. There are limitations. For instance, a man owns a house. Abstractly, he is entitled to burn it down if he chooses. But if his house abuts upon mine, he may not set it on fire if he chooses, because in so doing he would set fire to my house also, which is very much beyond his right. Then—"

"Oh, man, I understand all that," said Sharp quickly. "Of course a man may put what he likes in his garden, but with such-like limitations as that he shall not set up a limekiln to choke his neighbours, or a piggery to breed disease; but gambling does nothing like that."

"Does it not?" exclaimed Blunt. "Does it not ruin hundreds of men, turning them into sots and paupers, whereby the ruined gamblers become unable to pay their fair share of taxation; and, in addition, lay on the shoulders of respectable people the unfair burden of supporting them, and perhaps their families?"

"But what if the gambler has no family?"

"There still remains his ruined self to be maintained."

"But suppose he is not ruined—that he manages, by gambling, to support himself?"

"In that case he still remains guilty of two mean and contemptible acts. On the one hand he produces nothing whatever to increase the wealth or happiness of the world, and, on the other hand, whatever he gains is a matter of direct loss and sorrow to others without any tangible equivalent. It is not so with the orator or the musician. Though their products are not indeed tangible they are distinctly real and valuable. During the hour of action the orator charms the ear, eye, and intellect. So does the musician. When the hour is past the heart is gladdened by the memory of what has been, and the hopes are aroused in anticipation of what may yet be in the future. As regards the orator, the lessons inculcated may be a lasting gain and pleasure, and source of widespread benefit through life. To a great extent this may also be said of the musician when words are wedded to music. Who has not heard of souls being delivered from spiritual darkness and brought into spiritual light by means of song?—a benefit which will last through eternity as well as time. Even the man of wealth who lives on the interest of his possessions is not necessarily a drone in the human hive. He may, by wise and careful use of his wealth, greatly increase the world's riches. By the mere management of it he may fill up his days with useful and happy employment, and by devoting it and himself to God he may so influence the world for good that men shall bless him while he lives and mourn him profoundly when he dies. But what fraction of good is done by the gambler in all the wide world?"

"Much the same that is accomplished by the others," put in Sharp at this point. "The orator gives pleasure to those who are fond of recitation or declamation; the musician pleases those who are fond of sweet sounds, and the gambler gives pleasure to men who are fond of the excitement of play. Besides, by paying his way he gives benefit to all whom he employs. He rents a house, he buys furniture, he eats food, all of which brings profit to house-owners, cabinet-makers, butchers, bakers, etcetera, and is good done to the world by the gambler."

"Nay, friend Richard, not by the gambler, but by the money which the gambler spends."

"Isn't that much the same thing?"

"By no means. The money—or its equivalent—is created by some one else. The gambler merely passes it on. If he had never been born the same money would have been there for some one else to spend. The labour of the gambler has not added one penny to it. He brought nothing into the world, and has added nothing to the world's pile, though he has managed to consume a good deal of its produce. Is there not something very mean and contemptible in this state of being? On the other hand the orator has spent laborious days and exerted much brain-power before he made himself capable of pleasing and benefiting his fellows. The musician has gone through exhausting drudgery and practice before being fit to thrill or instruct by means of his sweet sounds, and the man of wealth has had to be educated up to the point of using his possessions to profitable account—so that his fields shall grow heavier crops than they did when he began his work; his tenants shall be better housed than they were at first, and shall lead healthier and happier lives to the great moral and material advantage of the community. Nearly all the other members of the hive produce, or help to produce, some sort of equivalent for the money they obtain. Even those who produce what is bad have still something to show for their money, and that something, bad though it be in one form, may be decidedly good in another form, or if put to another use. The gambler alone—except, perhaps, the absolute idler—enjoys the unenviable position of a thorough, out-and-out, unmitigated drone. He does absolutely nothing, except produce unhealthy excitement in himself and his fellows! He has nothing whatever to show for the money he has obtained except 'risk,' and that can hardly be styled a commodity."

