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VOL. XIX.
b...
TO BE CALLED FOR.
Cingular Story of a False Friend and a
Donble Marriage,
V. W. Robinson in Philadelphia Press,
CHAPTER I.
DO NOT know why I
should keep this story to
myself—to myself and sec
ond self, more correctly
speaking—any longer.
There is nigh upon a score
of s’ears between tho time
of happening and now, and
all the harm the telling of
it might have done is dead
and gone as Uncle Samuel
is. But to begin at the be
ginning—which is ship.
BfitF
Wsll
w
w-
shape and suits me, being an orderly man
always.
Fly Uncle Samuel was my guardian, my fath
er and uncle rolled into one, and took care of
me after my own father was drowned. My
mother was Uncle Samuel’s sister, and became
his housekeeper after father’s death, attended
to her brother’s business when he was out at
Bea, put up with all his bad tempers when he
was on shore and was ‘'a perfect slave to the old
brute,” it was said in D< al; though my mother
was only a hard working woman, and Sam
Nanglo was not exactly a brute. However, my
mother did not live to see her brother at his
worst—that was in the. latter years of his life,
when he lost the proper use of his limbs and
had to creep about the house, clinging to the
walls and furniture, or to toddle down the
street with a couple of crutches which would
always go very wide apart, and which he was
never able to use with any fair amount of
grace. At this period of his career Samuel
Naugle was certainly trying, and no one was
more certain of that than myself, his nephew
—Martin. Townsend, at your service. The
most trying time was when I was about five
and twenty years of age, and mother had been
dead fifteen out of them. Then he was a
trouble to most folks who had anything to do
with him, to me in particular, to whom the
caro of the Flying Fish Inn, and of the Flying
Fish steamtug. and of my uncle, the proprietor
of both these Flying Fish, had come byway of
natural sequence, as the saying is.
“Not that you’re going to have my little tug,
when I'm dead and gone, Martin,” my uncle
would say; “they’re both too good for you,and
I haven’t slaved and toiled and moiled all these
blessed years to fatten a lazy hunk like you.
ovu’t j.qftct ..nythWg’ it si-yjd'H
be more out of your reckoning than you have
over been in your life. You’ve been too pig
headed. too stuck-up, too damned sillyto please
me, and you must take the consequences. And
I hope before you die, Martin, and when you
findyourself in the work house, that you’ll be
sorry you didn’t treat me better when you had
somebody to see after you, and to keep a house
over your soft head. There, get out.” And I
got out accordingly, and left him to his own
company in the little room at the back of the
bar, where nobody came now to smoke a pipe
or drink a glass of grog with him, my uncle
having insulted everybody all round long ago,
and lost all his customers, who would not como
and spend money and get drunk in his back
parlor to be told they were fools and asses, and
encumbrances on the face of the arth, and gib
bering, slobbering idiots, who knew no more
about Deal, or ships, or the sea than hisspit
toon there.
It was Uncle Samuel’s idea—and I am rather
disposed to think that all uncles have a weak
ness this way—that no one knew anything save
himself, that no one had over done anything
that was worth mentioning except himself,
that no one had ever been so wise, so careful,
so far-seeing, so lucky, so plucky as he, and it
was his great affliction now that, though every
body knew this as well as he did, there was no
one to :;ay it to his face like a man, or give
him any credit for it. Ho Knew that was hu
man nature, for he knew everything, but he
sat in his big chair by the fire and cursed hu
man nature for 'all that, and when tired of
Cursing human nature in the abstract he would
get to work cursing mo.
Well, yes, a dreadful man in many ways, I
©wn i*. There was not much disguising of it
in Deal, though 1 did my best to keep tho old
man's name sweet in Bilge street, where lie
lived.
“Why.you don’t cut and run from him I
can't make out,” was said to me byway of
sage advice. “The way you’re treated, too.
It’s abominable.”
But I could not cut and run from so helpless
an obi man. He was so terrible alone, and my
mother's brother, too, who had taken care of
us when father went to the bottom of the sea.
My uncle told me about twice a day I was
Stopping for what I could get—what would
come to me after ho was gone but ho had al
ready warned me there would be nothing for
my share, and I knew that lawyers had been
sent for and his will made long ago, and I was
out of it. Uncle Samuel had one virtue—he
Was always charmingly frank—“infernally
rude,” some people said —and he led me dis
tinctly to understand that I was “out of it”
for many resons he was not going to explain to
a jabbering parrot like me who would go and
tell all Deal half an hour after I had heard
them. Sometimes I fancied that he wanted
mo to get away, though what ho would have
done without me, heaven knows, 1 do not.
But then lam a little conceited, like my un
cle. lie always said I was stuck up, ami if so,
it was in the family. Whether Uncle Samuel
■was rich or poor was a matter of grave specu.
lation to mo, and mote than me. It was gen
erally considered that he was a rich man—that
he must nave made a lot of money, and have
a rare long stocking somewhere. If the Flying
Fish Inn had not been a profitable speculation i
the Flying Fish tug had b • n, and be in the
days of Ilfs health and strength had certainly I
been a shrewd fellow, and not overburdened '
in any way by principles. Ho had had his ■
trials, certainly—ho had even been tried for
Smuggling—but tlie tng had brought him in I
considerable profits, ami ho was invariably so I
early at a wreck that there were a few evil- I
minded folk to fancy 1. ■ must have arrang'd
the wreck beforehand, .'bi b, of course, was i
not always possible. .Ami ho had never been
afraid of work—downright hard, awful wo. k,
in the face of the storm, and of the death ■
which the storm threat'ned, and Dare Devil ■
Bam bad been his nickname in tho t'wn for
years liefore his dan - ■ ilsliip stumped ui*out
the streets on crutcles.
