text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/320

Rh Ngaburial, to bubble up as water in small quantities; said of small articles which keep floating upwards in water.

Ngabuyut, to follow in a row as natives follow after a chief. To go in company with.

Ngachabur, to splash in water; to swim in the splashing manner of natives. (Jav. Chěbur, Mal. Chabur, to spring into the water).

Ngachalok, to hop; to settle as a bird; to perch. (Bat. Měnchěluk, id.).

Ngachir, to run away in fear; to run off when worsted; defeated and fugitive.

Ngacho, to talk vauntingly. To hold bragging talk which of itself is evidently untrue.

Ngadalit, to stare, to look earnestly.

Ngadapang, down on all fours on the ground. Crouched down on the ground. Sneaking along in a crawling position.

Ngadawěung, to stare at, to look steadily; to gaze. To look as if at a loss what to do. Agog and perplexed.

Ngaděg, to set up for; to establish oneself; to be installed in an office. Gěus ngadeg sudagar, he has set up for a trader. Ngaděg děmang, to be installed as a Demang. (Jav. Bal. Ngaděg, to stand; to reign, to have authority).

Ngadégdég, to tremble, to shiver with fear or cold or the like.

Ngaděkěm, crouched down; squatting on the ground. It also means stuffing yourself, feeding eagerly, as the natives always cower down when eating. Doing anything with great intentness.

Ngaděkuk, squatting down with one knee to the ground and the other to the chin. Said also of a horse which falls down with one leg bent, and the other stuck out in front. (Jav. Bat. Děkok, to sleep).

Ngaděmpěs, crouching down, as if hiding oneself.

Ngadéngi, to hear, to listen to. Ulah sok ngadéng'i ka jélĕma burung, d'ont be always listening to foolish people. (Mal. Děngar, to hear. Jav. Děngěr, Déngěr, to understand. Kw. Děngěr, to hear).

Ngaděpa, lying down as a beast; sleeping on the ground. Unchal kapanggih eukeur ngadepa, we came upon the deer whilst lying on the ground.

Ngaděuhěusan, to approach, to draw near to; a refined expression. Ngaděuhěusan ka nu gědé, to approach great men, to seek an interview with men in authority.

Ngaděulěuh, to see, to view, to behold. Kudu ngaděulěuh ka kulon, you must look towards the west. (Cf. Jav. Kw. Dulu. Kawi of inscriptions, Dělě, Bat. Dělok).

Ngaděupa, a superstitious ceremony performed at some Kramat or old graves. A man takes a stick, by preference cut from the Sulangkar, and measures with it his fathom, Děupa, which is then cut off. Such sticks are laid upon the Kramat, and if, after saying a prayer, they are found to be a little longer, the prayer will be granted.

Ngadiyĕukan, to be seated on; to cause to appear in anything which is growing. Ngadiukan manéh, to go and sit oneself down with a request, and refusing to leave till granted. Said of persons who thus go and request a daughter in marriage etc.


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/338

Rh transformed it into Nurjaya. Nri is the most simple form of Nara, man, in Sanscrit, as there is Nripati for Narapati, lord of men.

Narapati, Clough 311, from Nara , a man, and Pati, a lord , a king, a sovereign. Nra Clough 344, a man, individually or collectively, mankind. Narapati, Clough 344, one of the names of Kuvera, the Indian god of riches; a king, a sovereign. On the Gunung Nurjaya exists, cut upon a rock in situ, the mark of a man's foot, which may perhaps help to show that the Nur applies to Nara, a man. Nurjaya will then mean „the triumphant man." (This might be also a sign of Buddhism formerly prevailing. Fr.)

Nusa, an island. This appellation is given to many small islands throughout the Eastern Archipelago and may probably be of Sanscrit origin, as it is similar to the Greek Nesos , an island. The word rarely occurs in the Sunda, but is still heard in old accounts of the first arrival of Europeans , who are said to have come to Nusa Kalapa, or the islands at the mouth of the Tangerang River, or the Chisidani. (See Sunda Kalapa, also Kambangan for Nusakambangan . Nusa Antara, the ancient name of the island of Madura.See Raffles vol.2.page 92. Antara, C. 33 , within , between , amongst , also without , outside — and may have been called so from either dividing the Java sea , at the east end of Java , or from lying outside of the main land of Java. Antaraya, C. 33, an obstacle, an impediment, Antaripa, C. 33, an island.

Nutu, to beat or pound out rice from the straw in the village rice blocks.

Nuturkĕn, to follow, to track , to chase.

Nuwa, see Nua.

Nya, yes , indeed , verily , it is true. Is it true ? Nya tah sia maling kotok ? Is it true you stole the fowls? Nya bai gĕus undur, indeed he has gone away.

Nya- ah feeling affection for, having compassion for. Regret to make use of— or destroy. Compunction. Budak sok nya — ah ka indung na ya child has affection for its mother. Nya-ah amat ka nu di gĕbugan, to feel great compassion for those who are flogged. Naun, to nya-ah ka banda batur, what have no regret , (or compunction) in destroying another , man's property. To nja-ah ka kuda, he has no compassion for his horse.

Nyabrang, to go across a river or any piece of water. Hayang nyabrang, I want to go across the river. Nyabrang lautan, to cross the seas.

Nyabur, to splash or swim in water.

Nyachag, to chop or cut up to hack, to cut with a weapon.

Nyachas, clear, defined , distinctly related , intelligible. Jélĕma éta nyachas amat, that man tells an intelligible story.

Nyadap, to tap palm trees , especially the kawung palm in order to extract the toddy , and from it to boil down the sugar ; to make jagory sugar from palm wine.

Nyadak, It can't be true! you joke! impossible! you don't say so! to talk at random; to talk vauntingly.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text: Studies of a Biographer/Pascal

title: Studies of a Biographer/Pascal


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/544

Rh dustry of the common people, or what they get by their labour. Such labour itself. Ussaha, C. 83, labour, exertion, diligence.

Usali, Arabic, about to pray. Having the intention to pray. The commencement of a formulary of prayer.

Usap, to rub, to wipe. To polish with the hand. To push the hand along anything as if rubbing. To stroke down.

Usĕp, a fish-hook. To fish with a hook and line.

Usik, to move, to stir. Ulah ngusik, don't move. Teu bisa ngusik, I cannot move.

Usir, to chase away. To put outside. To turn out, to dislodge man or beast from any position. To unceremoniously turn a man or beast from any place, as a house, a village, or out of any employment.

Ustu, obeying, subjected to. Also sometimes heard as Estu.

Usuk, a rafter in the roof of a house, when made of wood and not bambu, which would be called Layĕs.

Usum, season, period of year. Probably a corruption of Musim, which see.

Usung, to carry on the head. To carry anything in a basket or bag placed on the head. Said of the act of an animal which puts its head under anything to toss it up. Anjingna di usung ku kĕbo, the buffaloe tossed the dog in the air. Usung seems to have a common origin with the first part of the Singhalese verb Ussanawa, C. 83, to lift up, to raise, to elevate, or Osawanawa, C. 91, to raise, to lift up, to elevate, from the adjective Us or Usa, C. 83, high, elevated, and which will be the same etymon as Hausser, to elevate, in French.

Usung-asung, a small variety of Ajag, Canis rutilans. They go about in packs, and hunt small animals which they attack and master by their numbers. They are less troublesome than the Ajag, and like it are of a brown colour, and have bushy tails. The word is evidently derived from the Javanese Asu, a dog. Suna, C. 748, a dog,from Su, to hear.

Usur, the one tenth of the property left by a deceased person, which falls to the priest for his trouble and assistance in enforcing the Mahomedan law in its distribution.

Usur, to bribe, to give a douceur. Di usur manan daik jadi, it was necessary to bribe him before it could bo done.

Usuran, a bribe, a douceur.

Usus, the guts, the entrails, the intestines.

Usut, to rub the nose, as a dog upon the grass when tracking game, or a lover against the face of his beloved. To scent out. To get information by prying slyly.

Utah, to vomit, to throw up, whatever is vomited. Utah anjing, a dog's vomit.

Utahkĕn, to vomit, to throw up from the stomach. To disgorge, to give back anything unlawfully obtained. The Malay word is Muntah, which is the Sunda Utah with the prefixed verbal particle ma.

Utama, excellent, in perfection, best, perfect. All done that can be done. Utama hadé,


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/339

318 Nyah-nyah-nyoh-nyoh, pouting the mouth out like a monkey.

Nyaho, to know. To nyaho. I do not know. Saha nu nyaho, who knows. Nyaho bai ari daik pěupěuli, he knows well enough if he will tell. Nya, C. 215 wisdom, knowledge. (Nya in Clough is from Sct. jnyá, to know, which is known in Kawi. Fr.)

Nyai, an epithet for a married native woman corresponding with our Mrs. Nyai Děmang, the Demang's wife, Mrs. Demang. This designation of Nyai is always given to native (Javanese not Chinese) women who cohabit with Europeans. A mistress.

Nyai Stomi, one of the Pusaka or heirloomguns of Java, still preserved in a Paséban on the alun-alun of the Kraton of Solo , and honored with much respect. Stomi is probably Sthama, (C. 775), strength, power, become Sthami, or feminine, to correspond with Nyai or mistress. Sthami is made Sthomi according to the peculiarity of the Javanese language which changes the a into o. Nyai Sthomi, is thus the "powerful mistress". The other two heirloomguns of Java were Si amuk and Guntur gěni, belonging to Cheribon and Bantam, but whether they still exist, enquiry has failed to show. (Stomi seems to be no native or Hindu word.)

Nyaiěr, to take fish with a basket; especially when the rivers are flooded, when the fish can be caught in a basket by dipping it in turbid spots near the edge, where the current is slack. This is much done by women.

