Young Peggy McQueen
Date: 2023-05-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Shipwreck survival -- Juvenile fiction; Adventure stories; Girls -- Juvenile fiction; Islands of the Pacific -- Juvenile fiction; Traveling theater -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Young Peggy McQueen

Author: Gordon Stables

Illustrator: Warwick Goble

Release date: May 21, 2023 [eBook #70826]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Collins, 1900

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70826

Credits: Al Haines, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG PEGGY MCQUEEN ***

“She stood on a rock in the sunlight.”

Page 55.

YOUNG
PEGGY McQUEEN

BY

GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.

With Original Illustrations

LONDON AND GLASGOW

COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.
CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | ON A SWEET MAY MORNING | 7
II. | THE MINSTRELS AT HOME | 17
III. | A FOREST PLAY | 30
IV. | SO ENDS THE PLAY | 45
V. | A NYMPH OF THE WAVE | 50
VI. | PEGGY’S HOME UPON WHEELS | 63
VII. | PEGGY LITTLE KNEW WHAT WAS BEFORE HER | 70
VIII. | “DARK LIKE A WINTER’S EVE” | 78
IX. | BLOODHOUND ON THE TRAIL | 90
X. | OH, FOR THAT BEAUTIFUL SUMMER! | 107
BOOK II.
I. | POOR KAMMIE | 120
II. | STORM AND WRECK | 127
III. | WHEN THE WORST COMES TO THE WORST | 134
IV. | ON THE CANNIBAL ISLE | 146
V. | A BLOODLESS BATTLE.—LIFE ON THE ISLAND | 156
VI. | WHITE WINGS UPON THE WAVES | 166
VII. | SHE SAILED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE WATCH | 175

Young Peggy McQueen.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

On a Sweet May Morning.

PEGGY MCQUEEN was all alone on this beautiful morning in early spring. Only a child in years, for not a month over twelve was Peggy. She stood there, leaning on the half-door of her own little caravan, and gazing dreamily out and away across the sea, the sunshine on her shapely arms—bare to her well-rounded shoulders were they, for she was not yet quite dressed—sunshine on her rosy cheeks and lips, and sunshine trying to hide itself in the floating masses of her auburn hair.

Calm and lovely though the sea was to-day, with its blues and its opals and its patches of silver—silver borrowed from the sun—this little lass was not at this moment thinking of the sea at all, much though she loved it at most times.

Peggy was wondering if she might venture.

“What do you think, Ralph?” she said, kneeling down to throw her arms round the neck of a great blood-hound who lay on a goat-skin on the floor, his long, silken ears trailing down at each side of his noble head like some fair lady’s tresses, his eyes turned up to his mistress’s face.

Ralph gave his strong tail an almost imperceptible waggle.

“I think,” he seemed to say, “it is folly to be out of bed for three hours yet. Better go back.”

Peggy glanced at a companionable little clock that ticked on her morsel of a dressing-table, beneath the dimity-bedecked looking-glass. The hands were pointing to half-past four. Very early, surely, for a little maiden to be out of bed!

But Peggy McQueen knew right well what she was about. This was the first day of May, and all around the camp the green grass was bespangled with dew. Is it not a fact, that if a young girl dips her face in the dews of this merry morning, she will be sweet and beautiful all the glad year?

Nobody in his senses would think of denying this.

But Peggy wanted to have pretty arms and pretty feet and legs as well, and this was the reason she was astir so early. She put on her sandals now, and placed a very roguish and bewitching Tam o’ Shanter on the back of her head. It was a tartan-rimmed Tammy, with a crimson feather in it which had been dropped from the tail of her favourite parrot. Then she stepped lightly over Ralph, cautiously opened the back door a few inches, and peeped out.

Not a soul stirring in the camp: the large caravan stood not far off, but the blinds were still drawn. The white tent in which the giant slept was not yet opened. Under the caravan was a bundle of straw, and in a blanket-lined sack thereon was wee Willie Randolph, the dwarf, nothing out but his small white face and one arm, the latter placed affectionately round Dan, the lurcher dog. Dan was a person of some importance to the camp, for many a hare and rabbit, and many a fat hedgehog did he supply for the larder.

Behind, and stretching away and away to the wooded hills on the horizon, was a forest of oak and beech and pine trees, with clumps of larch, now clad in the tender greens of spring, and o’erhung with crimson tassels. Making sure, first, that no one was astir, and that Willie was as sound asleep as everybody else, Peggy closed the door carefully behind her, and tripped lightly and gaily down the back steps. She wanted to sing to herself, but dared not just yet. She would do so, however, as soon as she got well into the shadow of the woods, because every bird therein was singing its matinée, and adding its quota to swell the sylvan music of this lovely May morning.

Now and then there would come a strange panic in the wild bird medley, presently to be broken by the melodious fluting of the blackbird or the joy notes of a nightingale, then at once and in all its strength the feathered choir commenced again. So bright was the sunshine, so dark the shadows under the trees, that Peggy could not see a single songster, nor even tell to a certainty the direction from which any particular bird-note rang out. The music was all about and around her, and she was fain now to lift up her happy treble voice and join the chorus.

