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RPtR, PL XV!
Mow the furnae** arc <nii
And the actin# anvil*
Down the road the rrimy rout
Trample* homeward twenty deep.
Piper, play! Piper, play!
Though we be o'erla'iored men,
Pipe for rest, pipe yonr beat,
Let u* foot it once again!
Bridled loom* delay their diu;
All the humming wheel* are spent;
9u«y spindle* cease to spin ;
Warp and woof must rest content.
Piper, play! Piper, play!
For n little wo are free!
Foot it. girl*, and shake your curl*.
Haggard creatures though we be!
We are of the humblest grade,
Yet we dare to dance our Hi).
Malo and female were we made,
Father*, mothers, lovers still!
Pipet—softly ; low and soft.
Pipe of love in mellow notes
Till the tears begin to flow
And our hearts are in our throats.
—John Duncan.
“HERE’S FOR YORK.”
Ere I could step across the kitch
en to unbar the door the knock
came again, sharp and hard, as
though the man without were in no
mood for delay. I lifted the latch
and threw wide the door and in the
light of the lantern saw his hand
lifted in act to knock again.
“In the king’s name!” says he,
with one foot across the threshold.
“And welcome,” says I, and made
way for him.
He stopped, glancing over his
shoulder at the horse.
“Nay,” says I, “have him in too.
There is naught to spoil,” I says,
looking round mo, “but if there
were he were welcome. We are for
the king,” says I, willing to make
him comfortable on the main point.
He pulled the horse inside. When
I turned to it from barring the door,
I saw with a glance that there was
not another half mile left in it. The
next moment it had dropped to the
floor, with a sharp groan.
“ ’Tis the most cursed luck,” says
he. “Sure, I have been followed by
ill fortune”— He broke off and
looked suspiciously at the door and
window. “You are-well protected,
master,” he says, turning his eyes
to mine.
“Wo can stand a tilt,” says I.
“Rest easy on that score.”
“A quart of old ale made hot and
poured down its throat, ” says I as
much to myself as to him, “will do
It no harm and may do it much
good.”
Standing by the pan and keeping
my fingers in the draft that I had
mixed so that I could tell when
the right heat was attained, I took
a careful look at the man at my
side. He was of my own size and
build—a tall, spare fellow, with a
deep chest and square shoulders,
straight as a pikestaff and having a
certain stern look about his mouth
and eyes. His uniform was very
plain, but there were jewels in the
hilt of hissword, and the feathers
that drooped from his hat, draggled
as they were, were rich and thick,
as a gallant’s should bo.
Between us we poured the ale
down the poor beast’s throat.
“There’s naught to hope for in
him tonight,” says he gloomily.
“ ’Tis my usual ill fortune”—
He gave me a quick, curious stare.
“So you are for the king, farm
er?” he says. “ 'Sdeath, ’tis a piece
of the rarest luck that I chanced to
knock at your door. I am at the
most desperate pass, but you are for
the king, eh?” says he with empha
sis.
“I said so and mean so,” says I.
“ ’Tis necessary to be sure of
things in these times,” says he,
with a sigh of relief, “and I have
that to tell you which I would not
willingly tell to the king’s lightest
enemy. Hero 1 am, ”he says, low
ering his voice, “carrying a dispatch
of the strictest importance to Ru
pert and Newcastle at York. Hark
you, farmer, ’tis the king’s own
signature that foots it, and I find
myself stopped”—his eyes wander
ed to the horse—“and followed”—
They turned uneasily to the door.
“Followed?” says 1.
“As I said, ” says ho coolly enough.
"They have been at my heels for
the last ten miles. Three of them
there are, and all well mounted.
Plague take them!”
“They are without, then,” says I.
“They were within 200 yards of
me when I turned in at your gate,”
says he. “But where they are now
the Lord knows.”
I opened the shutter of the hatch
and got out into the little garth be
tween the great ash and the hedge
row, taking good heed not to crack
even a dry twig, when I became
aware of the three troopers.
They were out on the road, and
each man sat his horse in such a
strict quietness that you might have
sworn horse and man were of
bronze or marble.
“That he turned in here,” says
one, “is certain. Why he turned
aside is not so certain. But if he
carries dispatches for Rupert at
York ’tis certain that he must go
northward and along this road.