Nyaiěr, a shrill, loud voice or sound heard at a distance. Said of the neighing of a horse.

Nyalahan, mistaken, something done by mistake or error. Derived from salah, wrong.

Nyalédat, sloped off. Cut slopingly. To fall or slip down an inclined plain.

Nyaliksik, to scratch oneself among the hair for lice; to scratch the head for whatever of filth may be found there. This is done by oneself; when done by another it is - disaliksikan.

Nyaliktik, to seek, to peep or look after.

Nyalindung, to conceal, to hide oneself, Lina. C. 608, hidden, concealed. Nyalindung di pipir imah, to conceal oneself at the side of the house. Nyalindung dijěro rujuk, hidden among the bushes. (Lina in Sct. has a very different meaning, from that given by CI., and lindung can not be derived from Lina. But we have lindung, shelter, shade, hiding-place; Mal. Batav. Fr.)

Nyalisib, to hit on the edge and glance off; to graze. Pélor na nyalisib kana kai, the ball hit and glanced of the tree.

Nyambut, to take in hand. To perform any work. Nyambut sawah, to work a sawah, Nyambut pagawéan nyusuk, to take in hand the work of canal cutting. (Jav. idem)

Nyampak, to meet, to encounter, to find on arriving. Nyampak di lěuwěung, to meet in the forest. Kula datang gěus teu nyampakan, when I came I saw or found nothing of it.

Nyampal, to graze as cattle. To crop grass as a ruminant animal. Nyampal Badak, literally the rhinoceros grazing — the evening star.


text:
User:11th heaven

Jaya Wijaya, Tangerang

title: User:11th heaven


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/115

the skill of the physicians at the lake sanitarium Mr. Duncan's wound was quickly attended to and the bleeding, which Tom had partly checked, was completely stopped. Some medicines having been administered, the hunter regained a little of his strength, and, about an hour after he had been brought to the resort, he was able to see Tom, who, at his request, was admitted to his room. The young inventor found Mr. Duncan propped up in bed, with his injured arm bandaged.

"Is the injury a bad one?" asked Tom, entering softly.

"Not as bad as I feared," replied the hunter, while a trained nurse placed a chair for the lad at the bedside. "If it had not been for you, though, I'm afraid to think of what might have happened."

"I am glad I chanced to be going past when you called," replied the lad.


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/116

104 "Well, you can imagine how thankful I am," resumed Mr. Duncan. "I'll thank you more properly at another time. I hope I didn't delay you on your trip."

"It's not of much consequence," responded the youth. "I was only going to see that everything was all right at our house," and he explained about his father being at the hotel and mentioned his worriment. "I will go on now unless I can do something more for you," resumed Tom. "I will probably stay at our house all night to-night instead of trying to get back to Sandport."

"I'd like to send word to my wife about what has happened," said the hunter. "If it would not be too much out of your way, I'd appreciate it if you could stop at my home in Waterford and tell her, so she will not be alarmed at my absence."

"I'll do it," replied our hero. "There is no special need of my hurrying. I have brought your gun and compass up from the boat. They are down in the office."

"Will you do me a favor?" asked Mr. Duncan quickly.

"Of course."

"Then please accept that gun and compass with my compliments. They are both of excellent make, and I don't think I shall use that gun this season. My wife would be superstitious about


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/117

Rh it. As for the compass, you'll need one in this fog, and I can recommend mine as being accurate."

"Oh, I couldn't think of taking them," expostulated Tom, but his eyes sparkled in anticipation, for he had been wishing for a gun such as Mr. Duncan owned. He also needed a compass.

"If you don't take them I shall feel very much offended," the hunter said, "and the nurse here will tell you that sick persons ought to be humored. Hadn't they?" and he appealed to the pretty young woman, who was smiling at Tom.

"That's perfectly true," she said, showing her white, even teeth. "I think, Mr. Swift, I shall have to order you to take them."

"All right," agreed Tom, "only it's too much for what I did."

"It isn't half enough," remarked Mr. Duncan solemnly. "Just explain matters to my wife, if you will, and tell her the doctor says I can be out in about a week. But I'm not going hunting or practicing shots again."

A little later Tom, with the compass before him to guide him on his course through the fog, was speeding his boat toward Waterford. Now and then he glanced at the fine shotgun which he had so unexpectedly acquired.

"This will come in dandy this fall!" he


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/118

106. "I'll go hunting quail and partridge as well as wild ducks. This compass is just what I need, too."

Mrs. Duncan was at first very much alarmed when Tom started to tell her of the accident, but she soon calmed down as the lad went more into details and stated how comparatively out of danger her husband now was. The hunter's wife insisted that Tom remain to dinner, and as he had made up his mind he would have to devote two days instead of one to the trip to his house, he consented.

The fog lifted that afternoon, and Tom, rejoicing in the sunlight, which drove away the storm clouds, speeded up the Arrow until she was skimming over the lake like a shaft from a bow.

"This is something like," he exclaimed. "I'll soon be at home, find everything all right and telephone to dad. Then I'll sleep in my own room and start back in the morning."

When Tom was within a few miles of his own boathouse he heard behind him the "put-put" of a motor craft. Turning, he saw the Red Streak fairly flying along at some distance from him.

"Andy certainly is getting the speed out of her now," he remarked. "He'd beat me if we were racing, but the trouble with his boat and engine is that he can't always depend on it. I guess he


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/119

Rh doesn't understand how to run it. I wonder if he'll offer to race now?"

But the red-haired owner of the auto boat evidently did not intend to offer Tom a race. The Red Streak went on down the lake, passing the Arrow about half a mile away. Then the young inventor saw that Andy had two other lads in the boat with him.

"Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey, I guess," he murmured. "Well, they're a trio pretty much alike. The farther off they are the better I like it."

Tom once more gave his attention to his own boat. He was going at a fair speed, but not the limit, and he counted on reaching home in about a half hour. Suddenly, when he was just congratulating himself on the smooth-running qualities of his motor, which had not missed an explosion, the machinery stopped.

"Hello!" exclaimed the young inventor in some alarm. "What's up now?"

He quickly shut off the gasoline and went back to the motor. Now there are so many things that may happen to a gasoline engine that it would be difficult to name them all offhand, and Tom, who had not had very much experience, was at a loss to find what had stopped his machinery. He tried the spark and found that by touching the wire to the top of the cylinder, when the proper


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/120

108 was made, that he had a hot, "fat one." The compression seemed all right and the supply pipe from the gasoline tank was in perfect order. Still the motor would not go. No explosion resulted when he turned the fly-wheel over, not even when he primed the cylinder by putting a little gasoline in through the cocks on the cylinder heads.

"That's funny," he remarked to himself as he rested from his labors and contemplated the "dead" motor. "First time it has gone back on me." The boat was drifting down the lake, and, at the sound of another motor craft approaching, Tom looked up. He saw the Red Streak, containing Andy Foger and his cronies. They had observed the young inventor's plight.

"Want a tow?" sneered Andy.

"What'll you take for your second-hand boat that won't run?" asked Pete Bailey.

"Better get out of the way or you might be run down," added Sam Snedecker.

Tom was too angry and chagrined to reply, and the Red Streak swept on.

"I'll make her go, if it takes all night!" declared Tom energetically. Once more he tried to start the motor. It coughed and sighed, as if in protest, but would not explode. Then Tom cried: "The spark plug! That's where the trouble is, I'll wager. Why didn't I think of it before?"


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/121

Rh It was the work of but a minute to unscrew the spark plugs from the tops of the cylinders. He found that both had such accumulations of carbon on them that no spark could ever have reached the mixture of gasoline and air.

"I'll put new ones in," he decided, for he carried a few spare plugs for emergencies. Inside of five minutes, with the new plugs in place, the motor was running better than before.

"Now for home!" cried Tom, "and if I meet Andy Foger I'll race him this time."

But the Red Streak was not in sight, and, a little later, Tom had run the Arrow into the boathouse, locked the door and was on his way up to the mansion.

"I suppose Mrs. Baggert and Garret will be surprised to see me," he remarked. "Maybe they'll think we don't trust them, by coming back in this fashion to see that everything is safe. But then, I suppose, dad is naturally nervous about some of his valuable machinery and inventions. I think I'll find everything all right, though."

As Tom went up the main path and swung off to a side one, which was a short cut to the house, he saw in the dusk, for it was now early evening, a movement in the bushes that lined the walk.

"Hello, Garret!" exclaimed the lad, taking it


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/122

110 for granted it was the engineer employed by Mr. Swift.

There was no reply, and Tom, with a sudden suspicion, sprang toward the bushes. The shrubbery was more violently agitated and, as the lad reached the screen of foliage, he saw a man spring up from the ground and take to his heels.

"Here! Who are you? What do you want?" yelled Tom.

Hardly had he spoken when from behind a big apple tree another man sprung. It was light enough so that the lad could see his face, and a glimpse of it caused him to cry out:

"Happy Harry, the tramp!"

Before he could call again the two men had disappeared.


text: Tom Swift and His Motor-Boat/Chapter 12

title: Tom Swift and His Motor-Boat/Chapter 12


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/67

Rh CHAPTER III.

was crushed beneath the weight of ornaments! The language of the vulgar is a sort of Tarpeia! We have therefore relieved it of as many gems as we were able; and, in the foregoing scene, presented it to the gaze of our readers, simplex munditiis. Nevertheless, we could timidly imagine some gentler beings of the softer sex rather displeased with the tone of the dialogue we have given, did we not recollect how delighted

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/67


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/68

38 they are with the provincial barbarities of the sister kingdom, whenever they meet them poured over the pages of some Scottish story-teller. As, unhappily for mankind, broad Scotch is not yet the universal language of Europe, we suppose our countrywomen will not be much more unacquainted with the dialect of their own lower orders, than with that which breathes nasal melodies over the paradise of the North.