I remember the last winter I spent with my
uncle very well; It was a mc-m* ruble s..t-~ri,
and lo maun' rs were | r.-c iliac, even for him. |
He v u . -t.r.g worse . d v one, they aid in
Bilg-
street, and the little ch ,d. mi's!,ricked at s lit .
of him raid rm aw..y, though their big b, . ii
irs ma le u;> f< r tub th: ,wing ■-tone.'.. B i
corner of the bar-parlor ho w.i» only Uarable
when fast asie*-;, or after bis so '.rte'nth gi.. ,s |
of grog, when ho wo ild become lx astD.l . f his
past axid' its, or maudlin oi er li.o helplt >,s
which hindered him f ■ tn repeating tfisni.
Evo in his miserable <ld ago ho aeei .-d to
love the sea, and to be more keen and c.-ar <n
his faculties when he could hear it roaring and
breaking on the beach,with the wind shrieking
like a woman. One winter's night, when the
elements were going it in real earnest, ho sat
huddled in liis big chair .with bis logs on a foot
stool ami a warm rug round him, listening with
grave satisfaction to the storm.
“Had I been as young as yon are I would
have been out in this,” he said to me, “I
wouldn’t have been hulking here scouring
pewter pots.”
I had donq my scouring long ago, but it was
his neat way of putting it.
“It’s a roughish night,” I said, not caring to
aggravate him by any defense, now that he
was a little pleasant in bis manner.
“I should have had steam up in the Flying
Fish and gone. That’s where the pull is, for
tho ships are sure to go to pieces er run ashore
on a night like this, as sure as thunder and
lightning, death and tho devil, boy.”
i “Yes, exactly,” I said; “and you were never
afraid of danger?”
“Afraid!’’he reared forth. “I was never
i afraid of anything, you fool, you! I never
stopped at anything, or let anything stop me;
what I wanted I had always. If they said I
shouldn't have it, I took it for myself.”
“If who said?”
“ What’ii that to you ? And so I’ve got pret
ty warm and comfortable, and—”
I ventured to supply a word.
“And happy?”
“No, you wretched, limp, underdone, hair
dresser or a man—not happy. Who could bo
happy with you? Who' could bo happy
with a blazing pair of legs like these,
and with—”
Then he was silent suddenly, and I mixed
him another glass of rum and water at a pecu
liar sign he was accustomed to make with one
hand and one eye, and which meant rum and
water, hot, with a slice of lemon it. He did
not say any more. He became strangely silent
for him ; for. when he bad not mo to talk to,
lie would talk to himself for hours—talk him
self to sleep, and then go on muttering in his
dreams in a rare, busy fashion. But that night
he grow suddenly still and quiet, and stared
before him strangely at a Grace Darling pic
ture on the opposite wall, and continued to
stare after I had left him to attend to a cus
tomer in the shop, who was a little impatient,
and kept tapping so persistently with apiece
of mney oontho pewter-covered counter that
I had quite made up my mind to sauce him for
his burry. But it was not a “him.” V hen I
had reached the shop, which was down a long
passage, and a good distance from the parlor,
between which and the shop there were more
rooms than one, the Flying Fish Inn being a
rambling old place, 1 discovered my customer
to be a female, a young female and a pretty one.
too, for all her pale face and big, blue, staring
eyes. I did not know her for one of my neigh
bors —for an; one in Deal, where I knew every
one by sight, and 1 was sure she was a foreigner
before she spoke a word. Her dress was very
dark, but it was peculiar; her hair was very
light, her hat or bonnet seemed rather of a
queer shape, and there were two funny little
crystal crosses in her ears.
“What can I get you, lady?” I asked at last,
as she continued to look at me—to regard me
in my turn in tho light of a curiosity.
Then she spoke in English, but with a for
.eign accent and in a veryjow tone.
'A <f i. . -m. . •’he «•>!«, wondcyt
ingse“yo-t are younger, taller, different alto
gether. You do not answer the description;
you—”
“What man do you want?”
“I wish to see Mr. Samuel Nangle, of the
Flying Fish,” she answered.
“This is tho Flying Fish and Mr. Naugle is
my uncle.”
“Is he alive?”
“O, yes.”
“And well ?”
“Not well. Hehasnot been well and strong
for years; but then he is very old.”
“Yes, I know.”
I was surprised at the extent of her knowl
edge, but waited for her to inform mo of the
object of her visit.
"Is he indoors?”
“Yes.”
“Can I sec him?”
“Ye—es, I think so,” I said hesitatingly,
“although it’s late in the evening and he is not
particuly idee to visitors as a rule.”
“He expects me.”
“My—my Uncle Samuel—expects you?” I
exclaimed.
“Yes, he has been expecting me for some
time,” was the quiet explanation proffered,
“for day#, months, years, 1 dare say. He has
been always certain I should come. Why, it
was as sure I should call some day as that the
sun will ri e tomorrow.”