And so the question is where to
stay him in his progress. ”
“I know this country, every inch
of it,” says the third man. “Leave
it to me. Two miles ahead lies
Marshford common—there’s no like-
Hwspot ’twixt here and York—ae
flcsolato a waste it is as you could
wish. ”
Then tin y talked again, and the
end of It was that they backed their
borsee into the coppice and waited
for his coming forth.
The man sat on the edge of the
table just as I had left him. “They
are without,” I says, turning to
ward the fire. “They will wait your
going forth and then follow you to
Marshford common, where they
purpose to take you in the rear.”
“Do they so?” says he. “But
come, master farmer, are we to be
outwitted by three crop eared
Roundheads”
“ ’Tis the king's dispatch,” says I.
His eyes fixed themselves on mine,
and I saw the white teeth shut slow
ly down on his lip.
“There is some plan in your
head, ” says he.
I sat down on the settle. He look
ed at me for a moment and then put
his band within his doublet and
drew’ out a thin packet of paper. It
was tied about with a skein of blue
silk, and there was writing on each
side of the knot. His finger pointed
to a word in the corner. “Come,”
says he, “your plan, farmer,” and
he put back the packet.
“I am not without horses,” says
I. I glanced him up and down. “We
are much of a build,” I says. “If I
were on one horse and in your uni
form and you w’ere on another in
my clothes,” I says, “and if I took
the road across the common, and
you followed one that I can tell you
of— Do you see what I mean?”
says I.
“By heaven!” says he. “And if we
come through with it the king shall
reward you fittingly. But ’tis more
like to end in your death,” he says,
and shakes his head.
“I'll take my chance of that,”
says I. “Come, is it settled between
us?”
“Are you a married man?” says
he. “Have you wife and children?”
“Neither the one nor the other,”
says I.
“A mother, then?” says he.
“In the churchyard, two miles
away,” says I.
He nodded and once more looked
me up and down, ending with a
long stare into my face.
“I take your offer, friend,” says
he and held out his hand. “My
name is Eustace Blunt.”
“Mine is Stephen Mann,” says I,
with my hand in his.
“No better man in England,”
says he, with a laugh at his own
wit. “Come, I am in your hand,
Stephen. What do we do first?”
“First I shall set out, leading my
horse across the paddock to the
front gate, thence to ride along the
highroad. Give me a good ten min
utes’ start ere you set forth your
self. When your time is up, follow
the highroad for half a mile and
then turn to your right. You will
find yourself in a grass lane. You
will follow it for a good three miles
ere you come to a signpost, but
when you come to that you are on
the straight road to York again.
And so farewell,” says I.
Before I had ridden a quarter of a
mile along the road I heard the
steady pounding of their horses’
feet behind me. I turned in the sad
dle and looked back. They came
over a slight rise in the road, riding
abreast. There was that in the
steadiness of their pace that gave
me a notion of their resolution in
the matter.
I might have been half way be
tween the end of the lane where
Blunt was to turn off, according to
my directions, and the firs t stretch
of the common, when a sudden
thought caused me to clap my hand
to the pocket of my coat. The sur
prise that came to me as my fingers
closed on the dispatch that should
have been in Blunt’s care and not
in mine made me pull up the horse.
There I was in possession of his
majesty’s dispatch, a tiling of the
strictest importance, and behind
me rode three Roundhead troopers
that were anxious enough to lay
fingers on it. As for Blunt, that
' should have had it in keeping, he
was by that time riding into the
narrow lane a mile in the rear.
The common suddenly widened
out before me. I saw Dick Pritt’s
granary roof shine white in the
moonlight, for all that we were a
good mile and a half from it.
The three of them, still riding
close together, were within 200
yards of me. The moonlight struck
the polished steel of their breast
pieces.
There were four square miles of
common, and ’twas as tricky a bit
of land as a man might find in a
day’s march. There was a ditch
here and a marsh there and both
well hidden by the long, rank grass
that grew thick all over the place.
A man that did not know the lay of
the ground and rode his horse across
it with a loose rein was more likely
to come to grief than not. Nay, if
he came within measurable distance
of Butter Bum hole, he was likely
to leave horse, saddle and bridle in
its black depths and think himself
lucky if he escaped with his life.