She went wandering on for a while, unheeding and unheeded. No one had seen the girl leave the camp except the ancient, warty-faced rook who came very early every morning to seek for his breakfast near the tent. He had not flown away when she appeared. He just said “Caw—caw—caw!” in a very hoarse voice, which meant “Good-morning, Peggy, and happy I am to see you!” A dormouse had peeped drowsily out from a hole among the grass when he heard her footsteps, but, seeing who it was, he had merely rubbed his nose and gone on eating his earth-worm.

But presently Peggy came to a green glade or clearing, quite surrounded by spruce trees, with, in the centre, a pool fed by the water of a tiny purling brook, with crimson wildflowers growing here and there on its banks. The water in the pool was not deep, and so clear was it that Peggy could easily see the sandy bottom, where strange, black, glittering beetles played at hide-and-seek, and where the caddis-worm rolled in its jacket of many-coloured gravel.

This was just the secluded glade that Peggy had come to seek. She seated herself on the bank, and taking off her sandals, plunged her legs up to the knees into the cool water. Then she laved her face, her shoulders, and her arms. These were all of the same colour—a light Italian tan—but the rose-tints shimmered through this tan on her innocent and sweetly pretty face. Taking from her pocket a dainty little towel, she now carefully dried herself.

Then, laughing in her healthful glee, she skipped playfully over to a spot where the grass was long and tender and green, and threw herself boldly among it. The dewy blades brushed cheeks and neck, her arms and legs, and dimpled hands and knees.

She felt as fresh now as the clear-skinned, speckled trout in the streamlet, and as happy as the rose-linnet that sang on a golden furze bush near her. She must not wipe the dew off, though. Oh, no, that would have broken the spell and spoiled the charm. In the sun she stood, therefore, and danced and sang till dry.

Then a spirit of revelry came over her. It would still be a long time till six o’clock. She would have time to rehearse for her night’s performance—a dance and a song. Happy thought! She would introduce an innovation. Back she ran now into the forest and commenced gathering an armful of the tenderest and prettiest fern-fronds and wild crimson silené flowers.

Peggy, like the thoughtful and handy little maid she was, never went anywhere without her ditty-bag. No girl who leads a wandering life should. It was hanging to her waist, and contained as many knick-knacks as you might find in an ordinary small work-box. Here were tape and a pair of scissors too, and these were about all she needed at present.

Standing in the glade close by the pool in which her shapely form was mirrored, she quickly and deftly adorned her hair with the wild-flowers; then she just as speedily made herself a tippet of fern-fronds, which she fastened around her shoulders, encircling her knees with fringes of the same. She glanced once more into the pool. She was satisfied, for she was really beautiful, and would remain so all the year round. Oh, the gladsome thought!

If I were merely romancing, I would say that the birds of the forest ceased to sing, and listened enraptured to the merry May maiden’s song, and that they gazed entranced to witness her dance, waving her arms and pirouetting to her own sweet lilt.

But the birds did nothing of the sort. Birds are sometimes a trifle prosaic and selfish, and even the chaffinch will not cease its bickering lilt to listen to the nightingale.

While Peggy was dancing, she was, I fear, thinking of nothing else except the effect she expected to produce that evening on the minds of the rustic lads and lasses who would gather round to see the performance of “The Forest Maiden,” at the camp of the Wandering Minstrels.

The girl’s head was well thrown back as she sang and danced, else surely she would have noticed the stealthy approach of two figures that had emerged from the forest at its darkest side, and were now almost within five yards of her.

They were both of the medium height, and though dressed in the cow-gowns of English rustics, were undoubtedly foreigners. They were handsome men, but very dark, with shaven faces and an unmistakable look of the stage about them.

As soon as Peggy saw them, she screamed in terror, and attempted to fly, but it was too

“What wouldst thou with me?”

Page 45.

late. One of them had already seized her by the wrist, firmly, yet not cruelly.

“Nay, nay, my little fallow deer,” he said, in tones that were meant to be soothing, “nay, my beautiful ring-dove, you must not be alarmed. There! do not flutter so, pretty bird. We would but speak with you for one short minute. We have seen you dance and heard you sing many evenings when the pretty flower did not observe us. We are charmed with the flower’s performance, and have come to offer her an engagement. The Wandering Minstrels is not a good enough show for your talent. No, you must try to get away for one little minute. We offer you a big, big salary. We will take you to France, and place you before a large and admiring audience in a splendid concert-room. You will have dresses more beautiful than you can now even dream of, besides gold and jewels, and you will become a rich lady, before whom the gayest knights in fair France will bow. It is a splendid offer for one so young as you.”

“Do not fear us,” said the other man, advancing a step nearer to the frightened and shrinking girl. “We do not wish your answer now. Only promise, and we shall meet you again, and only of your own free will must you come with us.”