For the first time she smiled, and I liked tho
look of her when she smiled.
“I’ll tell my uncle you have come, then,” I
said.
“Thank you ; do.”
“Who —who shall I say has called ?”
“Bertha Kcefcland. Ho will know tho
name.”
“Indeed!”
“Has he never spoken of it to you?”
“That's strange,” she remarked. “Has he
altered very much of late years?”
“Yes, very much.”
“People do. 'Well, tell him I have come,
young man.”
I was proceeding in a wondering, dreamlike
fashion toward the long, dark passage again,
when she called and said :
“Is his memory as good as it used to bo?
Old people forget; my father did, sadly—very
sadly.”
Her face shadowed at some reminiscence,
and I said:
“I think his memory’s pretty good formost
things.”
“Still, ho may have forgotten,” was tho
thoughtful comment here.; “the name may
have even passed away altogether from his
recollection, lie never speaks of me,you say?”
“He does not.”
“Perhaps it will be as well to say Casper
Keefcland’s daughter.”
“I’ll make a point of doing so.”
“And if he's too old, or too ill to sec me, I
will not worry him,” she continued. “Only
tell him to let me have the sundal-wood box
which was left lu re to be called for.”
“To be called for?”
“ Yes. Whicli my father left with him—
which he told him 1 should fet'-li some day.”
I “Oh! did Im?” 1 said, coinpl. tely bowilder
! ed now, and wondering at all this and wiiat it
I meant and y,hat was to follow. I was borne
down by grim forebodings, which closed thick
i and fast about me as I shambled my way along
i tho dark, passage to the inn parlor.
CHAPTER If.
Uncle Samuel Nangle waasittinewy much i
i in tho same position as I had left him. only he
Dad dropped his ruin and water from hi, bands I
i and the glass lay shattered into a hundred ;
pieces on the floor. He was still staring at tho ■
picture portraying Grace Darling’s heroism, or I
■ at a something beyond the picture, very far '
; away, indeed, and which Doubled him that |
nig.. t. 1 should I.i-vc laii'i -d in another min- .
ute that be had hr.d a stroke of something if ;
I he had n >t said to me very plainly, bat huski-
i * “V,'hat is it, Mullin?”
“A what?”
“A visiter,” I t';e..t'd. “Somebody who
v itits to .-io you, and who hm; come a long way 1
, f„-'.o yon, I-hould was my reply.
■ “A Ing way, is it. ’ he muttered. “You .
I d< n't mean from the grave, Martin?”
“Coriaiidy not,” I < ried; “is that like me?” I
| “Nothing is i,lie ymr,” 1.0 sa.d slowly and i
| rule ti by: “I don’t call to mind anybody!
My um ea a . coming round to bis old man
rr ri. i'.v in. llvat gad of it, Hi.i staring fit
I waaoveruuuubaus.iued mo just a little. 1,
ATLANTA. GA., TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28. 1888.
had fancied something was going to happen,
having been full of fancies all that day.
“Well, who is it wants to see me?” Ire asked
querulously. “Who’s come all of a liuot to
ask after my health and to wish mo joy ot B?”
“It’s a young girl.”
“Eh?”
“A foreigner—German, without doubt, or
Dutch, perhaps.”
“Eh?"
“A pretty girl, but very pale.”
“Eh ? oil, go on. With glass crosses in her
ears?”
“Why, yes. But have—”
“And what’s her name, Martin?” he asked
now, very eagerly.
“Bertha Keefeiand!”
“No— no—no —that’s a lie. That’s a dread
ful lie of somebody’s,” he roared forth, sud
denly. “I tell you it can’t be!”
"<J, but it is, uncle.” I exclaimed ; “and she’s
come, sho says, for the sandal-wood box which
was loft here to bo called for.”
“There's no sandal-wooilbox,” he exclaimed,
in the same loud key. “There’s no Bertha
Keefeiand, for she has been dead these six
years. There’s no—”
And then he fell forward, with a horrible
screech,face foremost on the floor, and 1 ran to
him and picked him up.and wiped tlicdustoll
his hard, rugged cheeks and forehead, and put
linn back again in tho big chair from which ho
had pitched out. I was as sorry to see him
struck down like that as if I had loved him or
he had loved me a little, and 1 scuttled into
tiie bar again for water, for the lielp of the
young woman, who might run for a doctor for
mo or mind my uncle v.liilc I ran myself. But
the shop was empty, and there was no Bertha
Keefeiand waiting for mo to como back with
my uncle’s answer to her message.
CHAPTER iff.
The host of the Flying Fish did not recover
from the fright or the malady which had seized
him. He was one remove nearer to the end of
iris time, now; I knew as well as possible that
lie would never want his crutches any riore,
and that one of these fine days or nights he
would be sailing clean away.
He knew it himself, I think, though the doc
tor had not warned him. The doctor had left
it to me, who was not likely to be a good hand
at breaking to the old man such ncv. s as that,
and who did not caro to toll him, and thought
it was well not to tell him, as it was not likely
to do him any good. I did ask him if ho
would like to see tlie pars! n, and he swore at
me with sucli fluency for the suggestion that
I thought for a minute or two lie was getting
rappidly better. But lie wound up in a milder
fashion.