It was the next day, at the hour of twilight, when Mrs. Margery Lobkins, after a satisfactory tête-à-tête with Mr. Mac Grawler, had the happiness of thinking that she had provided a tutor for little Paul. The critic having recited to her a considerable portion of Propria quæ Maribus, the good lady had no longer a doubt of his capacities for teaching; and, on the other hand, when Mrs. Lobkins entered on the subject of remuneration, the Scotsman professed himself perfectly willing to teach any and every thing that the most exacting guardian could require. It was finally settled that Paul should attend Mr. Mac Grawler two hours a-day; that Mr. Mac Grawler should be entitled to such

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/68


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/69

Rh animal comforts of meat and drink, as the Mug afforded; and, moreover, to the weekly stipend of two shillings and sixpence,—the shillings for instruction in the classics, and the sixpence for all other humanities; or, as Mrs. Lobkins expressed it, "two bobs for the Latin, and a sice for the vartue!"

Let not thy mind, gentle reader, censure us for a deviation from probability, in making so excellent and learned a gentleman as Mr. Peter Mac Grawler the familiar guest of the lady of the Mug.—First, thou must know that our story is cast in a period antecedent to the present, and one in which the old jokes against the circumstances of author and of critic had their foundation in truth;—secondly, thou must know, that by some curious concatenation of circumstances, neither bailiff nor bailiff's man was ever seen within the four walls continent of Mrs. Margery Lobkins;—thirdly, the Mug was nearer than any other house of public resort to the abode of the critic;—fourthly, it afforded excellent porter;—and fifthly,—O reader, thou dost Mrs. Margery Lobkins a grievous wrong, if thou supposest that her door was only

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/69


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/70

40 open to those mercurial gentry who are afflicted with the morbid curiosity to pry into the mysteries of their neighbours' pockets,—other visitors of fair repute were not unoften partakers of the good matron's hospitality; although it must be owned that they generally occupied the private room in preference to the public one. And sixthly, sweet reader, (we grieve to be so prolix,) we would just hint to thee, that Mr. Mac Grawler was one of those vast-minded sages who, occupied in contemplating morals in the great scale, do not fritter down their intellects by a base attention to minute details. So that, if a descendant of Langfanger did sometimes cross the venerable Scot in his visit to the Mug, the apparition did not revolt that benevolent moralist so much as, were it not for the above hint, thy ignorance might lead thee to imagine.

It is said, that Athenodorus the Stoic contributed greatly by his conversation to amend the faults of Augustus, and to effect the change visible in that fortunate man, after his accession to the Roman empire. If this be true, it may throw a new

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/70


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/71

Rh light on the character of Augustus, and, instead of being the hypocrite, he was possibly the convert. Certain it is, that there are few vices which cannot be conquered by wisdom: and yet, melancholy to relate, the instructions of Peter Mac Grawler produced but slender amelioration in the habits of the youthful Paul. That ingenious stripling had, we have already seen, under the tuition of Ranting Rob, mastered the art of reading; nay, he could even construct and link together certain curious pot-hooks, which himself and Mrs. Lobkins were wont graciously to term "writing." So far, then, the way of Mac Grawler was smoothed and prepared.

But, unhappily, all experienced teachers allow that the main difficulty is not to learn, but to unlearn; and the mind of Paul was already occupied by a vast number of heterogeneous miscellanies, which stoutly resisted the ingress either of Latin or of virtue. Nothing could wean him from an ominous affection for the history of Richard Turpin: it was to him what, it has been said, the Greek authors should be to the

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/71


text:
The Gold Bat/Chapter 21

“What do you think of that?” said Clowes.

Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It was not only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that it was Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat. Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never have dreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very close friends—Trevor’s keenness for games and Ruthven’s dislike of them prevented that—but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was so constituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required for such an action as Ruthven’s. It was something absolutely abnormal.

Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not so much the enormity of Ruthven’s proceedings that took him aback. He believed him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type of mind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact that Ruthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaign of this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought the limit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kind would not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that it was just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven should blossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in this way, was a complete surprise.

“Well, perhaps you’ll make a remark?” he said, turning to Ruthven.

Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer who has just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting him unpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. He sat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, as silent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was going to be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.

Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.

“It seems to me, Ruthven,” he said, “that you’d better say something. At present there’s a lot that wants explaining. As this bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take it that you’re the impolite letter-writer?”

Ruthven found his voice at last.

“I’m not,” he cried; “I never wrote a line.”

“Now we’re getting at it,” said Clowes. “I thought you couldn’t have had it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparently you’ve only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose it was you who ragged Trevor’s study? Not much sleeping about that. You took over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect. Was it you who ragged the study?”

Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.

“Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you’re spoken to. Was it you who ragged Trevor’s study?”

“Yes,” said Ruthven.

“Thought so.”

“Why, of course, I met you just outside,” said Trevor, speaking for the first time. “You were the chap who told me what had happened.”

Ruthven said nothing.

“The ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work he did,” remarked Clowes.

“No,” said Trevor, “he posted the letters, whether he wrote them or not. Milton was telling me—you remember? I told you. No, I didn’t. Milton found out that the letters were posted by a small, light-haired fellow.”

“That’s him,” said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks of Rheims, pointing with the poker at Ruthven’s immaculate locks. “Well, you ragged the study and posted the letters. That was all your share. Am I right in thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?”

Silence from Ruthven.

“Am I?” persisted Clowes.

“You may think what you like. I don’t care.”

“Now we’re getting rude again,” complained Clowes. “Was Rand-Brown in this?”

“Yes,” said Ruthven.

“Thought so. And who else?”

“No one.”

“Try again.”

“I tell you there was no one else. Can’t you believe a word a chap says?”

“A word here and there, perhaps,” said Clowes, as one making a concession, “but not many, and this isn’t one of them. Have another shot.”

Ruthven relapsed into silence.

“All right, then,” said Clowes, “we’ll accept that statement. There’s just a chance that it may be true. And that’s about all, I think. This isn’t my affair at all, really. It’s yours, Trevor. I’m only a spectator and camp-follower. It’s your business. You’ll find me in my study.” And putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left the room. He went into his study, and tried to begin some work. But the beauties of the second book of Thucydides failed to appeal to him. His mind was elsewhere. He felt too excited with what had just happened to translate Greek. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire, and gave himself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in the neighbouring study. He was glad he had left him to finish the business. If he had been in Trevor’s place, there was nothing he would so greatly have disliked as to have someone—however familiar a friend—interfering in his wars and settling them for him. Left to himself, Clowes would probably have ended the interview by kicking Ruthven into the nearest approach to pulp compatible with the laws relating to manslaughter. He had an uneasy suspicion that Trevor would let him down far too easily.

The handle turned. Trevor came in, and pulled up another chair in silence. His face wore a look of disgust. But there were no signs of combat upon him. The toe of his boot was not worn and battered, as Clowes would have liked to have seen it. Evidently he had not chosen to adopt active and physical measures for the improvement of Ruthven’s moral well-being.

“Well?” said Clowes.

“My word, what a hound!” breathed Trevor, half to himself.

“My sentiments to a hair,” said Clowes, approvingly. “But what have you done?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t. Did he give any explanation? What made him go in for the thing at all? What earthly motive could he have for not wanting Barry to get his colours, bar the fact that Rand-Brown didn’t want him to? And why should he do what Rand-Brown told him? I never even knew they were pals, before today.”

“He told me a good deal,” said Trevor. “It’s one of the beastliest things I ever heard. They neither of them come particularly well out of the business, but Rand-Brown comes worse out of it even than Ruthven. My word, that man wants killing.”

“That’ll keep,” said Clowes, nodding. “What’s the yarn?”

“Do you remember about a year ago a chap named Patterson getting sacked?”

Clowes nodded again. He remembered the case well. Patterson had had gambling transactions with a Wrykyn tradesman, had been found out, and had gone.

“You remember what a surprise it was to everybody. It wasn’t one of those cases where half the school suspects what’s going on. Those cases always come out sooner or later. But Patterson nobody knew about.”

“Yes. Well?”

“Nobody,” said Trevor, “except Ruthven, that is. Ruthven got to know somehow. I believe he was a bit of a pal of Patterson’s at the time. Anyhow,—they had a row, and Ruthven went to Dexter—Patterson was in Dexter’s—and sneaked. Dexter promised to keep his name out of the business, and went straight to the Old Man, and Patterson got turfed out on the spot. Then somehow or other Rand-Brown got to know about it—I believe Ruthven must have told him by accident some time or other. After that he simply had to do everything Rand-Brown wanted him to. Otherwise he said that he would tell the chaps about the Patterson affair. That put Ruthven in a dead funk.”

“Of course,” said Clowes; “I should imagine friend Ruthven would have got rather a bad time of it. But what made them think of starting the League? It was a jolly smart idea. Rand-Brown’s, of course?”

“Yes. I suppose he’d heard about it, and thought something might be made out of it if it were revived.”

“And were Ruthven and he the only two in it?”

“Ruthven swears they were, and I shouldn’t wonder if he wasn’t telling the truth, for once in his life. You see, everything the League’s done so far could have been done by him and Rand-Brown, without anybody else’s help. The only other studies that were ragged were Mill’s and Milton’s—both in Seymour’s.

“Yes,” said Clowes.

There was a pause. Clowes put another shovelful of coal on the fire.

“What are you going to do to Ruthven?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Hang it, he doesn’t deserve to get off like that. He isn’t as bad as Rand-Brown—quite—but he’s pretty nearly as finished a little beast as you could find.”

“Finished is just the word,” said Trevor. “He’s going at the end of the week.”