"I beg pardon," interrupted Sharp, "the gambler produces skill; and there can be no doubt that hundreds of men derive as much pleasure from an exhibition of skill with the billiard-cue as others derive from an exhibition of skill with the flute or violin."

"You forget, Dick, my boy, that skill with the billiard-cue is not gambling. What I condemn as being morally and politically wrong is betting on games and staking anything upon the issue of them. Gamblers are, if I may say so, a set of living pockets which circulate money about amongst themselves, one pocket gaining neither more nor less than what another pocket loses."

"But you are now talking of professional gamblers, Tom. Of course I don't defend these. What I do defend is my right to play, now and then, for sixpenny, or say shilling, or even half-crown points, without laying myself open to the charge of having been guilty of what you term a mean, dishonourable, unjust, contemptible act."

"In other words, you wish to steal now and then without being called a thief! But come, old man, I won't call you bad names. I know you don't look at this matter as I do, and therefore I don't think that you are either mean or contemptible. Nevertheless, we must bear in mind that honourable, upright men may sometimes be reasoned into false beliefs, so that for a time they may fail to see the evil of that which they uphold. I am not infallible. If my reasoning is false, I stand open to correction."

Laying the monkey down on the table at this point and looking earnestly at his friend, Tom Blunt continued—

"Let me ask a question, Dick. Is it for the sake of getting money that you gamble?"

"Certainly not," returned his friend, with a slight touch of indignation. "You know that I never play for high stakes, and with penny or sixpenny points you know it is impossible for me either to win or lose any sum that would be worth a moment's consideration. The game is all that I care for."

"If so, why do you lose interest in the game when there are no stakes?"

"Oh—well, it's hard to say; but the value of the stake cannot be that which adds interest, for it is so trifling."

"I'm not so sure of that, Dick. You have heard gambling talked of as a disease."

"Yes, but I don't believe it is."

"Do you believe that a miser is a morally diseased man?"

"Well, perhaps he is," returned Sharp; "but a gambler is not necessarily a miser."

"Yet the two have some symptoms of this moral disease in common. The miser is sometimes rich, nevertheless the covetous spirit is so strong in him that he gloats over a sixpence, has profound interest in gaining it, and mourns over it if lost. You, being well off with a rich and liberal father, yet declare that the interest of a game is much decreased if there are no stakes on it."

"The cases are not parallel."

"I did not say they were, but you must admit—indeed you have admitted— that you have one symptom of this disease in common with the miser."

"What disease?"

"The love of money."

Richard Sharp burst into a laugh at this, a good-humoured laugh in which there was more of amusement than annoyance.

"Tom, Tom," he said, "how your notions about gambling seem to blind you to the true character of your friends! Did you ever see me gloating over gold, or hoarding sixpences, or going stealthily in the dead of night to secret places for the purpose of counting over my wealth? Have I not rather, on the contrary, got credit among my friends for being somewhat of a spendthrift? But go on, old fellow, what more have you to say against gambling—for you have not yet convinced me?"

"Hold on a bit. Let me pare off just a morsel of my monkey's nose— there, that's about as near perfection as is possible in a monkey. What a pity that he has not life enough to see his beautiful face in a glass! But perhaps it's as well, for he would never see himself as others see him. Men never do. No doubt monkeys are the same. Well now," continued Blunt, again laying down the stick, and becoming serious, "try if you can see the matter in this light. Two gamblers meet. Not blacklegs, observe, but respectable men, who nevertheless bet much, and play high, and keep 'books,' etcetera. One is rich, the other poor. Each wishes ardently to gain money from his friend. This is a somewhat low, unmanly wish, to begin with; but let it pass. The poor one has a wife and family to keep, and debts to pay. Many thousands of men, ay, and women, are in the same condition, and work hard to pay their debts. Our poor gambler, however, does not like work. He prefers to take his chance at gambling; it is easier, he thinks, and it is certainly, in a way, more exciting than work. Our rich gambler has no need to work, but he also likes excitement, and he loves money. Neither of these men would condescend for one moment to ask a gift of money from the other, yet each is so keen to obtain his friend's money that they agree to stake it on a chance, or on the issue of a contest. For one to take the money from the other, who does not wish to part with it, would be unfair and wrong, of course; but their agreement gets rid of the difficulty. It has not altered the conditions, observe. Neither of them wishes to give up his money, but an arrangement has been come to, in virtue of which one consents to be a defrauder, and the other to be defrauded. Does the agreement make wrong right?"