“Parsons ain’t any good to me,” ho said,
“are they?”
“Well, I don’t thinje they are much.”
“I always hated parsons. I haven't seen one,
of my own accord, since I was christened. I’ve
kept out of their way.”
“Yes, you have.”
“ 1 know I have,” he added. “I could have
told tho parson a blessed sight more than he
could have ever told me. And, besides, salt
water doesn’t mix with holy water, does it?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. You don’t know much.”
He did not say any more that day. He was
very thoughtful at times now, as he haclbeop
on tho mglit when he was spoken to.
dayl.f ills last) illnt,.is to u 'S—JUf'.-i • I'lent /
waixi nearly—he had never alluded to the girl
who had called at the Flying Fish, and whom
I bad not set eyes on since that stormy night.
And yet I believe, lie was thinking of her a
good deal, and of tho message she had sent to
him by me. Presently 1 knew he was think
ing of her, and could think of nothing else.
One day,and a very long and thoughtful day
it was to him. ho beckoned me to his bedside,
with his thick, crooked linger. He had got very
hoarse, and there was a difficulty in making
out all lie said, but I had managed it somehow
during the morning ami afternoon.
“Martin,” ho croaked forth, almost like a
raven, “I don’t fancy I’m quite as well as usual
tonight.”
“Perhaps it is fancy, uncle?”
“Am 1 looking as well ? I don't want any lies
about it!”
“I don’t see much difference in you.”
“Tlien I don’t suppose there is.' You were
never much of a liar, Martin. You have been
over particular that way, and that's bad for a
man who means to stick to business, hard and
fast.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“But I am, and that's enough, ain’t it?”
“All right,” I said, although I knew it was
all wrong, and so had begun lying on my own
account. But I did not wish the old gentleman
to get excited over any argument. “Give him
his own way,” had been the doctor’s orders;
“let him say and do what he pleases.”
“I know lam not going to get over this,
Martin,” my uncle said. “’That's all square
enough; and I’ve had my innings, and don’t
grumble. But, Martin, where the devil am I.
going to?”
“For mercy’s sake, don’t go on like this!”
“I didn’t reckon on her calling for me, on
her waiting for me,” he muttered. “Fancy her
always with mo afterward. It’s awful!”
“Do you mean—”
Then I camo to a full stop, but he under
stood me.
“Yes, I mean that girl.”
“Bertha Keefeiand ?”
“Yes, Bertha Kcefcland.”
“How can sho be waiting for you, uncle?”
“Didn’t site come two weeks ago?”
“Why, yes.”
“.She came out of her coffin,” he whispered,
“and I was waiting for her that night. She
had been upon my mind all day. I couldn’t
get her out of my mind. Sho was troubling it
very much.”
“That’s all nonsense,” I cried. “Sho was
lie b and blood. I’ll swear.”
Ill: shook his hi ad.
“No, sho wasn’t,” he said; “how could sho
be?”
I could not rcai n with him. Ho wasso con
vinced to the contrary, and I was perplexed and
goosetlc-.by. Certainly Bertha Keefeiand had
mysteriously disappeared after giving mo tho
message to my uncle, but people are always
disappearing and being advertised for, ami
turning ui> again. And this might have been
a practical joke, only—and then I thought of
a sandal-wood box, which was up stairs, and
had been upstairs for years, on the top of a
tall, double chest of drawers belong to my un
cle, and tho mystery of it was beyond my
fathoming.
But lie lot in the light upon it presently, and
it was a tod light, warning him of danger—a
light as red as blood.
“She couldn't iiavo been flesh and blood,
Martin,” ho went on slowly; “for, six years
ago, when you were away in London once, she
j camo into this house, into that shop down
■ stairs, just as she did a fortnight since, said
Bin: was Bertha Kcefcland and had called for
I the box her father bad left with me.”
“Good gracious!”
“Sho was tall and thin and pale, with glass
crosses in her ears, and sho knew very little
English and spoke it very badly. Is that tho
girl?”
“It answers tho description,” 1 answered,
witli a shudder. “Well, she has called again,
i that's all.”
“Yes, she’s certainly called again,” he re
pea'cd grimly.
“ Well, then —”
“But.” lie added, with a Fx.k which I nball I
never forget, and which silenc' d nie at oir'.o I
—a I'Xik which coni' s to me often and often in
my sleep still, ami gives mo awful nightmares I
—“I killed her on tho night she culled to see
■ me first, and for three day . her body lay behind
the big vat in tho cellar where the whi ky is, '
until one dark night I tmilt it down to tho ;
b ach, and the sea carried it away fi r inc. and 1
there wan an < nd of it, I thought. An end! As I
If there can bo an end to tilings like that—asif ;
She w ntto < ou.e ba< k some day jutt s . sho I
i iaa dene. I feel that's a clean breast of it,
Martin, and you’re not the man to put a rope
round my neck for telling you; not you.”
“No. Not 1.”
I stood and looked at him and wondered if
he were raving at the last, for I did not think
there were many more hours of life in him,
and his senses might have left him first, as
they will do sometimes, perhaps out of polite
ness. Could it be possible, I thought, that my
uncle was a murderer, that this was true, and
that the Bertha Keefeiand of a fortnight since
was a spirit from another world ? Were there,
after all, such things ns ghosts to walk tho
earth and avenge the deeds which made them
so? To look upon this agitated, earnest obi
man was to believe it almost. It seemed so
an fully like tho truth coming from those thin
white lips. And presently I did not even
doubt it.