“Going? What! sacked?”

“Yes. The Old Man’s been finding out things about him, apparently, and this smoking row has just added the finishing-touch to his discoveries. He’s particularly keen against smoking just now for some reason.”

“But was Ruthven in it?”

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you? He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in the vault. There were two in this house, you remember?”

“Who was the other?”

“That man Dashwood. Has the study next to Paget’s old one. He’s going, too.”

“Scarcely knew him. What sort of a chap was he?”

“Outsider. No good to the house in any way. He won’t be missed.”

“And what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?”

“Fight him, of course. What else could I do?”

“But you’re no match for him.”

“We’ll see.”

“But you aren’t,” persisted Clowes. “He can give you a stone easily, and he’s not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn’t beat him so very cheaply in the middle-weight this year. You wouldn’t have a chance.”

Trevor flared up.

“Heavens, man,” he cried, “do you think I don’t know all that myself? But what on earth would you have me do? Besides, he may be a good boxer, but he’s got no pluck at all. I might outstay him.”

“Hope so,” said Clowes.

But his tone was not hopeful.

title: The Gold Bat/Chapter 21


text:
The Gold Bat/Chapter 22

Some people in Trevor’s place might have taken the earliest opportunity of confronting Rand-Brown, so as to settle the matter in hand without delay. Trevor thought of doing this, but finally decided to let the matter rest for a day, until he should have found out with some accuracy what chance he stood.

After four o’clock, therefore, on the next day, having had tea in his study, he went across to the baths, in search of O’Hara. He intended that before the evening was over the Irishman should have imparted to him some of his skill with the hands. He did not know that for a man absolutely unscientific with his fists there is nothing so fatal as to take a boxing lesson on the eve of battle. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. He is apt to lose his recklessness—which might have stood by him well—in exchange for a little quite useless science. He is neither one thing nor the other, neither a natural fighter nor a skilful boxer.

This point O’Hara endeavoured to press upon him as soon as he had explained why it was that he wanted coaching on this particular afternoon.

The Irishman was in the gymnasium, punching the ball, when Trevor found him. He generally put in a quarter of an hour with the punching-ball every evening, before Moriarty turned up for the customary six rounds.

“Want me to teach ye a few tricks?” he said. “What’s that for?”

“I’ve got a mill coming on soon,” explained Trevor, trying to make the statement as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a school prefect, who was also captain of football, head of a house, and in the cricket eleven, to be engaged for a fight in the near future.

“Mill!” exclaimed O’Hara. “You! An’ why?”

“Never mind why,” said Trevor. “I’ll tell you afterwards, perhaps. Shall I put on the gloves now?”

“Wait,” said O’Hara, “I must do my quarter of an hour with the ball before I begin teaching other people how to box. Have ye a watch?”

“Yes.”

“Then time me. I’ll do four rounds of three minutes each, with a minute’s rest in between. That’s more than I’ll do at Aldershot, but it’ll get me fit. Ready?”

“Time,” said Trevor.

He watched O’Hara assailing the swinging ball with considerable envy. Why, he wondered, had he not gone in for boxing? Everybody ought to learn to box. It was bound to come in useful some time or other. Take his own case. He was very much afraid—no, afraid was not the right word, for he was not that. He was very much of opinion that Rand-Brown was going to have a most enjoyable time when they met. And the final house-match was to be played next Monday. If events turned out as he could not help feeling they were likely to turn out, he would be too battered to play in that match. Donaldson’s would probably win whether he played or not, but it would be bitter to be laid up on such an occasion. On the other hand, he must go through with it. He did not believe in letting other people take a hand in settling his private quarrels.

But he wished he had learned to box. If only he could hit that dancing, jumping ball with a fifth of the skill that O’Hara was displaying, his wiriness and pluck might see him through. O’Hara finished his fourth round with his leathern opponent, and sat down, panting.

“Pretty useful, that,” commented Trevor, admiringly.

“Ye should see Moriarty,” gasped O’Hara.

“Now, will ye tell me why it is you’re going to fight, and with whom you’re going to fight?”

“Very well. It’s with Rand-Brown.”

“Rand-Brown!” exclaimed O’Hara. “But, me dearr man, he’ll ate you.”

Trevor gave a rather annoyed laugh. “I must say I’ve got a nice, cheery, comforting lot of friends,” he said. “That’s just what Clowes has been trying to explain to me.”

“Clowes is quite right,” said O’Hara, seriously. “Has the thing gone too far for ye to back out? Without climbing down, of course,” he added.

“Yes,” said Trevor, “there’s no question of my getting out of it. I daresay I could. In fact, I know I could. But I’m not going to.”

“But, me dearr man, ye haven’t an earthly chance. I assure ye ye haven’t. I’ve seen Rand-Brown with the gloves on. That was last term. He’s not put them on since Moriarty bate him in the middles, so he may be out of practice. But even then he’d be a bad man to tackle. He’s big an’ he’s strong, an’ if he’d only had the heart in him he’d have been going up to Aldershot instead of Moriarty. That’s what he’d be doing. An’ you can’t box at all. Never even had the gloves on.”

“Never. I used to scrap when I was a kid, though.”

“That’s no use,” said O’Hara, decidedly. “But you haven’t said what it is that ye’ve got against Rand-Brown. What is it?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. You’re in it as well. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the bat turning up, you’d have been considerably more in it than I am.”

“What!” cried O’Hara. “Where did you find it? Was it in the grounds? When was it you found it?”

Whereupon Trevor gave him a very full and exact account of what had happened. He showed him the two letters from the League, touched on Milton’s connection with the affair, traced the gradual development of his suspicions, and described with some approach to excitement the scene in Ruthven’s study, and the explanations that had followed it.

“Now do you wonder,” he concluded, “that I feel as if a few rounds with Rand-Brown would do me good.”

O’Hara breathed hard.

“My word!” he said, “I’d like to see ye kill him.”

“But,” said Trevor, “as you and Clowes have been pointing out to me, if there’s going to be a corpse, it’ll be me. However, I mean to try. Now perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me a few tricks.”

“Take my advice,” said O’Hara, “and don’t try any of that foolery.”

“Why, I thought you were such a believer in science,” said Trevor in surprise.

“So I am, if you’ve enough of it. But it’s the worst thing ye can do to learn a trick or two just before a fight, if you don’t know anything about the game already. A tough, rushing fighter is ten times as good as a man who’s just begun to learn what he oughtn’t to do.”

“Well, what do you advise me to do, then?” asked Trevor, impressed by the unwonted earnestness with which the Irishman delivered this pugilistic homily, which was a paraphrase of the views dinned into the ears of every novice by the school instructor.

“I must do something.”

“The best thing ye can do,” said O’Hara, thinking for a moment, “is to put on the gloves and have a round or two with me. Here’s Moriarty at last. We’ll get him to time us.”

As much explanation as was thought good for him having been given to the newcomer, to account for Trevor’s newly-acquired taste for things pugilistic, Moriarty took the watch, with instructions to give them two minutes for the first round.

“Go as hard as you can,” said O’Hara to Trevor, as they faced one another, “and hit as hard as you like. It won’t be any practice if you don’t. I sha’n’t mind being hit. It’ll do me good for Aldershot. See?”

Trevor said he saw.

“Time,” said Moriarty.

Trevor went in with a will. He was a little shy at first of putting all his weight into his blows. It was hard to forget that he felt friendly towards O’Hara. But he speedily awoke to the fact that the Irishman took his boxing very seriously, and was quite a different person when he had the gloves on. When he was so equipped, the man opposite him ceased to be either friend or foe in a private way. He was simply an opponent, and every time he hit him was one point. And, when he entered the ring, his only object in life for the next three minutes was to score points. Consequently Trevor, sparring lightly and in rather a futile manner at first, was woken up by a stinging flush hit between the eyes. After that he, too, forgot that he liked the man before him, and rushed him in all directions. There was no doubt as to who would have won if it had been a competition. Trevor’s guard was of the most rudimentary order, and O’Hara got through when and how he liked. But though he took a good deal, he also gave a good deal, and O’Hara confessed himself not altogether sorry when Moriarty called “Time”.

“Man,” he said regretfully, “why ever did ye not take up boxing before? Ye’d have made a splendid middle-weight.”

“Well, have I a chance, do you think?” inquired Trevor.

“Ye might do it with luck,” said O’Hara, very doubtfully. “But,” he added, “I’m afraid ye’ve not much chance.”

And with this poor encouragement from his trainer and sparring-partner, Trevor was forced to be content.

title: The Gold Bat/Chapter 22


text:
The Gold Bat/Chapter 23

The health of Master Harvey of Seymour’s was so delicately constituted that it was an absolute necessity that he should consume one or more hot buns during the quarter of an hour’s interval which split up morning school. He was tearing across the junior gravel towards the shop on the morning following Trevor’s sparring practice with O’Hara, when a melodious treble voice called his name. It was Renford. He stopped, to allow his friend to come up with him, and then made as if to resume his way to the shop. But Renford proposed an amendment. “Don’t go to the shop,” he said, “I want to talk.”

“Well, can’t you talk in the shop?”

“Not what I want to tell you. It’s private. Come for a stroll.”

Harvey hesitated. There were few things he enjoyed so much as exclusive items of school gossip (scandal preferably), but hot new buns were among those few things. However, he decided on this occasion to feed the mind at the expense of the body. He accepted Renford’s invitation.

“What is it?” he asked, as they made for the football field. “What’s been happening?”

“It’s frightfully exciting,” said Renford.

“What’s up?”

“You mustn’t tell any one.”

“All right. Of course not.”

“Well, then, there’s been a big fight, and I’m one of the only chaps who know about it so far.”

“A fight?” Harvey became excited. “Who between?”