He extended his arms beseechingly. But at this moment, with a sudden and painful effort, she wrenched herself free, and fled towards the forest, shrieking for help.

And help was at hand, and came in the very nick of time to save this child, the joy of whose May-day morning had been so suddenly changed to grief and terror.

CHAPTER II.

The Minstrels at Home.

THOUGH it wanted a good hour of the time at which Ralph, the splendid blood-hound, was in the habit of awaking, stretching himself, and yawning aloud by way of hinting to his little mistress that it was six o’clock, and that all good girls who live in the woods and wilds should be opening their eyes, the honest dog did not go to sleep again. He kept watching the door and wondering.

“Where could Peggy have gone at such an early hour?” he thought to himself.

Had she been intending to stay away a long while, she would have dressed herself and said, “Good-bye, Ralph, and be good till I come back.” She only just put on her Tammy, and went gliding out and away.

A whole half-hour passed, and then Ralph waxed very uneasy indeed.

He got up and stood for some time behind the door, sniffing and listening, his noble head a trifle on one side. There were no signs of Peggy in that direction. Then he stood at one of the windows for fully five minutes, gazing sideways out at the sea. For his mistress had a little tent she could easily carry, and often went to the beach to bathe. But he could not see her now, and his anxiety increased. It would not have been becoming in so noble a specimen of the race canine to lie down and cry. Leave such conduct for tiny dogs, he thought.

Yet she was staying so long. What could be the matter? He walked up to Kammie’s cage with outstretched neck, as if to ask him the question. Kammie was a good specimen of that strange, weird-looking, and old-world lizard called the chameleon, who stalks flies and little grubs when you place him on the grass in the sunshine, or even in your bedroom; who crawls about with marvellous slowness and deliberation, just one leg at a time; who changes colour to match his surroundings; who has two large, circular eyelids, a bright bead of an eye in the very centre of each, and possesses the power of looking in two different directions at one and the same time.

But Kammie was still exactly in the same position in which he had gone to sleep at sunset on the previous evening. No use expecting an answer from Kammie, so Ralph marched to the back door once again, and examined the fastenings. He even shook them, but all in vain.

With a deep dog-sigh he lay down now; but presently on his listening ear, from out the silent depths of the forest, fell a scream so pitiful and so agonising that Ralph started to his feet, all of a tremble with excitement.

Yes, yes; it was the voice of his dear little mistress! She must be in danger, and he not there to protect her!

Once again it rose and died away in terror, like the half-smothered shriek of one in a nightmare.

The dog hesitated no longer.

With a yelp which was half a bark, and which said plainly enough, “I am coming,” he dashed his fore-paws against a window. The glass was shivered into flinders, and Ralph sprang through, escaping with only a cut or two, which he minded no more than my brave young reader would mind the scratch of a pin or a thorn.

He ran hither and thither for a few seconds, uncertain.

But, see! the noble beast has found the trail, and with nose to the earth, his long ears touching it, goes speedily onwards in the direction Peggy had taken. On and on, and he is soon swallowed up in the woodland depths. In less than five minutes he is out of the gloom and in the open glade. He meets Peggy, frightened and fleeing. He dashes past her—no time at present for even congratulations.

Now woe is me for the foremost of his mistress’s pursuers! Ralph bounds at him, straight for his chest. Down rolls the Frenchman as if struck by a war-rocket, and the blood-hound already has him by the throat. It is a gurgling scream the man emits—a half-stifled cry for help. Then all is over. No; the fellow is not killed, for brave little Peggy McQueen, knowing well what would happen, has retraced her steps, and seized Ralph by the collar. And this splendid hound lets Peggy haul him off, and the villain slowly and timorously struggles to his feet, his shirt-front stained with blood.

“Merci, merci,” he mutters, meaning “thanks, thanks.” “Merci, my little forest flower. I meant not to harm you. Non, ma petite!”

But little Peggy looked quite the sylvan queen now, standing there erect on the heath, her hand still on Ralph’s collar, her tippet of fern-green slightly disarranged, the heightened tints upon her cheeks, the sparkle in her eye, with sun-rays playing hide-and-seek amidst the wealth of her wavy auburn hair. She seemed for a moment to fancy herself on the stage acting in the play. One long brown arm was outstretched towards the bush into which the other Frenchman had fled.

“Go at once,” she cried, in the voice of a tragedienne. “Go! The forest around us holds no meaner reptile than thou. Go, and thank Heaven that my faithful hound has not torn you limb from limb.”

She turned as she spoke, and walked slowly back towards the forest, while the Frenchman slunk away to join his more fortunate companion.

As he turned to look back at the retreating figure of poor Peggy, he shook his fist. “Sacré! maiden!” he muttered to himself, “you have now the best of it, but—Jules Furet’s time will come. Jules can afford to wait.”