“I don’t mind telling you the rest of it,
Martin ;. you'll understand then why I haven’t
loft you any money in my will. It’s more Ilian
twenty years ago when Casper Koefelnnd mid
I were friends first—when ho ftfll sick one day*
in this very room and was afraid he should dto
before he got: back to his native village, mid
tho wife mid baby ho had left behind him there,
lie traveled a good deal between Russia and
England, and always put up at tho Flying Fish.
The last time I am talking about—when ho
was ill, that is—he. had brought with him a box
made of sandal-wood, a legacy, ho told mo,
from a rich relation who had died in London
that year. Before he left Deal lie got tho no
tion into his head that ho should die before ho
reached home, and so ho asked me to take caro
of the box and its contents, being pretty sure
Ins mates would stick to it if ho shouldn’t- live
t > got off shipboard. For some reason, too, he
did not want ills wife to know of this at present.
•1 i’ll be a surprise to her some day,’ho said,
‘mid for Bertha. I’ll leave it with you to be
called for, Sam,’he said; ‘lt's safe with yon
as with the bank of England. Bertha shall
conic here for it some day, when sho grows to
boa woman—that’s time enough. 1 don’t want
for anything now ; lin ay then. I can trust
you. ,Sam, and 1 can only trust you to keep it
safe for her. And. if I should die before 1 get
home, you’ll take it to Germany yourself. Say
that’s a promise ?’ And 1 said ii was a promise.
So it was.”
“Well?” I gasped; “goon.”
“But Casper did get home, though Im was
taken worse on the journey. Ho was never lit
for much work again. He was something like
I’ve been of late years, Ind, I’d heard—a star
ing figure-head. astuifedGuy Fawkes, a scare
crow of tho cussedest. But ho sent mo one
line, which somebody wrote for him: ‘Keep it
till called for,’ it said ; ’till Bertha comes,’ and
1 kept it.”
“And she came?”
“Yes. Don't be in a hurry; you’re always
in such a beastly hurry,” lie said. “I haven’t
told you what was in the box.”
“Did you know?”
“One night I broke it open.”
“Oh!”
“I wasn’t particular; I never was over-par
ticular,” he said ; “and 1 wanted to be sure
what Casper was making all this fuss about.
And there were diamonds and laree gold bits
of foreign money, and then more diamonds in
the queerest settings. They fetched u lot of
money.”
“Did you sell them ?”
“I was in iWliculties,” ho continued.,'.‘l had
been tiled foi 'Smug.-ling. wef? heavy
expenses for my defense, and heavier fines to
pay, and I wanted money badly. When I
wanted money badly I always got it somehow,
and Keeleland’s jewels came in handy.”
“T,liat was dreadful.”
“Old Keefeiand took no notice, and nobody
called for tho property. 1 thought ho must
have forgotten to tell anybody about it,” ho
went on ; “that ho bad gone oft for good with
out telling wife or child—that ho had thought
1 might as well have tho things as anybody
else. Ho was so very fond of mo.”
“I wonder why that was?” I Baid.
“You mind your own business, and wonder
at what I’ve got to tell you,” growled my un
cle. “That’ll bo quite enough,” ho added,
with a shudder, which lasted so long that 1
thought lie would uhuddder himself out of the
world, ami so end himself before his story.
But ho suddenly rallied, and went on : “Ono
night, though, sho did come -Bertha Keefc
laml, at the same time, on the same sort of
night as the last, with the wind roaring down
tho street, and shaking all the windows. Sho
walked into the place, and asked me for the
box just as sho asked you, and I would have
sooner Been her ghost then. God knows 1 did
not know what to do. I had sold tho jewels
and the foreign money. 1 could only boo a
prison for me, and—and I was always a des
perate fellow in my heart of hearts. I asked
her to step into the next room—the room close
to the bar, which I always keep locked. You
guess now why ? and—and—but I’ve told you
all the rest. You know —you know! and you
have seen her risen from the dead. And she
will come once more for me, too; we shall see
her walk into this room again, you and I to
gether; now, mark my words. That’s what I
am waiting for.”
“O, don t get that info your head.”
“And I shouldn't like you to be out of the
way whi n sho calls for me instead of for tiie
box. I’m to be called for now, no dent leave
me, Martin, not lor a moment; there’s a dear
good lad.”
CHAPTER IV.
Was Uncle Nangle, after all, bo vciy bad a
specimen of a murderer, or had he learned re
pentance alter his fashion and understood what
remorse was—what atonement? Ho told mo
before he died that ho had left all his money
to tho nearest kin of Casper Keefeiand, win y
over lie or she might be; that it was on his
conscience—or wiiat ho thought liis conscience
—that this should bo the destination of his
money, which was not half ho much as people
thought he had scraped together. Ho told me
something more than this. '1 hut ho hud made
himself as hard, cruel and brute-like as bo
could to me, so that I should be glad, rather
than sorry, when ho was gone—so that there
should scorn a natural reason in his strong dis
like of me for leaving the money somewhere
else, Even after bis death no one would sus
pect him of bo babyish a tiling as restitution,
ho hoped. Ho would have liked to die “hard
as nails,” but it wiih not to bo. lie could not
have his own way in everything. Who can ?