Renford paused before delivering his news, to emphasise the importance of it.

“It was between O’Hara and Rand-Brown,” he said at length.

“By Jove!” said Harvey. Then a suspicion crept into his mind.

“Look here, Renford,” he said, “if you’re trying to green me—”

“I’m not, you ass,” replied Renford indignantly. “It’s perfectly true. I saw it myself.”

“By Jove, did you really? Where was it? When did it come off? Was it a good one? Who won?”

“It was the best one I’ve ever seen.”

“Did O’Hara beat him? I hope he did. O’Hara’s a jolly good sort.”

“Yes. They had six rounds. Rand-Brown got knocked out in the middle of the sixth.”

“What, do you mean really knocked out, or did he just chuck it?”

“No. He was really knocked out. He was on the floor for quite a time. By Jove, you should have seen it. O’Hara was ripping in the sixth round. He was all over him.”

“Tell us about it,” said Harvey, and Renford told.

“I’d got up early,” he said, “to feed the ferrets, and I was just cutting over to the fives-courts with their grub, when, just as I got across the senior gravel, I saw O’Hara and Moriarty standing waiting near the second court. O’Hara knows all about the ferrets, so I didn’t try and cut or anything. I went up and began talking to him. I noticed he didn’t look particularly keen on seeing me at first. I asked him if he was going to play fives. Then he said no, and told me what he’d really come for. He said he and Rand-Brown had had a row, and they’d agreed to have it out that morning in one of the fives-courts. Of course, when I heard that, I was all on to see it, so I said I’d wait, if he didn’t mind. He said he didn’t care, so long as I didn’t tell everybody, so I said I wouldn’t tell anybody except you, so he said all right, then, I could stop if I wanted to. So that was how I saw it. Well, after we’d been waiting a few minutes, Rand-Brown came in sight, with that beast Merrett in our house, who’d come to second him. It was just like one of those duels you read about, you know. Then O’Hara said that as I was the only one there with a watch—he and Rand-Brown were in footer clothes, and Merrett and Moriarty hadn’t got their tickers on them—I’d better act as timekeeper. So I said all right, I would, and we went to the second fives-court. It’s the biggest of them, you know. I stood outside on the bench, looking through the wire netting over the door, so as not to be in the way when they started scrapping. O’Hara and Rand-Brown took off their blazers and sweaters, and chucked them to Moriarty and Merrett, and then Moriarty and Merrett went and stood in two corners, and O’Hara and Rand-Brown walked into the middle and stood up to one another. Rand-Brown was miles the heaviest—by a stone, I should think—and he was taller and had a longer reach. But O’Hara looked much fitter. Rand-Brown looked rather flabby.

“I sang out ‘Time’ through the wire netting, and they started off at once. O’Hara offered to shake hands, but Rand-Brown wouldn’t. So they began without it.

“The first round was awfully fast. They kept having long rallies all over the place. O’Hara was a jolly sight quicker, and Rand-Brown didn’t seem able to guard his hits at all. But he hit frightfully hard himself, great, heavy slogs, and O’Hara kept getting them in the face. At last he got one bang in the mouth which knocked him down flat. He was up again in a second, and was starting to rush, when I looked at the watch, and found that I’d given them nearly half a minute too much already. So I shouted ‘Time’, and made up my mind I’d keep more of an eye on the watch next round. I’d got so jolly excited, watching them, that I’d forgot I was supposed to be keeping time for them. They had only asked for a minute between the rounds, but as I’d given them half a minute too long in the first round, I chucked in a bit extra in the rest, so that they were both pretty fit by the time I started them again.

“The second round was just like the first, and so was the third. O’Hara kept getting the worst of it. He was knocked down three or four times more, and once, when he’d rushed Rand-Brown against one of the walls, he hit out and missed, and barked his knuckles jolly badly against the wall. That was in the middle of the third round, and Rand-Brown had it all his own way for the rest of the round—for about two minutes, that is to say. He hit O’Hara about all over the shop. I was so jolly keen on O’Hara’s winning, that I had half a mind to call time early, so as to give him time to recover. But I thought it would be a low thing to do, so I gave them their full three minutes.

“Directly they began the fourth round, I noticed that things were going to change a bit. O’Hara had given up his rushing game, and was waiting for his man, and when he came at him he’d put in a hot counter, nearly always at the body. After a bit Rand-Brown began to get cautious, and wouldn’t rush, so the fourth round was the quietest there had been. In the last minute they didn’t hit each other at all. They simply sparred for openings. It was in the fifth round that O’Hara began to forge ahead. About half way through he got in a ripper, right in the wind, which almost doubled Rand-Brown up, and then he started rushing again. Rand-Brown looked awfully bad at the end of the round. Round six was ripping. I never saw two chaps go for each other so. It was one long rally. Then—how it happened I couldn’t see, they were so quick—just as they had been at it a minute and a half, there was a crack, and the next thing I saw was Rand-Brown on the ground, looking beastly. He went down absolutely flat; his heels and head touched the ground at the same time.

“I counted ten out loud in the professional way like they do at the National Sporting Club, you know, and then said ‘O’Hara wins’. I felt an awful swell. After about another half-minute, Rand-Brown was all right again, and he got up and went back to the house with Merrett, and O’Hara and Moriarty went off to Dexter’s, and I gave the ferrets their grub, and cut back to breakfast.”

“Rand-Brown wasn’t at breakfast,” said Harvey.

“No. He went to bed. I wonder what’ll happen. Think there’ll be a row about it?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” said Harvey. “They never do make rows about fights, and neither of them is a prefect, so I don’t see what it matters if they do fight. But, I say—”

“What’s up?”

“I wish,” said Harvey, his voice full of acute regret, “that it had been my turn to feed those ferrets.”

“I don’t,” said Renford cheerfully. “I wouldn’t have missed that mill for something. Hullo, there’s the bell. We’d better run.”

When Trevor called at Seymour’s that afternoon to see Rand-Brown, with a view to challenging him to deadly combat, and found that O’Hara had been before him, he ought to have felt relieved. His actual feeling was one of acute annoyance. It seemed to him that O’Hara had exceeded the limits of friendship. It was all very well for him to take over the Rand-Brown contract, and settle it himself, in order to save Trevor from a very bad quarter of an hour, but Trevor was one of those people who object strongly to the interference of other people in their private business. He sought out O’Hara and complained. Within two minutes O’Hara’s golden eloquence had soothed him and made him view the matter in quite a different light. What O’Hara pointed out was that it was not Trevor’s affair at all, but his own. Who, he asked, had been likely to be damaged most by Rand-Brown’s manoeuvres in connection with the lost bat? Trevor was bound to admit that O’Hara was that person. Very well, then, said O’Hara, then who had a better right to fight Rand-Brown? And Trevor confessed that no one else had a better.

“Then I suppose,” he said, “that I shall have to do nothing about it?”

“That’s it,” said O’Hara.

“It’ll be rather beastly meeting the man after this,” said Trevor, presently. “Do you think he might possibly leave at the end of term?”

“He’s leaving at the end of the week,” said O’Hara. “He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in the vault that evening. You won’t see much more of Rand-Brown.”

“I’ll try and put up with that,” said Trevor.

“And so will I,” replied O’Hara. “And I shouldn’t think Milton would be so very grieved.”

“No,” said Trevor. “I tell you what will make him sick, though, and that is your having milled with Rand-Brown. It’s a job he’d have liked to have taken on himself.”

title: The Gold Bat/Chapter 23


text:
The Gold Bat/Chapter 24

Into the story at this point comes the narrative of Charles Mereweather Cook, aged fourteen, a day-boy.

Cook arrived at the school on the tenth of March, at precisely nine o’clock, in a state of excitement.

He said there was a row on in the town.

Cross-examined, he said there was no end of a row on in the town.

During morning school he explained further, whispering his tale into the attentive ear of Knight of the School House, who sat next to him.

What sort of a row, Knight wanted to know.

Cook deposed that he had been riding on his bicycle past the entrance to the Recreation Grounds on his way to school, when his eye was attracted by the movements of a mass of men just inside the gate. They appeared to be fighting. Witness did not stop to watch, much as he would have liked to do so. Why not? Why, because he was late already, and would have had to scorch anyhow, in order to get to school in time. And he had been late the day before, and was afraid that old Appleby (the master of the form) would give him beans if he were late again. Wherefore he had no notion of what the men were fighting about, but he betted that more would be heard about it. Why? Because, from what he saw of it, it seemed a jolly big thing. There must have been quite three hundred men fighting. (Knight, satirically, “Pile it on!”) Well, quite a hundred, anyhow. Fifty a side. And fighting like anything. He betted there would be something about it in the Wrykyn Patriot tomorrow. He shouldn’t wonder if somebody had been killed. What were they scrapping about? How should he know!

Here Mr Appleby, who had been trying for the last five minutes to find out where the whispering noise came from, at length traced it to its source, and forthwith requested Messrs Cook and Knight to do him two hundred lines, adding that, if he heard them talking again, he would put them into the extra lesson. Silence reigned from that moment.

Next day, while the form was wrestling with the moderately exciting account of Caesar’s doings in Gaul, Master Cook produced from his pocket a newspaper cutting. This, having previously planted a forcible blow in his friend’s ribs with an elbow to attract the latter’s attention, he handed to Knight, and in dumb show requested him to peruse the same. Which Knight, feeling no interest whatever in Caesar’s doings in Gaul, and having, in consequence, a good deal of time on his hands, proceeded to do. The cutting was headed “Disgraceful Fracas”, and was written in the elegant style that was always so marked a feature of the Wrykyn Patriot.