Ere I had ridden 20 yards into the
rank grass the three men gave a
sudden shout and dashed across the
I i ><ll 1 1 m* i i
: common t*» intercept me. I could
' have laughed with glee. They had
not gone n dozen strides ere the
foremost horse went knee deep in a
j ditch and flung its rider over its
J head. I was in the hope the horse
j had broken a leg, poor beast, but in
a trice the trooper had picked him
self up and remounted.
Butter Bum hole was in front. I
must rid myself of one if not two of
them in its black depths. If all
three would but ride into it and
sink 50 fathoms deep, there would
, be less need for all the bother that
I foresaw ere his majesty’s dispatch
es left my hands.
When I had suffered them to come
within 30 yards of me, the moon
suddenly disappeared behind a bank
|of clouds. But she suddenly peeped
I out through a little rift, and on the
instant I heard a sharp report and
caught the whistle of a bullet as it
flew past my head.
I went on slowly, holding my
horse back and at the same time
calling loudly on his to hasten.
There was not a yard between
them as they came to the hole, and
each rode at a rattling pace. You
would have thought they were
clearing the whole thing, but the
man on the left seemed suddenly to
drop to the earth, and over him roll
ed the fellow in the middle. The
man on the right, following the
path that I had taken, pulled up his
beast with a jerk that threw it on
its haunches, and I saw him turn to
gaze at the men and horses rolling
and wallowing in the mud.
“Farewell, my masters,” said I
and laughed long and loud as I can
tered off. But I was reckoning a bit
too soon, for he sent another bullet
after me that took off my hat.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw
that the man who had escaped the
marsh was following me with deter
mination. He had evidently seized
the situation and made up his mind
to follow my plans. So in and out
we wound, over a ditch here and
through a cluster of gorze bushes
there, and he made no such foolish
mistake as to try to cut me off or
to take a shorter route, but held on
at my heels.
The horse tucked his big thighs
under him and tossed his head.
Faith, I believe he loved the spirit
of the thing as dearly as his rider.
And so we went straight across
what bit of common there was, and,
skimming Dick Pritt’s new fence
like a swallow, landed in the lush
grass of the home garth.
There were yet three meadows be
tween me and the signpost, and it
was good going over all of them.
The air rushed around my hatless
head; the stars seemed to dance all
across the heavens; the hedgerows
shot up in front like ghosts, but we
were over and through them and
settled into our stride again before
I had time to count one.
1 saw the signpost—a black, two
armed thing—outlined against the
sky at the corner of the last field.
We were close on the hedgerow
then, and as I settled down for the
leap I heard Blunt’s horse clattering
up the narrow lane to my right.
The moon sailed out of the cloud
bank. We started at each other.
“Ah!” said he, “the troopers”—
“Two of ’em in Butter Bum hole,”
says I. “The third”—
But the third must have ridden a
rare horse, for at that instant he
dropped over the hedge with a
force that made the ground shake.
We had drawn rein in the middle of
the highroad, and he caught sight
of us and came forward. But within
a dozen paces his beast swayed and
fell, tumbling him off into the dust.
In spite of all his Roundheadedness
he rapped out a roaring curse.
“’Twas the rarest adventure,” I
says. “I wouldn’t ha’ missed it for
the world.”
“Why, faith, ” says he, “you make
me envious. The lane was tame
enough, a mere matter of straight
ahead work.”
He said naught of the dispatch.
But at the corner of Dead Man’s
copse I drew rein and held out my
hand. “I’ll go home,” said I. “You
have no further need of me. We will
exchange horses and clothes as you
return.”
“Let me keep my thanks till
then,” says he, giving me his baud.
“Tomorrow or the next day we shall
meet again, Master Stephen.”
But ere he broke into a canter I
pulled him up and wheeled about
again.
‘Ha! ’ says I. “I had almost for
gotten to give you the dispatch,”
and I handed it over. ‘The dis
patch? said he. “The dispatch?