“I wasn’t half as bad as I tried to be, Martin,
that’s all,” he said to mo the next night, when
ho was lingering on still. “I wanted you to
hate me. But you wouldn’t.’’
His voice wan a long way off now—ho was
much weaker ho could hardly lift Ills hand
from the bedclothes. Ho was not likely now
to spin me any more of his long yarns. That
very night again I was trying hard to think it
was a yarn and nothing more.
Later on he Baid in a hnlf-abscnt way and
yet in away that was strangely iinpressivo to
me:
“She hasn’t called for me yet. What a time
she keeps mo waiting!”
I put my band on his, which was fidgeting
restlessly outside the bedclothes, and Baid :
“Don’t think nuything more of such nun
sense. If it’s all true you’ve told me—"
“if!” he murmured, indignantly.
“Think of that a Lit ami Low sorry you are
now.”
Ho stared at me like a man resenting my ad
vice; then lie made a sudden effort to sit up in
I bed, and failed; lastly, he clutched my hand i
with Ixith his own. .
“I’m—called for!” ho said. “Here she is,
i by God—at last!”
He gavoa long Klgh.shut his eyes, and died ; i
: and the breath had not been out of his worn
old body half a minute before, to my horror
! and amaz.' iuent,the door v. ns slowly and softly
I opened, and tbero stole into tho room thoyoung
I woman, or the ghost of the young woman, who
I a fortnight since bad told me that her name
■ was Bertha Keefeiand.
I thought in that moment it was the ghost of ;
i Bertha—a ghost with gla-. earring.l -ter my i
nerves were, unstrung; my uncle was just dead,
and his story was not four-and-twenty hours
old. I cowered from her among tho bed cur
tains. I was not half a man for tho next live
minutes. 1 could hear my heart pounding
away inside me like a steam hammer.
Here a very natural woman’s voice ex
claimed :
“Dead! Oh, is he dead, my poor old father's
friend?”
I looked round the curtains at her; sho was
bending over him witli tears of interest in her
blue eyes. She had put a little hand upon his
cold, hard forehead. Sho was so uncommonly
unlike a ghost that I could not bolievo in Un
do Samuel’s story any mojo. His brain had
given way in his old age, and that was tho ex
planation of it. An odd eoineidenco or two—
life is nil coincidences had helped to mako
the yarn remarkable, and that was all,
“flow long has ho been dead?” shoasked, in
a whisper, and as if afraid sho might wake
him.
“Just a minute.”
“I heard in Deal that ho was very ill, and I
camo to you at once. I could not make any
body hear in the shop, so I thought I would
not run away again, but come up stairs to where
the footsteps were. I guessed ’ what was hap
poning,” sho said, sorrowfully, “and I had
hoped to see him once before liis death ; to give
him j.oor father’s message—father's thanks,”
“You—you have never seen him before
then ?”
“Never.”
“You have never been in England before
this year?” I asked.
“Never.”
“And you are Bertha Keefeiand—Casper
Keefeland's daughter?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’oorold Uncle Nangle.” I inarm tired, look
ing at him, “how your mind wandered at tho
last, to be sure.”
“Did ho speak of me?” sho asked.
“Yes, I should rather think he did.”
“My coming to England distressed him a
deal, reminding him, I dare say, so much of
father.”
“Hum! perhaps it did.” ,
“ 'Don’t tell him everything too suddenly—
he's old. like me,’ said my father, before bo
died,” she continued; “give him plenty of
time to think matters over—say you’ll call
again, or anything.' And when, a fortnight
ago, I heard him shriek out alter you had ta
ken in my me sage to him, I felt 1 had been
too hasty, and 1 crept away at once, giving him
more time, ns father wished.”
“Oh! 1 see.”
“Sen what?”
“That your father was a wonderfully consid
erate man. And yet—”
“And yet?” she repeated.
“My uncle never seemed exactly tho man
for anybody to be considerate about,” 1 con
cluded.
“My father liked him very much always. I
don’t think you could have understood your
uncle,” she said, thoughtfully, almost re
proachfully.
“Well, I suppose I didn’t,” I confessed.
“I have a lit tie more to say—but,” aim added,
with a shiver, “is there any reason I should
say it hero? Any reason we should stop hero
longer?”
“No. Please como down-stairs.” I answered.
,\i’e wpp.ttetlm bur parlor, where sbn sat
dwn In fey uncle’s ?Lafr, nnrl lookod Jra'd at
me. Sho wis a very pretty German girl, I
thought.
“Now, about the box,"' she said, “I don't
wish to trouble you concerning it till after your
uncle’s funeral. I will simply ask you to take
extra caro of it, now that it is In your solo
custody, ami not in tho good man’s up-stairs,
who has held it ill faithful trust for me so long.
I may toll you even there uro jewels of con
siderable value in it, and I am very poor. That
may interest you, perhaps—for my sake,” Bho
added, with a. faint little smile.
“To ho sure,” I answered, heartily, “and
that it docs. But—”
She waited for mo to proceed, looking at mo
anxiously.
“But before liis death my uncle spoke of
those jewels, and said—whether in his Bober
senses or oui of them, the Lord knows, Miss
Keefeiand—lluit—that,” I stannnered forth,
“he had turned tho jewels into money.”