Just as she was, without pausing to divest herself of a single green fern, but joyful now, and with the beautiful hound bounding on by her side, only stopping now and then to awaken the echoes of the forest with the melody of his baying, Peggy ran homewards through the dark wood, never even pausing to breathe until she reached the camp and stood for a moment to look at the sea.

That dear old sea, how she loved it! The Wandering Minstrels, with their tents and their vans, were in the habit of hugging the shores of Merrie England, only sometimes making a detour of a day or two into the interior to visit some country town, but Peggy McQueen was always happy when the sight of the ocean greeted her again on the horizon, with its ships, its boats, and maybe, away in the offing, a steamer, the gray smoke trailing snake-like far astern of it. And there were times when the sea appeared quite unexpectedly, perhaps while they were jogging quietly across some bare but beautiful heath, with no houses in sight, no life near them except the wild birds, the soaring lark or lonesome yerlin twittering on a bush of golden furze. On such occasions Peggy would clap her tiny hands, and say to whoever might happen to be near her—

“Oh, look, look! The sea, the darling sea!”

And there it would be, sure enough, though only a V-shaped patch of blue between two distant hills.

There was always music to Peggy in either the sight or the sound of the ocean, but when it was far away like this, and she could not hear its voice, nor the solemn sound of its waves breaking on rocks or sand, she always brought out her mandoline, and played to it, singing low the while in childish, yet soft, sweet treble. There really was poetry and romance too in the girl’s soul.

She did not stand long, however, on this bright May morn to look at her sea. She was still in a state of great agitation; besides, it was already six o’clock, and Giant Gourmand had opened his tent, and was standing wonderingly looking at her and Ralph as they approached.

Peggy ran quickly past him, hardly condescending to listen to his astonished exclamation of “Hoity toity, little wench!”

The giant was generally “awfully nice and good,” but on some occasions—and this was one of them—absurdly stupid, and she felt she would have liked to box his very large ears, just then, only she had no time.

She hurriedly dressed herself, and soon came down the steps, smiling, for anger had no abiding-place in Peggy’s breast. She sat down on a huge tree-top and beckoned to her audience to step forward. Gourmand threw his great bulk at her feet, and the white-faced, sad-eyed boy, Willie Randolph the dwarf, lay down on the giant’s chest, and crossed his legs like a tiny mite of a tailor.

The bloodhound also lay down, with his beautiful head upon his paws, his eyes turned up towards his mistress’s face, love in them, that deep, undying love that only dogs are capable of.

“Now, all be quiet,” said Peggy. “I have had such a fearful adventure, and I want to tell you all about it. Ralph there knows all about it already, but you don’t, Willie, nor you either, Gourmie, and Johnnie and Daddy aren’t up yet. Well, listen. This is May morning, you know, and I went away to the woods to wash my face in the dew, so that I shall be beautiful all the year through.”

“O hark at the child!” cried the gruff-voiced Giant Gourmand. “Just as if there were any need for her being more lovely than she is at present.”

“Yes,” piped the dwarf, “hark at her! And look at her at the same time, Gourmie! Look at the flowers in her hair! But what flower in all the forest could be more sweet than she? Fairer is Peggy than the anemone, that waves gently by the treefoot when spring zephyrs are blowing, or floats coyly on the broad bosoms of yonder pond. Prettier is Peggy than dog-rose on the hawthorn hedge asleep; more modest than mountain daisy—the wee, crimson-tipped flower that met the poet in that evil hour; more tender than the blossoms of the blue-eyed pimpernel, more——”

But Peggy stamped her little foot as she bade him be silent, but the glad look in her eye, and her heightened colour showed that young though she was, the maiden could appreciate a compliment as much as e’en a lady of the court of a king.

“Silence, small sir, or I shall hie me at once to my caravan, and you will sigh in vain for the story of my strange adventure in the dewy woods.”

“And yet, Miss Peggy,” the giant insisted, “hardly can I blame my little friend if he waxes both eloquent and enthusiastic in your praise on this lovely May morn.”

“Like Poppies red in the corn’s green is Peggy,” sighed the dwarf.

“Like moonlight on the ocean wave”—from the giant.

“Like music trembling o’er the sea.”

“Or elves that laugh among the ferns.”

“Like Naiads sporting in the fountain’s spray.”

“Or cloudlets sailing in the blue.”

“Like——”

“Really, gentlemen, I must curtail the exuberance of your poetic fancies, for poor Ralph and I are getting plaguey hungry.”

“Go on, sweet maid. We listen to thy voice as to a houri from paradise. Pray proceed.”

“You deserve not, sirs, to hear me speak. But—I was in the woods, and had culled a few fresh wild flowers to—to—well to make a garland for faithful doggie here. I paused for a moment at the forest’s edge to gaze upon the sighing sea, when two villains sprang from their lair and bound me in their iron embrace. Had I been anything save a poor gipsy girl, I should have fainted dead away, and been carried prisoner to some loathsome den, soon to be shipped to distant France. They offered me riches untold if I would but go willingly and join the stage somewhere abroad. My dancing they said would bring down the house, and all the world would lie at my feet.