But surely”—
“So you did not know that I had
it?’ says I. “Faith, but it lay very
neai my heart, and without more
ado I turned about and cantered off,
leaving him there in the moonlight’
staring open mouthed at the packet
in his hand.—Pearson’s Weekly.
Anything to Save Her.
“They tell me, Grumpy, that your
daughter is wedded to music.”
“I should say that she was from
the noise she makes, but I’ve offered
her £IO,OOO to get a divorce and
would double the offer on & pinch.”
—Detroit Free Press.
I WHAT THE CAP HELD.
The night had closed in about an
hour. A keen wind bad risen to
westward on the Thames, beating
;up gustily against the strong flood
tide. Hard by London bridge a small
skiff could be dimly seen nearing
the headlight at Queenhithe stairs.
At the foot of these stairs stood a
man in a pilot cap, peering down
stream. His face expressed a con
tradictory look of the hunter and
the hunted. It was as though a
sense of intense fascination and
dread had been simultaneously
roused. From his point of view one
could see the b’oad back of a man
who worked at a pair of sculls and
beyond, in the boat’s stern, the eager
, uplifted face of a girl.
The girl, who was steering, sud
denly uttered a cry.
“What’s up, Sue?” said the man
at the sculls.
“Look, look, Martini It’s Andrew
I Mawle. ”
“What?” The other cast a quick
glance over his shoulder.
At this moment Mawle crouched
down and dropped into a boat along
side the stairs. The tide carried him
out into the darkness.
“Step ashore, Sue. I’ll not.lose
him tonight.”
She stepped lightly on to the low
est stair that the tide had left un
covered. Catching at the chain, she
leaned forward over the water and
whispered, “You’ll be wantingdad’s
help, won't you?”
“Yes, at ebb tide.”
“Where?”
“The two red lights.”
The girl nodded, and then, hav
ing watched Martin’s boat glide in
to the shadows where the other
boat had vanished, she began to as
cend the steps.
At the toi) of Queenhithe stairs
there is a narrow roadway. On one
side stands a row of small houses
at right angles to the river, and on
the other side there is a low wall.
Over this wall lies the diminutive
dock or harbor of Queenhithe.
The girl unlocked the door of
the house nearest the riverside. She
found herself in a cozy little room
where the fire was burning cheer
fully. She locked the door and then
sat down beside the hearth without
removing her hat or cloak. She sat
for awhile looking anxiously into
the fire. Presently she glanced at
the case clock and started up.
“Why, it’s near ebb tide. I won
der,” said she, stepping to the win
dow and staring out, “where’s fa
ther?”
An impulse entered Sue’s head.
Why not go and meet Martin Cart
wright at the two red lights in her
father’s place? I
She stood hesitating, even shrink
ing back from the window, as the
project began to take clearer shape
in her brain, and a scared look came
into her dark eyes. But she quickly
mastered her fears, and, having
wrapped a woolen scarf about her
neck, as less cumbersome than her
cloak, she went out into the night.
Her father’s boat was moored
alongside the stairs. She quickly
loosened the rope, and with a twist
or two of the sculls she had the skiff
out in midstream. The two red
lights marked the spot where a ves
sel had been recently sunk.
“Sue!”
She looked round, recognizing
Martin's voice, and under the glim
mer of the two red lamps she saw
his boat lying against a barge hard
by. She glided alongside, and he
Stepped into her boat.
“Yes, Martin,” she said, “it's
me.”
She then hastened to explain why
she had resolved to come. “Have 1
acted right?” she asked. “I’m
ready to face any danger. Tell me
what’s to be done.”
Martin had sunk down in the
IF BUSINESS
IS BETTER
This fall the men who ad
vertise will get the most
of it, as they always do in
good times, or dull times.
Those who are after
their share of the business
and as much more as they
can get, are now making
their preparations to se
cure it.
To reach the people of
Chattooga the NEWS is
the medium to use, The
maximum of advertising
service at a mere nominal
cost.
CASTOR IA
For Infants and Children.
•tern. He held a dark lantern in hl* I
hand, and while Sue Lawson atHl
spoke he throw a flash from it upon
the girl’s face. Ho thought at that
moment that he had never seen a
braver.
“Yes. I’ll tell you what’s to be
done. Help me if you will. I’m go
ing to capture Andrew Mawle at
ebb tide.”