“Why should ho have done that?”
“As a kind of loan, perhaps,” I suggested.
“His statement was not very clear, and, ns
there was a ghost mixed up with it, I could not
make it out exactly; but the long and the short
of it is, he has left all his money, every scrap
of it to you.”
“To me 1”
“To tho next-of-kin of Casper Keefeiand.
That is you, 1 hope?” I asked, nervously, “or
tho poor old boy has made a pretty mess of
it.”
“Yen; it is I.”
“That's all right. I'm glad.”
“But you are his nephew—should bo his
heir,” Bho exclaimed. “What has ho loft
you?”
“He lias not thought of me in any way.”
“(th, that is wrong!”
“No; I think it is right,” I answered.
“How can it be?”
“How inn anything bo?” I said, in my des
perate bewilderment. “Don’t try to make out
anything just yet, Miss Keefeiand, please. If
you had only camo before— years and yours be
fore!”
“ I was taking caro of father, and he only
spoke of tin; box a few months ago, and just
before he died. It had passed out of his
memory completely, he said. Ho was a very
forgetful man ; and,” she added, thought fully,
,‘ns ho had many troubles, It was just as
well.”
“Yes,” I assented, “I should Bay so.”
“1 should not have bc< n surprised if tho box
had been missing altogether,” sho remarked.
“1 was prepared to hear you tell mo that when
I first called here.”
“Why?” 1 asked, cautiously.
“Thcio was some one who knew tho box was
here—my father's second wife and a Bertha
Keefeiand, too. My father had told her of it
once. He remembered that he had spoken of
it to her.”
I felt a creeping up my back now.
“ Your father’s second wile,” I repeated in a
husky whisper.
“Yes. He married her a year or two after
ho had come back from Deal for tho hist time.
Married her for a nurse and to take caro of
mo, left niotberlcM. And sho was too wild
and passionate and - and wicked. (She desert
ed him.”
“Wiiat—what has becorno of her?”
“I don’t know. Sho left a letter on tho
table, one night, stating that she could bear her
life no longer and must go away from him and
me. She was then about the ago I am,”
Bertha added, thoughtfully. “She was much
too young for father, Un was very fond of
her, though ; n! n.r sho had left him ho made
her dress like her, and wear ornaments like
mo, too. It was a strange fancy.”
Yes. I raw tho story now, 1 thought, from
its Bhadowy beginning to its end. The young
wife of Cnsjier Keefeiand, after deserting her
husband, had come to the Flying Fish for tho
sandal-wood box, hud como with a lying mes
sage frem Casper, and met her death in
coming.
Uncle Nangle's confession was true, after
till. Bit by bit I Bil led it out. 'The old man
had kilftld the wrong Bertha Keefeiand, and
year after year it lieeamo more and more plain
I to nie more and more of a terrible tale of
i temptation and cupidity. Let mo turn away
’ freCii it for good—it will be known only to
, Bertha and me until this hand is mill whicli
i puts the record on paper.
Bertini is my nite. She came into my
| uncle’s money, and, as she insisted upon Bliar-
Ing it witli me, we made up our minds just to
sliaro our lives together os well, and so round
the story like an orange.
And lie moral of this story always strikes
I tno its A queer one. if Uncle Nr.ngle had not
I murdered Caspar Keefeland's second Wile I
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
should have never married Bertha Kcefcland
and been happy for the rest of my days.
Bertha says I must not put it down as murder,
but then she always looks on tho bright side of
everything.
HOW INDIANS FIGHT.
Fictitious Itepiitatlons Hold by Many ot the
Savage Tribes of the Far West.
From the St louis i ost-Dispatch.
“I have had many years’ experience as pur
chaser of saddle horses,” remarked a major of
cavalry on his way to Chicago to a I’ost-Dis
pntch reporter in tho corridor of tho Southern
hotel this morning, “having been a member of
horse boards for tlio last thirty years, and hav
ing bought cavalry horses for the United States
service. I therefore feel that I know whereof
I speak when 1 say that the supply of good
saddle horses in tho country is smaller than it
has been nt any time since the war. Ido not
mean that there uro fewer thoroughbreds, for
there are probably more, but horses suitable
for other purposes than racing and park
use are becoming inter every day, and although
the price paid by tlio government is higher than
it. has been for tho last twenty years, it is very
difficult to seciiro proper mounts for the cav«,
airy, while ten or even five years ago at lease
three times as many horses able to pass muster
were presented as the advertisements called
for. The horses that wore raised in the coun
try districts of Kentucky and Missouri wero
splendid animals for all around use, but now
there seems to bo nothing between tho weedy,
delicate racer good for a mite dash, but who
would break down in a three days’ forced
march, and the heavy animal that does excel
lently for wagon or light artillery use, hut. is
too slow and clumsy for the cavalry. Evon
when wo got a horse that lias at once bone and
stamina it is nearly always the case that he him
a long back, that curse of tho cavalry horse,
for weak kidneys are inevitably tho result after
ono season’s campaign. Dorse hoards now
have to go over the country with n fine-toothed
comb to finil tlio active, short-coupled horses
that are tho best for service and which used
•to be found on every largo farm. Unless some
thing is done by tho breeilors tho splendid sad
dle horses tor which the Mississippi valley
once was famous will entirely disappear,
“1 have served on the plains m arly contin
uously for more than thirty-live years,” con
tinued the speaker, “and am tolerably familiar
witli all the features of cm airy life. A cavalry
man always hies a fiontior stat ion and only sees
civilization during his brief leaves. Civilians
do not realize tlio hardships ami exposures to
vi h ich a cavalryman is subjected. ILu has sea
sons of idleness, but also long periods of great
exertion, and-as u proof of the effect of his life
it can be safely stated that scarcely one man
out of ton roaches tlio ago of forty-live with
out being seriously broken down. Indian cam
paigns are the cause ot this. 1 have fought
and chased Indians from tho British lines to
tho Rio Grande, and know whut campaigning
means. Tho Indians always got a tremendous
start of the cavalry, and seldom are overtaken.