"I think it does, because the gamblers have a right to make what agreement they please, as it is between themselves."

"Hold there, Dick. Suppose that the poor man loses. Is it then between themselves? Does not the rich gambler walk away with the money that was due to the poor one's butcher, baker, brewer, etcetera?"

"But the rich one did not know that. It is not his fault."

"That does not free the poor gambler from the dishonourable act of risking money which was not his own; and do you really think that if the rich one did know it he would return the money? I think not. The history of gambling does not point to many, if any, such cases of self-sacrifice. The truth is that selfishness in its meanest form is at the bottom of all gambling, though many gamblers may not quite see the fact. I want your money. I am too proud to ask it. I dare not demand it. I cannot cajole you out of it. I will not rob you. You are precisely in the same mind that I am. Come, let us resort to a trick, let us make an arrangement whereby one of us at least shall gain his sneaking, nefarious, unjust end, and we will, anyhow, have the excitement of leaving to chance which of us is to be the lucky man. Chance and luck! Dick Sharp, there is no such condition as chance or luck. It is as surely fixed in the mind of God which gambler is to gain and which to lose as it is that the morrow shall follow to-day."

"My dear Blunt, I had no idea you were such a fatalist," said Sharp in surprise.

"I am not a fatalist in the sense you mean," returned his friend. "Everything has been fixed from the beginning."

"Is not that fatalism of the most pronounced nature, Tom?"

"You don't seem to see that, among other fixtures, it was fixed that free-will should be given to man, and with it the right as well as the power to fix many things for himself, also the responsibility. Without free-will we could have had no responsibility. The mere fact that God of course knew what each man would will, did not alter the fixed arrangement that man has been left perfectly free to will as he pleases. I do not say that man is free to do as he pleases. Sometimes the doing is permitted; sometimes it is interfered with—never the willing. That is always and for ever free. Gamblers use their free-wills, often to their own great damage and ruin; just as good men use their free-wills to their great advantage and happiness. In both cases they make free use of the free-wills that have been bestowed on them."

"Then I suppose that you consider gambling, even to the smallest extent, to be sin?"

"I do."

"Under which of the ten commandments does it fall?"

"'Thou shalt not covet.'"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

TWO REMARKABLE DREAMS.

Some natures are better than others. There can be no question about that. Some dispositions are born moderately sweet, others are born slightly sour. If you doubt the fact, reader, go study Nature, or get you to an argumentative friend and dispute the point. We refuse flatly to enter into a discussion of the subject.

Look at that little boy sleeping there under the railway arch in the East End of London—not the boy with the black hair and the hook nose and the square under-jaw, but the one with the curly head, the extremely dirty face, and the dimpled chin, on the tip of whose snub nose the rising sun shines with a power that causes it to resemble a glowing carbuncle on a visage still lying in shadow.

That little boy's disposition is sweet. You can see it in every line, in every curve, in every dimple of his dirty little face. He has not been sweetened by training, he has had no training—at least none from man or woman with a view to his good. He has no settled principles of any kind, good or bad. All his actions are the result of impulse based on mere animal propensity, but, like every other human being, he has a conscience. At the time of his introduction to the reader his conscience is, like himself, asleep, and it has not as yet been much enlightened. His name is Stumpy, but he was never christened.

Critical minds will object here that a boy would not be permitted to sleep under a railway arch, and that London houses would effectually prevent the rising sun from entering such a place. To which we reply that the arch in question was a semi-suburban arch; that it was the last, (or the first), of a series of arches, an insignificant arch under which nothing ever ran except stray cats and rats, and that it spanned a morsel of waste ground which gave upon a shabby street running due east, up which, every fine morning, the rising sun gushed in a flood of glory.