“We are sorry to have to report,” it ran, “another of those deplorable ebullitions of local Hooliganism, to which it has before now been our painful duty to refer. Yesterday the Recreation Grounds were made the scene of as brutal an exhibition of savagery as has ever marred the fair fame of this town. Our readers will remember how on a previous occasion, when the fine statue of Sir Eustace Briggs was found covered with tar, we attributed the act to the malevolence of the Radical section of the community. Events have proved that we were right. Yesterday a body of youths, belonging to the rival party, was discovered in the very act of repeating the offence. A thick coating of tar had already been administered, when several members of the rival faction appeared. A free fight of a peculiarly violent nature immediately ensued, with the result that, before the police could interfere, several of the combatants had received severe bruises. Fortunately the police then arrived on the scene, and with great difficulty succeeded in putting a stop to the fracas. Several arrests were made.

“We have no desire to discourage legitimate party rivalry, but we feel justified in strongly protesting against such dastardly tricks as those to which we have referred. We can assure our opponents that they can gain nothing by such conduct.”

There was a good deal more to the effect that now was the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, and that the constituents of Sir Eustace Briggs must look to it that they failed not in the hour of need, and so on. That was what the Wrykyn Patriot had to say on the subject.

O’Hara managed to get hold of a copy of the paper, and showed it to Clowes and Trevor.

“So now,” he said, “it’s all right, ye see. They’ll never suspect it wasn’t the same people that tarred the statue both times. An’ ye’ve got the bat back, so it’s all right, ye see.”

“The only thing that’ll trouble you now,” said Clowes, “will be your conscience.”

O’Hara intimated that he would try and put up with that.

“But isn’t it a stroke of luck,” he said, “that they should have gone and tarred Sir Eustace again so soon after Moriarty and I did it?”

Clowes said gravely that it only showed the force of good example.

“Yes. They wouldn’t have thought of it, if it hadn’t been for us,” chortled O’Hara. “I wonder, now, if there’s anything else we could do to that statue!” he added, meditatively.

“My good lunatic,” said Clowes, “don’t you think you’ve done almost enough for one term?”

“Well, ’myes,” replied O’Hara thoughtfully, “perhaps we have, I suppose.”

The term wore on. Donaldson’s won the final house-match by a matter of twenty-six points. It was, as they had expected, one of the easiest games they had had to play in the competition. Bryant’s, who were their opponents, were not strong, and had only managed to get into the final owing to their luck in drawing weak opponents for the trial heats. The real final, that had decided the ownership of the cup, had been Donaldson’s v. Seymour’s.

Aldershot arrived, and the sports. Drummond and O’Hara covered themselves with glory, and brought home silver medals. But Moriarty, to the disappointment of the school, which had counted on his pulling off the middles, met a strenuous gentleman from St Paul’s in the final, and was prematurely outed in the first minute of the third round. To him, therefore, there fell but a medal of bronze.

It was on the Sunday after the sports that Trevor’s connection with the bat ceased—as far, that is to say, as concerned its unpleasant character (as a piece of evidence that might be used to his disadvantage). He had gone to supper with the headmaster, accompanied by Clowes and Milton. The headmaster nearly always invited a few of the house prefects to Sunday supper during the term. Sir Eustace Briggs happened to be there. He had withdrawn his insinuations concerning the part supposedly played by a member of the school in the matter of the tarred statue, and the headmaster had sealed the entente cordiale by asking him to supper.

An ordinary man might have considered it best to keep off the delicate subject. Not so Sir Eustace Briggs. He was on to it like glue. He talked of little else throughout the whole course of the meal.

“My suspicions,” he boomed, towards the conclusion of the feast, “which have, I am rejoiced to say, proved so entirely void of foundation and significance, were aroused in the first instance, as I mentioned before, by the narrative of the man Samuel Wapshott.”

Nobody present showed the slightest desire to learn what the man Samuel Wapshott had had to say for himself, but Sir Eustace, undismayed, continued as if the whole table were hanging on his words.

“The man Samuel Wapshott,” he said, “distinctly asserted that a small gold ornament, shaped like a bat, was handed by him to a lad of age coeval with these lads here.”

The headmaster interposed. He had evidently heard more than enough of the man Samuel Wapshott.

“He must have been mistaken,” he said briefly. “The bat which Trevor is wearing on his watch-chain at this moment is the only one of its kind that I know of. You have never lost it, Trevor?”

Trevor thought for a moment. He had never lost it. He replied diplomatically, “It has been in a drawer nearly all the term, sir,” he said.

“A drawer, hey?” remarked Sir Eustace Briggs. “Ah! A very sensible place to keep it in, my boy. You could have no better place, in my opinion.”

And Trevor agreed with him, with the mental reservation that it rather depended on whom the drawer belonged to.

title: The Gold Bat/Chapter 24


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/72

42 ,—a study by day, and a dream by night. He was docile enough during lessons, and sometimes even too quick in conception for the stately march of Mr. Mac Grawler's intellect. But it not unfrequently happened, that when that gentleman attempted to rise, he found himself, like the lady in Comus, adhering to

or his legs had been secretly united under the table, and the tie was not to be broken without overthrow to the superior powers; these, and various other little sportive machinations wherewith Paul was wont to relieve the monotony of literature, went far to disgust the learned critic with his undertaking. But 'the tape' and the treasury of Mrs. Lobkins re-smoothed, as it were, the irritated bristles of his mind, and he continued his labours with this philosophical reflection—"Why fret myself?—if a pupil turn out well, it is clearly to the credit of his master; if not, to the disadvantage of himself." Of course,

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/72


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/73

Rh a similar suggestion never forced itself into the mind of Dr. Keate. At Eton, the very soul of the honest head-master is consumed by his zeal for the welfare of little gentlemen in stiff cravats.

But to Paul, who was predestined to enjoy a certain quantum of knowledge, circumstances happened, in the commencement of the second year of his pupilage, which prodigiously accelerated the progress of his scholastic career.

At the apartment of Mac Grawler, Paul one morning encountered Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, a young man of great promise, who pursued the peaceful occupation of making for a leading newspaper, "Horrid Murders," "Enormous Melons," and "Remarkable Circumstances." This gentleman, having the advantage of some years' seniority over Paul, was slow in unbending his dignity; but observing at last the eager and respectful attention with which the stripling listened to a most veracious detail of five men being inhumanly murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by the Reverend Zedekiah Fooks Barnacle, he was touched by the impression he had created, and shaking Paul graciously

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/73


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/74

 by the hand, he told him, there was a deal of natural shrewdness in his countenance; and that Mr. Augustus Tomlinson did not doubt but that he (Paul) might have the honour to be murdered himself one of these days.—"You understand me!" continued Mr. Augustus,—"I mean murdered in effigy,—assassinated in type,—while you yourself, unconscious of the circumstance, are quietly enjoying what you imagine to be your existence. We never kill common persons: to say truth, our chief spite is against the Church;—we destroy bishops by wholesale. Sometimes, indeed, we knock off a leading barrister or so; and express the anguish of the junior counsel at a loss so destructive to their interests. But that is only a stray hit; and the slain barrister often lives to become attorney-general, renounce Whig principles, and prosecute the very press that destroyed him. Bishops are our proper food: we send them to heaven on a sort of flying griffin, of which the back is an apoplexy, and the wings are puffs. The Bishop of, whom we dispatched in this manner the other day, being rather a facetious

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/74


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/75

Rh personage, wrote to remonstrate with us thereon; observing, that though heaven was a very good translation for a bishop, yet that, in such cases, he preferred 'the original to the translation.' As we murder bishops, so is there another class of persons whom we only afflict with letiferous diseases. This latter tribe consists of his Majesty and his Majesty's ministers. Whenever we cannot abuse their measures, we always fall foul on their health. Does the King pass any popular law,—we immediately insinuate that his constitution is on its last legs. Does the minister act like a man of sense,—we instantly observe, with great regret, that his complexion is remarkably pale. There is one manifest advantage in diseasing people, instead of absolutely destroying them. The public may flatly contradict us in one case, but it never can in the other:—it is easy to prove that a man is alive; but utterly impossible to prove that he is in health. What if some opposing newspaper take up the cudgels in his behalf, and assert that the victim of all Pandora's complaints, whom we send tottering to the grave, passes one-half the

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/75


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/76

46 day in knocking up a "distinguished company" at a shooting-party, and the other half in outdoing the same "distinguished company" after dinner? What if the afflicted individual himself write us word that he never was better in his life,—we have only mysteriously to shake our heads, and observe, that to contradict is not to prove,—that it is little likely that our authority should have been mistaken, and—(we are very fond of an historical comparison)—beg our readers to remember, that when Cardinal Richelieu was dying, nothing enraged him so much as hinting that he was ill. In short, if Horace is right, we are the very princes of poets; for I dare say, Mr. Mac Grawler, that you,—and you, too, my little gentleman, perfectly remember the words of the wise old Roman,—

Having uttered this quotation with considerable self-complacency, and thereby entirely completed his conquest over Paul, Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, turning to Mac Grawler, concluded

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/76


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/77

Rh his business with that gentleman, which was of a literary nature, namely, a joint composition against a man who, being under five-and-twenty, and too poor to give dinners, had had the impudence to write a sacred poem. The critics were exceedingly bitter at this; and having very little to say against the poem, the Court journals called the author 'a coxcomb,' and the liberal ones 'the son of a pantaloon!'

There was an ease,—a spirit,—a life about Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, which captivated the senses of our young hero: then, too, he was exceedingly smartly attired; wore red heels and a bag; had what seemed to Paul quite the air of a 'man of fashion;' and, above all, he spouted the Latin with a remarkable grace!

Some days afterwards, Mac Grawler sent our hero to Mr. Tomlinson's lodgings, with his share of the joint abuse upon the poet.