The army has been blamed for its ill success,
but when the circumstances are understood, it
is wonderful that bo much has been accom
plished. The Indians never attempt to
commit outrages in tho vicinity of an army
post, and news seldom used to arrive until
twenty-four lioms i,".moy end the
a long . f; arty Always they
arc provided with roti iuits, the loose iiorsen
being driven before tlfir bund, and when an
animal shows signs of fatigue another is re
mounted and tho flight continued on a fresh
animal. Horses arc ulho stolon wherever mot
with and the consoquonoe fa that the trooper,
who is confined to the use of a single animal,
has a i>oor chance of overtaking the Indians.
As a general thing they can fight or escape as
they please, and never do the former except in
overwhelming numbers. Tho fatigues of one
these fruitions marches, generally made on
short rations to secure celerity of movement
by avoiding currying baggage, can well be
imagined, and the condition of man and Leant
after a two months’ campaign is wretched in
tlio extreme.
“Nowadays she active Indian campaigning
is confined to Arizona, but when I was a young
man the northern Sioux, northern Cheyennes,
I’legans and Blackfoot in tho north, tho south
ern Sioux and the Cheyennes and Arapahoe*
on tho central plains and tlio Comanches and
K iowas, south of the Arkansas, kept us busy
all the time, of all these Indians tiio .iiowas
were tlio best drilled, it being hard to distin
guish them from the dragoons at a distance of
two or three miles. The Comanches never de
served their reputation, as they were poor
fighters, doing well against tho Mexicans, but
never standing against United Stales troops.
The Cheyennes were noted far and wide as
tho most determined and fiercest lighters,
but their onergics wcroj more constantly
directed against their hereditary enemies,
the Utcs, then against the whites. Tlio
Sioux were tho largest mid most powerful
tribo, and gave us tuoro trouble than any oth
ers. They were in theh way as well drilled as
tho Kiowas, I myself having seen a single
chief direct tho movements ot a thousand
warriors, scattered over an extent of country
five miles in diameter, Bimply by tho flashing
of a littlo mirror held in the hand. The Black
feet, being foot Indians, were more easily
reached, and after one or two lessons never
gave nny more trouble, although last winter
they threatened an outbreak. The Crows and
J’awni ' H, being hated liy all other tribes, were
our allies and made our best trailers. The
L ies, while less daring than the I’lains In
dians, fr >m their situation in tho mountains,
were enabled to ambush tho troops very easily
and many lives have been lost in this way.
Fighting withal was rather a run than a com
bat and tho troops had for many years
littlo chanco against them on account of
their groat celerity of movement. It was
not. until tho winter of 1878, when General
Nelson A. Miles began his series of winter
campaigns tlmt the plain Indians wore
thoroughly subduod. That officer followed
their trail in the coldest weather, drove them
from their winter camps, rind although unable
to overtake them, kept them constantly on tho
move. The Indian.-;, sensitive to cold,’ and ill
provided with clothing, died like sheep of
hardship and exposure and ono by ono the
bands, fairly tired out, came in, surrendered
and were disarmed and put on reservations.
Tho winter campaign more than anything
<he broke the power of the plains tribes, but
at terrible expense to tho troops, who wore
exposed to tho fury of the western storms in
tho coldest months of tho year. The young
sters in the army regret the disappearance of
the Indians, but wo old follows, who know
what a winter inarch is, nr<> most thankful
that they are over, probably forever.”
Dream, Baby, Dream.
cn.IDLE HONO.
Darling, lay your tired bond down,
And take a trip to Hloepy-town.
Dick up all tlio drentiis you see
And bring them home to tell to me.
Dream you're a honey Lee poised on a rose,
Draining tlio dew where tho deep color gLwa.
Dream you're a Illy fair, stately ami white.
Folding your ;>etul» to sleep all tho night.
Dr-am you're a twinkling star up In the sky,
t,ut don't stay there leu;;, my pet, stars are so hlglfc -.
Im urn you’re* a vlolc' hiding your head,
8 * :<j Ircm the chilly v.iuds, tu mossy bed.
I r . nm you're a really sht 11, deep In a cave.
Nestling by corals and washed by the wave.
Dream you’re a butt -rfly, golden and gey.
Wooing the swoelest flow ers all tine leug day.
Dream you're a silver bell ringing the hours,
To waken the fairies that sleep in the flowers.
Drcam on, sweet baby, dream of nil bllrs.
Till you wake like a ruN*bud for mamma to klsa,
—Maiy U, Hungerford.