“But I would not hear of their gold, and jewels, and their gallants gay.—What should I want with gallants gay?”

“While you have me, love,” interrupted the dwarf.

“And me,” sighed Gourmand.

“Had not honest Ralph rushed to my assistance, I should not now be here. But see, my hand is cut, and my wrist is blue and swollen!

“And that is all my little adventure,” she added.

There was silence for long wondering seconds after the child had finished. It was broken at last by Willie. He shook a hard, bony fist, which really did not appear to be much bigger than a mole’s white hand.

“Oh,” he cried, a fire seemed to scintillate in his black, black eyes, “if I had only been there, Peggy, I would have——”

It may never be known what Willie would have done, for the giant interrupted his speech in a way that was more comical than polite.

He laughed with a gruff “No, no, no!” and a deep-toned “Ha, ha, ha!” that stirred the leaves in the bushes near them, and, as he laughed, he hoisted Willie right up, and on to the sole of one of his monstrous boots, then extended the leg in the air till the dwarf looked a mere midget.

“There you are! Now we can see you. He, he, he! Ho, ho, ho,! Now we can see you, Willie. Stand there and talk down to us what you would have done.”

Nothing could have put wee Willie out of countenance. He smiled down upon Peggy, and his smile was an ineffably sweet one, for dwarf though he might be, his face and form were perfect.

“Peggy, love,” he said, “hand me up your maidenly little mandoline, and I’ll sing you a song before I come down from my perch.”

Peggy ran laughing away, and soon returned with the instrument, and, still standing there on the sole of the giant’s boot, he went through his performance without moving a muscle, and as coolly as if he had been on the platform before an audience of gaping rustics.

Then, laughing merrily, he sprang through the air and alighted on the giant’s great head. But Gourmand’s head was a hard one, and wasn’t hurt one little bit.

* * * * *

Sweet, soft, melodious music was now heard coming from behind the alder clump. A sad and plaintive air from Gounod’s “Faust.”

“Oh,” cried Peggy, “that’s Father’s flute; he wants to play us in to breakfast.”

Ah, breakfast is a magic word to denizens of the woods and wilds; and now the giant, and the dwarf, and Ralph and Peggy, all made a somewhat unromantic rush for the tent, and were soon seated, laughing and talking, at the breakfast-table.

CHAPTER III.

A Forest Play.

THE tent was really as roomy as a small marquee, though bell-shaped. It was part and parcel of the theatrical properties of these Wandering Minstrels, and came in very handy in many ways during the performance of “The Forest Maiden,” and other short plays, all of which were composed by Reginald Fitzroy, or “Father,” as the proprietor of this show was called.

One of the duties of Giant Gourmand was to pitch the tent, for the fact is that no one else could have raised it. The canvas once hoisted, old Molly Muldoon went inside to stand by the pole and balance it until Gourmie went forth and fixed the outer and inner rows of pegs artistically.

The giant slept in the tent at night, all the year round. Indeed, he preferred to do so, for this reason—he snored louder than a big basketful of bull-frogs. He knew that he did so. He snored so loud at times that he awoke himself, and the marvel is that he didn’t swallow the pole. Snoring isn’t a poetic accomplishment, and nobody need snore if the mouth is kept shut. But then giants are—well, giants are giants, you know, and have a great many queer ways that smaller people like you and me haven’t got.

Gourmand had all one side of the table to himself, and when there was a joint of meat it was his duty to carve it; and, really, with the great knife and fork in his huge fists he put one in mind of the story of “Jack and the Bean-stalk,” the tent pole being the stalk. He sometimes looked fierce enough to frighten a motor car. “Never mind,” Peggy could have told you, “Gourmie is the kindest big lump of a giant ever anybody knew.” He was nearly always smiling. His smile was an expansive one. In fun Willie the dwarf used to jump on Gourmie’s knee sometimes with a tape to measure it. When tired of Willie’s antics the giant would lift him off his knee, as one lifts a troublesome kitten, and place him gently on the ground. But, big as he was, this giant would have stepped aside rather than crush the life out of a beetle.

Fitzroy himself was a strange kind of being, about fifty years old, smart and good-looking, with a face that was easy to make up for any character, old or young, male or female. He came of a very good family, and might have graced either the Church or the Bar, but for his love of music and wandering. Anybody was Reginald’s friend if he could play some instrument well. Reginald Fitzroy’s fad was flute-making. He was always fashioning a new flute, and, having a persuasive tongue, he generally managed to sell these well.

But come, breakfast is waiting, and old Molly has placed a splendid meal before the company to-day. That bacon is done to a turn, the bread and the butter are unexceptionable, the eggs new-laid, the coffee ever so fragrant, and, in addition to all this which the little people may partake of, Gourmand has a goose’s egg, and the half of a cold roast hedgehog to finish off with.