Doubly was Paul's reverence for Mr. Augustus Tomlinson increased by a sight of his abode. He found him settled in a polite part of the town, in a very spruce parlour, the contents of which manifested the universal genius of the inhabitant. It hath

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/77


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/78

48 been objected unto us by a most discerning critic, that we are addicted to the drawing of 'universal geniuses.' We plead Not Guilty in former instances; we allow the soft impeachment in the instance of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson. Over his fireplace were ranged boxing gloves and fencing foils. On his table lay a cremona and a flageolet. On one side of the wall were shelves containing the Covent Garden Magazine, Burn's Justice, a pocket Horace, a Prayer-book, Excerpta ex Tacito, a volume of Plays, Philosophy made Easy, and a Key to all Knowledge. Furthermore, there were on another table a riding whip, and a driving whip, and a pair of spurs, and three guineas, with a little mountain of loose silver. Mr. Augustus was a tall, fair young man, with a freckled complexion; green eyes and red eyelashes; a smiling mouth, rather underjawed; a sharp nose; and a prodigiously large pair of ears. He was robed in a green damask dressing-gown; and he received the tender Paul most graciously.

There was something very engaging about our hero. He was not only good-looking, and frank

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/78


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/79

Rh in aspect, but he had that appearance of briskness and intellect which belong to an embryo rogue. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson professed the greatest regard for him,—asked him if he could box,—made him put on a pair of gloves,—and, very condescendingly, knocked him down three times successively. Next he played him, both upon his flageolet and his cremona, some of the most modish airs. Moreover, he sang him a little song of his own composing. He then, taking up the driving-whip, flanked a fly from the opposite wall, and throwing himself (naturally fatigued with his numerous exertions,) on his sofa, he observed, in a careless tone, that he and his friend Lord Dunshunner were universally esteemed the best whips in the metropolis. "I," quoth Mr. Augustus, "am the best on the road—but my Lord is a devil at turning a corner."

Paul, who had hitherto lived too unsophisticated a life to be aware of the importance of which a lord would naturally be in the eyes of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, was not so much struck with the grandeur of the connexion as the murderer of the journals had expected. He merely

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/79


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/80

50 observed, by way of compliment, that Mr. Augustus and his companion seemed to be "rolling kiddies."

A little displeased with this metaphorical remark,—for it may be observed that "rolling kiddy" is, among the learned in such lore, the customary expression for "a smart thief,"—the universal Augustus took that liberty to which, by his age and station, so much superior to those of Paul, he imagined himself entitled, and gently reproved our hero for his indiscriminate use of flash phrases.

"A lad of your parts," said he,—"for I see you are clever by your eye,—ought to be ashamed of using such vulgar expressions. Have a nobler spirit,—a loftier emulation, Paul, than that which distinguishes the little ragamuffins of the street. Know that, in this country, genius and learning carry every thing before them; and if you behave yourself properly, you may, one day or another, be as high in the world as myself."

At this speech Paul looked wistfully round the spruce parlour, and thought what a fine thing it would be to be lord of such a domain, together

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/80


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/81

Rh with the appliances of flageolet and cremona, boxing-gloves, books, fly-flanking flagellum, three guineas, with the little mountain of silver, and the reputation—shared only with Lord Dunshunner—of being the best whip in London.

"Yes!" continued Tomlinson, with conscious pride,—"I owe my rise to myself. Learning is better than house and land. Doctrina sed vim, &c.—You know what old Horace says?—Why, Sir, you would not believe it; but I was the man who killed his Majesty the King of Sardinia, in our yesterday's paper. Nothing is too arduous for genius. Fag hard, my boy, and you may rival—for the thing, though difficult, may not be impossible—Augustus Tomlinson!"

At the conclusion of this harangue, a knock at the door being heard, Paul took his departure, and met in the hall a fine-looking person dressed in the height of the fashion, and wearing a pair of prodigiously large buckles in his shoes. Paul looked, and his heart swelled. "I may rival," thought he—those were his very words—"I may rival,—for the thing, though difficult, is not impossible—Augustus Tomlinson!" Absorbed in meditation,

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/81


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/82

52 he went silently home. The next day the memoirs of the great Turpin were committed to the flames, and it was noticeable that henceforth Paul observed a choicer propriety of words,—that he assumed a more refined air of dignity, and that he paid considerably more attention than heretofore to the lessons of Mr. Peter Mac Grawler. Although it must be allowed, that our young hero's progress in the learned languages was not astonishing, yet an early passion for reading growing stronger and stronger by application, repaid him at last with a tolerable knowledge of the mother-tongue. We must however add, that his more favourite and cherished studies were scarcely of that nature which a prudent preceptor would have greatly commended. They lay chiefly among novels, plays, and poetry, which last he affected to that degree that he became somewhat of a poet himself. Nevertheless, these literary avocations, profitless as they seemed, gave a certain refinement to his tastes, which they were not likely otherwise to have acquired at 'The Mug;' and while they aroused his ambition to see something of the gay life they depicted, they imparted to his temper a tone of enterprise and of

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/82


text:
Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/83

Rh thoughtless generosity, which perhaps contributed greatly to counteract those evil influences towards petty vice, to which the examples around him must have exposed his tender youth. But, alas! a great disappointment to Paul's hope of assistance and companionship in his literary labours befel him. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, one bright morning, disappeared, leaving word with his numerous friends, that he was going to accept a lucrative situation in the North of England. Notwithstanding the shock this occasioned to the affectionate heart and aspiring temper of our friend Paul, it abated not his ardour in that field of science, which it seemed that the distinguished absentee had so successfully cultivated. By little and little, he possessed himself (in addition to the literary stores we have alluded to) of all it was in the power of the wise and profound Peter Mac Grawler to impart unto him; and at the age of sixteen he began (O the presumption of youth!) to fancy himself more learned than his master.

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 1.djvu/83


text: Paul Clifford/Volume 1/Chapter 3

title: Paul Clifford/Volume 1/Chapter 3


text:
Aunt Jane's Nieces at Millville/Chapter 1

"How did I happen to own a farm?" asked Uncle John, interrupting his soup long enough to fix an inquiring glance upon Major Doyle, who sat opposite.

"By virtue of circumstance, my dear sir," replied the Major, composedly. "It's a part of my duty, in attending to those affairs you won't look afther yourself, to lend certain sums of your money to needy and ambitious young men who want a start in life."

"Oh, Uncle! Do you do that?" exclaimed Miss Patricia Doyle, who sat between her uncle and father and kept an active eye upon both.

"So the Major says," answered Uncle John, dryly.

"And it's true," asserted the other. "He's assisted three or four score young men to start in business in the last year, to my certain knowledge, by lending them sums ranging from one to three thousand dollars. And it's the most wasteful and extravagant charity I ever heard of."

"But I'm so glad!" cried Patsy, clapping her hands with a delighted gesture. "It's a splendid way to do good—to help young men to get a start in life. Without capital, you know, many a young fellow would never get his foot on the first round of the ladder."

"And many will never get it there in any event," declared the Major, with a shake of his grizzled head. "More than half the rascals that John helps go to the dogs entirely, and hang us up for all they've borrowed."

"I told you to help deserving young men," remarked Uncle John, with a scowl at his brother-in-law.

"And how can I tell whether they're desarving or not?" retorted Major Doyle, fiercely. "Do ye want me to become a sleuth, or engage detectives to track the objects of your erroneous philanthropy? I just have to form a judgment an' take me chances; and whin a poor devil goes wrong I charge your account with the loss."

"But some of them must succeed," ventured Patsy, in a conciliatory tone.

"Some do," said John Merrick; "and that repays me for all my trouble."

"All your throuble, sir?" queried the Major; "you mane all my throuble—well, and your money. And a heap of throuble that confounded farm has cost me, with one thing and another."

"What of it?" retorted the little round faced millionaire, leaning back in his chair and staring fixedly at the other. "That's what I employ you for."

"Now, now, gentlemen!" cried Patsy, earnestly. "I'll have no business conversation at the table. You know my rules well enough."

"This isn't business," asserted the Major.

"Of course not," agreed Uncle John, mildly. "No one has any business owning a farm. How did it happen. Major?"

The old soldier had already forgotten his grievance. He quarreled persistently with his wealthy employer and brother-in-law—whom he fairly adored—to prevent the possibility (as he often confided to Patsy) of his falling down and worshiping him. John Merrick was a multi-millionaire, to be sure; but there were palliating circumstances that almost excused him. He had been so busily occupied in industry that he never noticed how his wealth was piling up until he discovered it by accident. Then he promptly retired, "to give the other fellows a chance," and he now devoted his life to simple acts of charity and the welfare and entertainment of his three nieces. He had rescued Major Doyle and his daughter from a lowly condition and placed the former in the great banking house of Isham, Marvin & Company, where John Merrick's vast interests were protected and his income wisely managed. He had given Patsy this cosy little apartment house at 3708 Willing Square and made his home with her, from which circumstance she had come to be recognized as his favorite niece.

John Merrick was sixty years old. He was short, stout and chubby-faced, with snow-white hair, mild blue eyes and an invariably cheery smile. Simple in his tastes, modest and retiring, lacking the education and refinements of polite society, but shrewd and experienced in the affairs of the world, the little man found his greatest enjoyment in the family circle that he had been instrumental in founding. Being no longer absorbed in business, he had come to detest its every detail, and so allowed his bankers to care for his fortune and his brother-in-law to disburse his income, while he himself strove to enjoy life in a shy and boyish fashion that was as unusual in a man of his wealth as it was admirable. He had never married.

Patricia was the apple of Uncle John's eye, and the one goddess enshrined in her doting father's heart. Glancing at her, as she sat here at table in her plain muslin gown, a stranger would be tempted to wonder why. She was red-haired, freckled as a robin's egg, pug-nosed and wide-mouthed. But her blue eyes were beautiful, and they sparkled with a combination of saucy mischief and kindly consideration for others that lent her face an indescribable charm.