Each fleeting moment increased the light on Stumpy's upturned nose, until it tipped the dimpled chin and cheeks and at last kissed his eyelids. This appeared to suggest pleasant dreams, for the boy smiled like a dirty-faced angel. He even gave vent to an imbecile laugh, and then awoke.

Stumpy's eyes were huge and blue. The opening of them was like the revealing of unfathomable sky through clouds of roseate hue! They sparkled with a light all their own in addition to that of the sun, for there was in them a gleam of mischief as their owner poked his companion in the ribs and then tugged his hair.

"I say, you let me alone!" growled the companion, turning uneasily on his hard couch.

"I say, you get up," answered Stumpy, giving the companion a pinch on the tender part of his arm. "Come, look alive, Howlet. I sees a railway porter and a bobby."

Owlet, whose nose had suggested his name, had been regardless of the poke, the tug, and the pinch, but was alive to the hint. He at once came to the sitting posture on hearing the dreaded name of "bobby," and rubbed his eyes. On seeing that there was neither policeman nor guard near, he uttered an uncomplimentary remark and was about to lie down again, but was arrested by the animated expression of his comrade's face and the heaving of his shoulders.

"Why, what ever is the matter with you?" he demanded. "Are you goin' to bust yourself wi' larfin', by way of gettin' a happetite for the breakfast that you hain't no prospect of?"

To this Stumpy replied by pulling from his trousers pocket four shining pennies, which he held out with an air of triumph.

"Oh!" exclaimed Owlet; and then being unable to find words sufficiently expressive, he rubbed the place where the front of his waistcoat would have been if he had possessed one.

"Yes," said Stumpy, regarding the coppers with a pensive air, "I've slep' with you all night in my 'and, an' my 'and in my pocket, an' my knees doubled up to my chin to make all snug, an' now I'm going to have a tuck in—a blow out—a buster—a—"

He paused abruptly, and looking with a gleeful air at his companion, said—

"But that wasn't what I was laughin' at."

"Well, I suppose it warn't. What was it, then?"

The boy's eyes sparkled again, and for some moments a half-suppressed chuckling prevented speech.

"It was a dream," he said at last.

"A dream!" exclaimed Owlet contemptuously.

"I hate dreams. When I dreams 'em they're always about bobbies and maginstrates, an' wittles, an' when other fellows tells about 'em they're so long-winded an' prosy. But I had a dream too. What was yours?"

"My dream was about a bobby," returned his friend. "See, here it is, an' I won't be long-winded or prosy, Howlet, so don't growl and spoil your happetite for that 'ere breakfast that's a-comin'. I dreamed—let me see, was it in Piccadilly—no, it was Oxford Street, close by Regent Street, where all the swells go to promynade, you know. Well, I sees a bobby—of course I never can go the length my little toe without seein' a bobby! but this bobby was a stunner. You never see'd sitch a feller. Not that he was big, or fierce, but he had a nose just two-foot-six long. I know for certain, for I'm a good judge o' size, besides, I went straight up to him, as bold as brass, and axed him how long it was, an' he told me without winkin'. The strange thing about it is that I wasn't a bit surprised at his nose. Wery odd, ain't it, eh, Howlet, that people never is surprised at anything they sees in dreams? I do b'lieve, now, if I was to see a man takin' a walk of a' arternoon with his head in his coat-tail pocket I'd take it quite as a matter of course.

"Well, w'en that bobby had told me his nose was two-foot-six inches long I feels a most unaccountable and astonishin' gush of indignation come over me. What it was at I don't know no more nor the man in the moon. P'r'aps it was the sudden thought of all the troubles that bobbies has brought on me from the day I was born till now. Anyhow, I was took awful bad. My buzzum felt fit to bust. I knowed that I must do somethin' to him or die; so I seized that bobby by the nose, and hauled him flat down on his breast. He was so took with surprise that he never made any struggle, but gived vent to a most awful howl. My joy at havin' so easily floored my natural enemy was such that I replied with a Cherokee yell. Then I gave his nose a pull up so strong that it well-nigh broke his neck an' set him straight on his pins again! Oh! Howlet, you can't think what a jolly dream it was. To do it all so easy, too!"

"Well, what happened arter that?" asked Owlet.