“Tonight?” Sue whispered eager
ly
“In ten minutes’ time,” was the
reply. “I’ve discovered his hiding
place, and”—
“Where?”
“I'm going to steer there now, ”
said Martin. “Keep your place at
the sculls.”
“Are you ready?” said Sue.
“Ready!”
The boat began to move quietly
up stream.
The girl was fully aware that the
expedition upon which she had now
embarked, in response to a word
from Cartwright, was one fraught
with considerable danger. The very
thought of Andrew Mawle had more
than once roused in her the most
serious inquietude. While the man
was still a clerk at Sherwood’s bank,
where Sue Lawson had lately
lived in the manager’s service, his
dark, evil eye had frequeutly ex
cited in her woman’s nature a sense
of inexplicable repulsion.
She was no coward, but the recol
lection of Mawle's face one night—
the face of one pursuing and pur
sued—in a crowded, lamplit street
had caused her to run homeward,
with terror at her heart, as hur
riedly as though there had been no
one to defend her within sight or
call.
Upon that very same night, as she
had reason to remember,Sherwood’s
bank had been robbed. A box con
taining a large sum in notes and
gold had disappeared from Sher
wood’s strong room. No doubt ex
isted that Andrew Mawle, who bad
failed to report himself at the bank
since the affair happened, was the
sole culprit. A big reward had been
offered for his arrest.
For some days past Sue had
known that Martin was on the man’s
track. But she had shrunk instinc
tively from taking any part in the
pursuit. Her terror of him had in
creased. It was only her passionate
love for Martin Cartwright that had
given her the courage of which she
had such desperate need tonight.
They were now gliding into the
black shadow under the archway of
a huge bridge. When fairly out on
the other side, Cartwright said:
“Sue, we will now turn about. Easy,
Sue. Now, mind, be ready to unship
the moment I give the word.”
The boat was moving upon an al
most motionless tide and soon drop
ped down stream under another arch
of the same bridge. Then Cart
wright whispered:
“Now.”
The sculls were instantly unship
ped, and by the light of his lantern
Cartwright contrived to steer along
side the masonry. Next moment he
had seized a rope dangling against :
the side and was standing up, with <
the boat stationary beneath him.
“Catch hold, Sue. I’m going up i
hand over hand on to a ledge in the
ironwork overhead. That’s where
that precious box is stowed. Steady.
Now give me three minutes, and
the thing’s done.”
He left her no time for possible
vacillation. There was no choice but 1
for her to grasp the rope with a des- ]
perate grip as he began to ascend.
A few moments of intense anxiety ;
followed. Sue Lawson felt the rope 1
go slack. Martin had hoisted him- • <
self up, and she concluded that he 1
was perched safely on the iron gird- i
ers. But no sound reached her from i
overhead. i
She was on the point of whisper- ]
ing, “Is all well?” when a cry, as
though some oue had received a ;
keen stab, caught her ear. Next mo- |
ment something fell heavily beside ! <
the boat. The water was splashed j
up upon her hands and face (
The first thought that came into (
the girl’s head was about the box.
It had dropped out of Cartwright’s
hand and had fallen into the river, j
but next moment she became aware (
that some one was struggling in the
water within a yard of the boat.
Had Martin Cartwright lost his ,
foothold and tumbled between the ,
beams into the Thames? In an in
stant she had let go her hold upon ,
the rope and had seized the lantern
lying in the stern ready at hard.
She cast a searching light into tne
river in the direction in which she
had heard the splash. Nothing cross
ed the circle of light.
And now the tide had turned. The
boat was drifting. She bent eagerly i
over the stern, still searching. A
sense of dread lest Cartwright
should be carried away, carried be
yond reach of her aid, had taken a (
hold upon her. She had opened her . ,
lips to utter his name. But of a sud- j'
den the light fell distinctly upon the 1
face of a man, his head uncovered, ,
vigorously breasting the ebb tide. I j
The faee was uplifted to her own. i j
She uttered a stifled cry, and the j .
lantern which she still held over the ■ *
water fell from her hand. ’
It was the face of Andrew Mawle.
j Sue Lawson’s boat had drifts a i.