Everyone loved Patsy Doyle, and people would gaze longer at her smiling-lips and dancing eyes than upon many a more handsome but less attractive face. She was nearly seventeen years old, not very tall, and her form, to speak charitably, was more neat than slender.

"A while ago," said the Major, resuming the conversation as he carved the roast, "a young fellow came to me who had invented a new sort of pump to inflate rubber tires. He wanted capital to patent the pump and put it on the market. The thing looked pretty good, John; so I lent him a thousand of your money."

"Quite right," returned Uncle John, nodding.

"But pretty soon he came back with a sad tale. He was in a bad fix. Another fellow was contesting his patent and fighting hard to head him off. It would take a lot of money to fight back—three thousand, at least. But he was decent about it, after all. His father had left him a little farm at Millville. He couldn't say what it was worth, but there were sixty acres and some good buildings, and he would deed it to you as security if you would let him have three thousand more."

"So you took the farm and gave him the money?"

"I did, sir. Perhaps I am to blame; but I liked the young fellow's looks. He was clean-cut and frank, and believed in his pump. I did more. At the climax of the struggle I gave another thousand, making five thousand in all."

"Well?"

"It's gone, John; and you've got the farm. The other fellows were too clever for my young friend, Joseph Wegg, and knocked out his patent."

"I'm so sorry!" said Patsy, sympathetically.

The Major coughed.

"It's not an unusual tale, my dear; especially when John advances the money," he replied.

"What became of the young man?" asked the girl.

"He's a competent chauffeur, and so he went to work driving an automobile."

"Where is Millville?" inquired Uncle John, thoughtfully.

"Somewhere at the north of the State, I believe."

"Have you investigated the farm at all?"

"I looked up a real estate dealer living at Millville, and wrote him about the Wegg farm. He said if any one wanted the place very badly it might sell for three thousand dollars."

"Humph!"

"But his best information was to the effect that no one wanted it at all."

Patsy laughed.

"Poor Uncle John!" she said.

The little man, however, was serious. For a time he ate with great deliberation and revolved an interesting thought in his mind.

"Years ago." said he, "I lived in a country town; and I love the smell of the meadows and the hum of the bees in the orchards. Any orchards at my farm, Major?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Pretty soon," continued Uncle John, "it's going to be dreadfully hot in New York, and we'll have to get away."

"Seashore's the place," remarked the Major. "Atlantic City, or Swampscott, or—"

"Rubbish!" growled the other man, impatiently. "The girls and I have just come from Europe. We've had enough sea to last us all this season, at least. What we pine for is country life—pure milk, apple trees and new mown hay."

"We, Uncle?" said Patsy.

"Yes, my dear. A couple of months on the farm will do all of my nieces good. Beth is still with Louise, you know, and they must find the city deadly dull, just now. The farm's the thing. And the Major can run up to see us for a couple of weeks in the hot weather, and we'll all have a glorious, lazy time."

"And we can take Mary along to do the cooking," suggested Patsy, entering into the idea enthusiastically.

"And eat in our shirt-sleeves!" said Uncle John, with a glowing face.

"And have a cow and some pigs!" cried the girl.

"Pah!" said the Major, scornfully. "You talk as if it were a real farm, instead of a place no one would have as a gift."

Uncle John looked sober again.

"Anyone live on the place, Major?" he inquired.

"I believe not. It's gone to ruin and decay the last few years."

"But it could be put into shape?"

"Perhaps so; at an expense that will add to your loss."

"Never mind that."

"If you want farm life, why don't you rent a respectable farm?" demanded the Major.

"No; this is my farm. I own it, and it's my bounded duty to live on it," said Uncle John, stubbornly. "Write to that real estate fellow at Millville tomorrow and tell him to have the place fixed up and put into ship-shape order as quickly as possible. Tell him to buy some cows and pigs and chickens, and hire a man to look after them. Also a horse and buggy, some saddle horses"

"Go slow, John. Don't leave such a job to a country real estate dealer. If I remember right the fellow wrote like a blacksmith. If you want horses and rigs, let Hutchinson send you down the right sort, with an experienced groom and stable hands. But I'm not sure there will be a place to put them."

"Oh, Uncle!" exclaimed Patsy; "don't let us have all those luxuries. Let us live a simple life on the farm, and not degrade its charms by adding city fixin's. The cow and the chickens are all right, but let's cut out the horses until we get there. Don't you know, dear, that a big establishment means lots of servants, and servants mean worry and strife? I want to let down the bars for the cow when she moos, and milk her myself."

"It takes a skilled mechanic to milk a cow," objected the Major.

"But Patsy's right!" cried her uncle, with conviction. "We don't want any frills at all. Just tell your man, Major, to put the place into good living condition."

"Patrichia," softly remarked the Major, with an admiring glance at his small daughter, "has more sinse in her frizzled head than both of us put together."

"If she hadn't more than you," retorted Uncle John, with a grin, "I'd put a candle inside her noodle and call her a Jack-Lantern."


text:
Aunt Jane's Nieces at Millville/Chapter 2

The Major hunted up the real estate dealer's former letter as soon as he reached his office next morning. The printed letter-head, somewhat blurred, because too much ink had been used, read as follows:

The Major shook his head doubtfully as he read the above announcement; but Mr. McNutt was the only known person to whom he could appeal to carry out John Merrick's orders. So he dictated the following letter:

Dear Sir:

''Mr. John Merrick, the present owner of the Wegg farm at Millville, desires to spend his summer vacation on the premises, and therefore requests you to have the house and grounds put in first-class shape as soon as possible, and to notify me directly the work is done. Have the house thoroughly cleaned, the grass mowed around it and the barns and outbuildings repaired wherever it may be necessary. You are also instructed to procure for Mr. Merrick's use a good Jersey cow, some pigs and a dozen or so barnyard fowls. As several ladies will accompany the owner and reside with him on the place, he would like you to report what necessary furniture, if any, will be required for their comfort. Send your bill to me and it will receive prompt attention.''

After several days this reply came:

''Mister Doyle you must be crazy as a loon. Send me fifty cold dollars as an evvidence of good fayth and I wull see what can be done. Old Hucks is livin on the place yit do you want him to git out or what? Yours fer a square deal Marshall McMahon McNutt.''

"John," said the Major, exhibiting this letter, "you're on the wrong tack. The man is justified in thinking we're crazy. Give up this idea and think of something else to bother me."

But the new proprietor of the Wegg farm was obdurate. During the past week he had indulged in sundry sly purchases, which had been shipped, in his name to Chazy Junction, the nearest railway station to Millville. Therefore, the "die had been cast," as far as Mr. Merrick was concerned, for the purchases were by this time at the farm, awaiting him, and he could not back out without sacrificing them. They included a set of gardening tools, several hammocks, croquet and tennis sets, and a remarkable collection of fishing tackle, which the sporting-goods man had declared fitted to catch anything that swam, from a whale to a minnow. Also, Uncle John decided to dress the part of a rural gentleman, and ordered his tailor to prepare a corduroy fishing costume, a suit of white flannel, one of khaki, and some old-fashioned blue jean overalls, with apron front, which, when made to order by the obliging tailor, cost about eighteen dollars a suit. To forego the farm meant to forego all these luxuries, and Mr. Merrick was unequal to the sacrifice. Why, only that same morning he had bought a charming cottage piano and shipped it to the Junction for Patsy's use. That seemed to settle the matter definitely. To be balked of his summer vacation on his own farm was a thing Mr. Merrick would not countenance for a moment.

"Give me that letter, Major," he said; "I'll run this enterprise myself."

The Major resigned with a sigh of relief.

Uncle John promptly sent the real estate agent a draft for five hundred dollars, with instructions to get the farm in shape for occupancy at the earliest possible day.

"If Old Hucks is a farm hand and a bachelor," he wrote, "let him stay till I come and look him over. If he's a married man and has a family, chuck him out at once. I'm sure you are a man of good taste and judgment. Look over the furniture in the house and telegraph me what condition it is in. Everything about the place must be made cozy and comfortable, but I wish to avoid an appearance of vulgarity or extravagance."

The answer to this was a characteristic telegram:

''Furniture on the bum, like everything else. Will do the best I can. McNutt.''

Uncle John did not display this discouraging report to Patsy or her father. A little thought on the matter decided him to rectify the deficiencies, in so far as it lay in his power. He visited a large establishment making a specialty of "furnishing homes complete," and ordered a new kitchen outfit, including a modern range, a mission style outfit for a dining-room, dainty summer furniture for the five chambers to be occupied by his three nieces, the Major and himself, and a variety of lawn benches, chairs, etc.

"Look after the details," he said to the dealer. "Don't neglect anything that is pretty or useful."

"I won't, sir," replied the man, who knew his customer was "the great John Merrick," who could furnish a city "complete," if he wished to, and not count the cost.

Everything was to be shipped in haste to the Junction, and Uncle John wrote McNutt to have it delivered promptly to the farm and put in order.

"As soon as things are in shape," he wrote, "wire me to that effect and I'll come down. But don't let any grass grow under your feet. I'm a man who requires prompt service."

The days were already getting uncomfortably warm, and the little man was nervously anxious to see his farm. So were the nieces, for that matter, who were always interested in the things that interested their eccentric uncle. Besides Patricia Doyle, whom we have already introduced, these nieces were Miss Louise Merrick, who had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, and Miss Elizabeth—or "Beth"—De Graf, now well past fifteen. Beth lived in a small town in Ohio, but was then visiting her city cousin Louise, so that both girls were not only available but eager to accompany Uncle John to his new domain and assist him to enjoy his summer outing.