"Nothin' happened after that," returned Stumpy, with a somewhat sad expression on his usually gleeful visage. "It's a wery strange thing, Howlet, that dreams inwariably wanishes away just at the most interestin' p'int. Did you ever notice that?"

"Notice it! I should think I did. Why the dream that I had w'en I was layin' alongside o' you was o' that sort exactly. It was all about wittles, too, an' it's made me that 'ungry I feels like a ravagin' wolf."

"Come along, then, Howlet, an' you an' me will ravage somethin' wi' them browns o' mine. We'll 'ave a good breakfast, though it should be our last, an' I'll stand treat."

"You're a trump, Stumpy; an' I'll tell you my dream as we goes along."

"Hall right—but mind you don't come prosy over me. I can't stand it no more nor yourself."

"You mind Dick Wilkin, don't you?"

"What—the young man from the country as I've see'd standin' at the dock gates day after day for weeks without getting took on?"

"That's him," continued Owlet, with a nod, as he shoved his hand into his trousers pockets. "He brought a wife and five kids from the country with him—thinkin' to better hisself in London. Ha! a sweet little town for a cove as is 'ard up to better hisself in—ho yes, certingly!" remarked the precocious boy in a tone of profound sarcasm.

"Well," he continued, "Dick Wilkin came to better hisself an' he set about it by rentin' a single room in Cherubs Court—a fine saloobrious spot, as you know, not far from the Tower. He 'ad a few bobs when he came, and bought a few sticks o' furniture, but I don't need for to tell you, Stumpy, that the most o' that soon went up the spout, and the Wilkins was redooced to beggary—waried off an' on with an odd job at the docks. It was when they first comed to town that I was down wi' that fever, or 'flenzy, or somethink o' that sort. The streets bein' my usual 'abitation, I 'ad no place in partikler to go to, an' by good luck, when I gave in, I lay down at the Wilkins' door. O! but I was bad—that bad that it seemed as if I should be cleared out o' my mortal carcase entirely—"

"Mulligrumps?" inquired his sympathetic friend.

"No, no. Nothin' o' that sort, but a kind of hot all-overishness, wi' pains that—but you can't understand it, Stumpy, if you've never 'ad it."

"Then I don't want to understand it. But what has all this to do wi' your dream?"

"Everythink to do with it, 'cause it was about them I was dreamin'. As I was sayin', I fell down at their door, an' they took me in, and Mrs Wilkin nussed me for weeks till I got better. Oh, she's a rare nuss is Mrs Wilkin. An' when I began to get better the kids all took to me. I don't know when I would have left them, but when times became bad, an' Dick couldn't git work, and Mrs Wilkin and the kids began to grow thin, I thought it was time for me to look out for myself, an' not remain a burden on 'em no longer. I know'd they wouldn't let me away without a rumpus, so I just gave 'em the slip, and that's 'ow I came to be on the streets again, an' fell in wi' you, Stumpy."

"'Ave you never seen 'em since?"

"Never."

"You ungrateful wagibone!"

"What was the use o' my goin' to see 'em w'en I 'ad nothin' to give 'em?" returned Owlet in an apologetic tone.

"You might 'ave given 'em the benefit of your adwice if you 'ad nothin' else. But what did you dream about 'em?"

"I dreamt that they was all starvin'—which ain't unlikely to be true— an' I was so cut up about it, that I went straight off to a butcher's shop and stole a lot o' sasengers; then to a baker's and stole a loaf the size of a wheel-barrer; then to a grocer's and stole tea an' sugar; an' the strange thing was that neither the people o' the shops nor the bobbies seemed to think I was stealin'! Another coorious thing was that I carried all the things in my pockets—stuffed 'em in quite easy, though there was 'arf a sack o' coals among 'em!"

"Always the way in dreams," remarked his friend philosophically.

"Yes—ain't it jolly convenient?" continued the other. "Well, w'en I got to the 'ouse I set to work, made a rousin' fire, put on the kettle, cooked the wittles as if I'd bin born and bred in a 'otel, and in less than five minutes 'ad a smokin' dinner on the table, that would 'ave busted an alderman. In course the Wilkins axed no questions. Father, mother, five kids, and self all drew in our chairs, and sot down—"

"What fun!" exclaimed Stumpy.