‘ most within touch of Queonhitba
Btair# upon tho increasing ebb tide
before the girl had fully recovered
from her sense of overmastering
Btupefactiop. It now crossed her
thoughts to go and secure her fa
ther's aid in the rescue of Martin
Cartwright from his perilous posi
tion. As she landed the girl looked
back, dreading she might find An
drew Mawle at her heels. She peer
ed down—down into the dark river
on all sides—but he was nowhere to
be seen.
At this moment a stalwart figure
with a lantern appeared at the head
of the stairs.
‘‘Why, girl! What's to do?”
Fathei! Martin needs you.
Como.”
It was not until she had seated
herself in the stern of their boat,
her father at the sculls, that she
could find breath to tell him every
thing.
They had brought the boat along
side, at last, under the dark arch.
Lawson had found the rope still
dangling against the wall. This rope
was fixed to one of the iron girders,
and the ascent by this means was
mere child's play to a man like Sue’s
father, accustomed to riverside
work.
Sue watched him intently as he
went up with the handle of the lan
tern between his teeth, but sue
spoke no word. Presently her fa
ther's shadow fell upon her.
“Steady there!”—and he looked
down between the girders—“l’m
a-comin aboard. ”
“Isn't,” she asked falteringly,
“isn’t Martin there?”
“Steady,girl—steady 1 There ain't
nobody up hero.”
Sue clutched at the rope with
which she was holding tho boat
against the ebbing water under the
arch—clutched at it with a frantic
grip. Then she raised her face, and
the lantern in her father's hand
showed upon it a wild look of de
spair.
“Father, he has murdered him.
Andrew Mawle has murdered him
up there where you are kneeling
now.”
Days went by. No tidings of Mar
tin Cartwright came to the little
house at Queenhithe stairs, and Sue,
no less than her father, began to re
gard his disappearance as a mystery
that would never be solved. But
one night, while Sue sat brooding
over the hearth, her father burst in
upon her;
“Sue, I’ve found him. Come
alonger me.”
Some boats’ lengths below the
bridge Lawson indicated a great
barge, toward which he instructed
the girl to steer. Presently Sue
found herself shivering over the
galley fire on board, while her fa
ther helped to make the boat fast.
“Sue, my girl,” said he, pointing
to the barge cabin, “steji aft and go
below. There! There ain’t nothin
to be afeered on, nothin at all.”
Still shivering, for Andrew
Mawle’s face was haunting her
mind’s eye, she hesitatingly obey
ed. The cabin was lighted by an oil
lamp, and when she reached the last
step on the ladder she looked about.
A man was lying in the berth on
the larboard side. She went noise
lessly forward and peered down in
to the face.
‘ ‘Martin I Can it l>e ? ”
He lay with closed eyes and a
face so worn and pale that she al
most doubted if he lived. Cart
wright, however, soon recovered,
and one day, while ’still aboard the
barge, he related how the bargee,
dropping down stream in his boat,
had heard his groans and had has
tened to his rescue. He had received
a serious stab from Andrew Mawle
which had almost deprived him of
his life.
“Did you discover the box?” Sue
asked.
“No, nothing,” said Cartwright,
“nothing except Mawle's cap. I
must have knocked it off his head
during our struggle on those iron
girders. There it is.”
He pointed while speaking to a
pilot cap which hung from a peg
against the cabin wall. She took it
down and turned it over in her hand.
“Is that all?”
But suddenly she started and
stared at the cap with wide open
eyes.
“Martin, there’s something in the
crown. It feels like—shall I look?”
Scarcely waiting for his reply, she
broke the thread that bound the in
ner lining, and next moment she
drew forth a flat, circular packet.
Upon opening this packet a number
of bank notes tumbled out.
“Here’s luck!” exclaimed the
girl. “You will get the reward yet.”
The pilot cap was found upon
closer investigation to contain the
bulk of the stolen property, and
Cartwright was recompensed be
yond his wildest dreams. Some
months afterward, when Sue had
become his wife, he was engaged as
head porter at Sherwood's bank. As
for the missing Andrew Mawle,
nothing more was heard of him,
and everything pointed to the sur
mise that he had gone silently out
with the tide,—Liverpool Mctcury,