Peggy, after breakfast, had to tell all the story of her adventure in the forest to Father and Johnnie. Reginald Fitzroy himself would not have listened to the best story in creation until he had first satisfied the cravings of nature and worked in a good meal. And Johnnie Fitzroy took after the old man. Besides, the boy—a very handsome lad of fourteen, but tall for his years—had been far away among the rocks that morning fishing, with nothing worth mentioning on him, except a pair of brown bare legs and a sou’wester hat, from which the fair front locks of his irrepressible hair hung down and wouldn’t be controlled.

He was late for breakfast, of course, but he threw down a great string of flat fish in the corner of the tent by way of apology.

His father smiled fondly on his boy.

“Been up early, lad?”

“Ay, Dad, ’fore four o’clock. Went to bed at seven last night, you know, just on purpose.”

“Did you wash your face in the May dew, Johnnie?”

The boy looked at her, half disdainfully. He was a trifle tired, but he was very fond of sweet Peggy.

“Did I wash my face in the May dew, Johnnie!” he answered. “Just think of a boy doing anything so ridiculously silly. Humph!”

Then, seeing what looked like a tear in Peggy’s eye, he jumped off his seat, and ran round the table and kissed her.

“Never mind me, cousin Peggy. I’m ill-tempered because I’m hungry, and because a lobster grabbed my big toe and cut it. Look!”

The toe was still bleeding through the white rag old Molly had bound it up with.

“Poor cousin Johnnie!”

“Never mind, Peg. I brought him home, anyhow, and he is such a monster. He is walking about outside your caravan at this moment. Yes, Daddy, thank you. I love ham and eggs. Gourmie, do I see you well?”

“There’s plenty of me to see, anyhow,” grunted Gourmand, good-naturedly.

“Well, don’t take on about it, there’s a little dear. And I’ll have the half of that cold hoggie.”

“Have the whole of it, lad. And the whole of it is only a half, after all. Our sweet little Molly is going to cook her Gourmie another goose’s egg.”

Molly was old, like a withered dock as to colour, but she tried to smile a girlish smile as she went bustling out of the tent now to do the giant’s bidding.

Peggy’s story set Mr. Fitzroy thinking. After breakfast he threw himself prone upon the tent sofa, with his flute in his hand. This was his favourite attitude. His sofa was a very primitive one—three boxes covered with a goat-skin and with rugs for pillows—but it served the purpose very well indeed.

Fitzroy played a little, then mused a little, and kept this up for a good half-hour. He could think best when lying down, and the flute assisted his cogitations. He did not mean to build any flutes to-day, he told himself; he would take a forenoon off and be ready for afternoon rehearsal. The neighbouring village had been well billed, and the giant had walked twice through it, dressed as a little charity school-boy with a big, treacle-stained bib on, while Willie, the dwarf, walked in front of him, and pretended to be his father. “The Forest Maiden” was emblazoned on every old wall and boarding to be found, so they were sure of a bumper house. Had not this great show been patronised by all the crowned heads of Europe?—so the bills informed one; surely, then, it was good enough for Stickleton-on-the-Moor. Fitzroy, without getting out of the horizontal, played a difficult study from Wagner.

“Nothing like Wagner for clearing the cobwebs out of the brain,” he murmured.

And then he asked himself the question, What had been the meaning of the morning’s outrage upon poor Peggy?

It was a difficult one to answer, and somehow it brought back to him incidents in his past life that he would just as soon have forgotten.

Fitzroy had married for love, or something which appeared to have been cousin-german to that tender passion. He had not married a sweet-faced doll with wooden legs, such as you can pick up for twopence in a toy-shop, but a more expensive and equally useless commodity, namely, a young girl actress of second-class parts, to whom his flute had given him an introduction. Their married life had not been all lavender, for he was shiftless, and she was thriftless. But she died when Johnnie was but a mere child, and, after this, Fitzroy began to feel around him for some work that would not only be a prop and a stay to him, but enable him to forget his sorrow. So, somehow or other, he became gradually possessed of this same show. Then, when Johnnie was only seven years of age, little Peggy came upon the scene—a child of five summers, but wise beyond conception.

Fitzroy was himself a gentleman at heart, although poverty had led him a little way apart from the path of rectitude. I don’t imagine for a single moment that because Fitzroy was one of a troupe of Wandering Minstrels, and was sometimes classed with the gipsies, that he ever robbed a hen-roost, or cleared a clothes-line, or even requisitioned turnips or potatoes from farmers’ fields. But he had for the sake of making money been something of a betting man, and the way that poor little Peggy had come into his possession was not so creditable to his sense of honour as it might have been. He never cared to think about this. But he had come to love the child quite as much as though she were his own daughter—perhaps, considering all he knew of the story of her life, a little more, because pity for Peggy was in some measure mingled with that love.