"Ay, but you spoilt the fun, for it was just at that time you shoved your fist into my ribs, and woke me before one of us could get a bite o' that grub into our mouths. If we'd even 'ad time to smell it, that would 'ave bin somethink to remember."

"Howlet," said the other impressively, "d'ye think the Wilkins is livin' in the same place still?"

"As like as not."

"Could you find it again?"

"Could I find Saint Paul's, or the Moniment? I should think so!"

"Come along, then, and let's pay 'em a wisit."

They were not long in finding the place—a dirty court at the farther end of a dark passage.

Owlet led the way to the top of a rickety stair, and knocked at one of the doors which opened on the landing. No answer was returned, but after a second application of the knuckles, accompanied by a touch of the toe, a growling voice was heard, then a sound of some one getting violently out of bed, a heavy tread on the floor, and the door was flung open.

"What d'ee want?" demanded a fierce, half-drunken man.

"Please, sir, does the Wilkins stop here?"

"No, they don't," and the door was shut with a bang.

"Sweet creature!" observed Stumpy as they turned disappointed away.

"Wonder if his mother 'as any more like 'im?" said Owlet.

"They've 'ad to change to the cellar," said a famished-looking woman, putting her head out of a door on the same landing. "D'ye want 'em?"

"In course we does, mother, else we wouldn't ax for 'em. W'ereabouts is the cellar?"

"Foot o' this stair."

Descending to the regions below, the two boys groped their way along an underground passage till they came to a door. It was opened by a woman, who timidly demanded what they wanted.

"It's me, Missis Wilkin. 'Ave you forgotten Howlet?"

With an exclamation of surprise and joy the woman flung the door wide, seized Owlet, dragged him into the room, and embraced him with as much affection as if he had been her own child. Instantly there arose a shout of juvenile joy, and Stumpy could see, in the semi-darkness, that four little creatures were helping their mother to overwhelm his friend, while a fifth—a biggish girl—was prevented from joining them by the necessity that lay on her to take care of the baby.

When the greetings were over, the sad condition of the family was soon explained, and a single glance round sufficed to show that they had reached the lowest state of destitution. It was a back room rather than a cellar, but the dirty pane of thick glass near the roof admitted only enough of light to make its wretchedness visible. A rickety table, two broken chairs, and a bedstead without a bottom was all the furniture left, and the grate was empty.

"We've been obleeged to pawn everything," said Mrs Wilkin, with difficulty suppressing a sob, "and I need hardly tell you why," she added, with a glance at the children, who were living skeletons.

The baby was perhaps the saddest object there, for it was so thin and weak that it had not strength to cry—though the faces which it frequently made were obviously the result of an effort to do so.

Much interested in the scene, young Stumpy stood admiring it patronisingly for a little, but when he heard the poor woman tell of their desperate struggle to merely keep themselves alive, his feelings were touched, and when he learned that not a bite of food had passed their lips since the previous morning, a sudden impulse swelled his little breast. He clutched his four pennies tightly; glanced quickly round; observed an empty basket in a corner; caught it up, and left the place hurriedly.

He had scarcely gone when the father of the family entered. The expression of his face and his whole bearing and aspect told eloquently of disappointment as he sat down with a heavy sigh.

"Stumped again," he said; "only a few hands took on."

The words sounded as a death-knell to the famishing family, and the man himself was too much cut up to take notice of the return of his friend Owlet, except by a slight nod of recognition.

Meanwhile Stumpy ran along several streets in quest of food. He had not far to run in such a locality. At a very small grocer's shop he purchased one halfpenny worth of tea and put it in his basket. To this he added one farthing's worth of milk, which the amiable milkman let him have in a small phial, on promise of its being returned. Two farthings more procured a small supply of coal, which he wrapped in two cabbage leaves. Then he looked about for a baker. One penny farthing of his fund having been spent, it behoved him to consider that the staff of life must be secured in preference to luxuries.

THE END