Peggy was his Peggy now, and no one should ever come between the child and him. He felt at that moment that he could strike down the man who dared—lay him dead at his feet. He was in reality too shrewd a person to do any such thing. Striking people down in this fashion is a game that does not pay. But the thought had excited him, and he was fain to appeal once more to his flute, and that never failed to soothe him. What did these two men who had accosted Peggy want or desire, anyhow? Were they the same who seven long years ago had first—but there! he must dismiss the thought.

“Avaunt!” he cried, starting up and walking away from it, as it were, out and away into the cool summer air, as if he could leave that thought, leave his care on the sofa behind him.

“No, no,” he told himself; “some idiots tried to scare the girl, that is all; some itinerant fern-gatherers wanted to have a bit of fun to themselves. That is all. Nothing more.”

He played that sweet, tender, Irish air, “The Meeting of the Waters,” then picked up his rod, and went off to fish.

There was a little heaviness at his heart all day, nevertheless, which neither sport nor anything else could altogether dislodge.

But Peggy had quite forgotten her adventure, even before the rehearsal was over.

The giant, assisted by Fitzroy, Willie, and Molly herself, was not long in getting the stage up, and the curtain too. The weather was fine. That was good luck; for nothing diminishes a house more speedily than a heavy shower, or a squall of wind and rain.

The Wandering Minstrels had to put up with all that, however, and during splendid weather they made quite a pot of money, as the caravan master, Fitzroy, termed it.

But a show or travelling theatre of this sort, with a company which was far from a powerful one, required a good deal of thought, and some skilful treatment. For the players had not only to play, but to act as the band, the carpenters, and the scene-shifters, and sometimes even take two parts in the same play.

The orchestra was down under the elevated stage, which was tented or covered with tarpaulins. The musicians were hidden from the audience by a screen, and played there before the opening of the piece, and until some of their number were required on the stage, when, laying down their instruments, they entered the tent, whence steps led on to the boards. It was all very simple and nice.

The scenery was simple too, and ferns, pine branches, and the wild-flowers of the forest were worked in most effectually and artistically.

Perhaps it was this very simplicity that had caused “The Forest Maiden” to catch on so quickly. For the bucolic mind, or, in simple language, the rustic, loves neither ambiguity nor plot. Such as these come to the theatre not to confuse his brains—if he has some—with mystery on the unravelling of a plot. He wants to see and hear what he can understand, and nothing more. This play, “The Forest Maiden,” which they were led to believe had ravished the senses of every crowned head in Europe, was precisely the play for their money. (Front seats sixpence for the élite, or for the lover and his lass; back, threepence; and if anyone kept loafing about far in the rear and tried to get a treat for nothing, Ralph the blood-hound was sent to reason with him, and this method of reasoning was always effectual.)

“The Forest Maiden” was a comedy, combined with a good slice of tragedy, and a good deal of the rough and ranting fun which the gods in the low-class theatres of London so delight in. It was in five acts, not long ones, certainly, but full of go, excitement, and strong situations, with a vein of true love running all through it like the blue thread on Government canvas. Oh, dearie me! as old Molly used to say, my memory is so bad that I cannot even describe the plot to my readers, although I was once present in the New Forest when the play was put on the boards there.

Let me see now if I can possibly recollect some little portion of it. I know, for instance, that it opened with low, sweet music of violin and flute, that came welling up from the orchestra beneath the stage, music so artfully concealed that even I, quick-eared though I be, could not tell whence it proceeded. At one time it seemed high up among the wind-stirred, whispering trees, at another it mingled with the sound of the sea-waves breaking solemnly on the shingle far in the rear, anon I could have felt certain the music was up yonder among the fleecy clouds. Now so interested was I with the simple scene before me when the curtain rose, that I soon forgot the music, and simply was content to know it was everywhere around.

The little Forest Maiden, seated by her cottage door, a rustic porchway overhung with roses yellow and red, the girl herself not less rustic, none the less sweet, Leely she is to name, and she is knitting a stocking while she sings to herself. So breathless was the audience at this moment that you might have heard a pin fall, though it would have fallen on the grass. Leely presently let that stocking drop in her lap, and looked for a minute, or more, rather listless and sad. But presently, “Hist!” she said, with the point of a perfectly shaped and tiny forefinger on her rosy lips.

The great blood-hound, who had been asleep as she sang, raised his noble head.

“That footstep! yes, ’tis he. ’Tis young Adolphus the forester!”

And enter the young forester, clad chiefly in buff leather girdled with green, bow and arrows and huge knife. Scarcely can she hide her joy, her blushes, as Adolphus does an attitude, and throws himself at her feet, one arm placed half-carelessly and half-caressingly across the dog’s massive shoulder.

“Ah! Leely, this is indeed bliss beyond compare!”

“And yet, Adolphus, though thou knewest I was alone, thou camest not near me all day long. Nay, nay, tell me not of thy wild adventures in the forest, how thou chased the deer far into its dark depths till lost, how——”

“Stay, Leely, stay! I have sweeter, better news for thee than all that.”

And Leely leaned forward now, a light in her blue eyes, that one only sees once in a lifetime.

“Leely!”

“Yes, yes. Speak, Adolphus. Why dost thou hesitate?”

“Leely, I met——”

“Oh yes, I know; some charming girl kirtled all in green and garlanded with roses. I hate her. I——”

“Leely, I met a witch, a real hag, in a cottage of turf and heather—a witch with wrinkled skin, and with forest snakes twining round her arms and chest. And Leely, she told me of thee, and bade me bring thee to her hut that she might read our fortunes.”

And so on, and so forth—a pretty scene, and rather pretty the language. Then, with promise to meet in the moonlight to visit the witch, they part just as the thunder (stage) begins to rattle over their heads and the lightning plays around them. Curtain.

There is more appropriate music, and, in due time, the scene changes.

I need not say that Leely is Peggy herself, nor that Adolphus the forester is bold, handsome Johnnie Fitzroy.

The scene changes. It is the witch’s hut we now see, the interior of—but I suppose I must not tell you any more, reader. You say I must.

Very well, I’ll take my breath and open a new chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

So Ends the Play.

THE curtain rises next on the interior of the witch’s hut in the darkest woodland depths. The witch (who is none other than old Molly herself, with a few more wrinkles, put in with kohl, and bushy eyebrows, beneath which fierce, cruel eyes glare like those of the basilisk. N.B.—I have never seen a basilisk, but I am told its eyes do shine fearfully and ferociously!) the witch has snakes around her arms that raise their heads now and then to hiss vengefully. They do so now as the Forest Maiden enters, hand in hand with Adolphus, and followed by the blood-hound. The witch raises her head also—she has been spinning—and smooths back her elfin locks. The young lovers play their parts well, Leely looking timid and sweet, Adolphus bold and handsome.

“What wouldst thou with me, young sir?”

“I would, mother, have my fortune told me, and that of this fair maiden by my side.”

There is a sort of pandemonium scene here—thunder, blue lightning, red fire, a terrible smell of burning brimstone, and, in one corner of the hut, half-hidden by smoke, is a black demon with red ochre eyes, long forked tail, and all the rest of it. I have strong reason to believe that the demon in this scene is none other than the dear little dwarf, Willie Randolph.

But the witch reads the girl’s fortune well enough, apparently. Leely would be captured by a fearful giant who dwelt far off in a mountain recess, and borne away to his castle. This monster lived upon the flesh of human beings, and that alone. The flesh of men and women was his ordinary or daily food, but his special treat was that of a maiden young and fair, whom he first tortured to make her tender, and afterwards slew.

It is just at this part of the witch’s hideous story that a louder clap of thunder than any which had yet been heard rolled forth, a gleam of red light is noticed at the back of the stage, with a great cloud of smoke which presently cleared away to reveal the head and chest of the giant himself, flaming eyes, and teeth as large as tenpenny nails.

In the next two acts, adventure follows adventure thick and fast, boar-hunting, and battles between gipsies and the forest rangers, smuggling raids, everything, indeed, calculated to create a sensation, the whole mingled and mixed with pretty little love scenes at Leely’s cottage door.

The fifth act opens with a view of the giant’s donjon keep, and there, lo, and behold! Leely is to be seen tied up by the hair of the head. There are other maidens there also, but they appear to be dead.

Giant and demon enter and pinch the Forest Maiden’s arms, to see if she is yet tender enough for the table. The other dead figures are probably dummies, but Leely is life-like and natural.

But even now a horn is heard outside the castle walls. Exit the demon, coming back almost immediately to tell the terrible giant that his castle is surrounded, and that he is called upon to surrender.

He seizes a knife, and is apparently about to plunge it into Leely’s breast when the demon interferes. A curtain is dropped and the scene is changed. The stage seems very much enlarged somehow, and well it need be, for here is the whole strength of the company engaged in deadly combat, to say nothing of hired supernumeraries.

The giant lays about him with his club, and a man falls at every blow. The witch herself is here, there, and everywhere, offering incantations; there are thunderings and lightnings, and the excitement of the audience is wound up to the highest pitch. It culminates in a wild burst of applause, when an archer in buff and green fires an arrow which pierces the giant’s heart, and brings him to the ground with a thud which shakes the stage. Meanwhile the fierce blood-hound has seized the demon, and carried him shrieking into the forest. Adolphus steps as lightly as a bantam on to the giant’s chest, and, drawing his sword, cuts off his head. When he advances to the front of the stage with the dripping head in his hand, he receives the greatest ovation of this exciting evening.

Well, the curtain drops at last on the happy meeting of Leely and Adolphus, who rush into each other’s arms; while the witch, with her crutch held over their heads, seems to be blessing both, though what the precise value of a witch’s blessing is I have yet to learn.

The heroes are called before the curtain. The giant is hissed, and smiles a ten-inch smile. The hound is cheered, and so is even with the demon, but when Adolphus leads the charming Leely out, the shouting is deafening, and the pretty actress is almost smothered with garlands and bouquets of forest flowers.

So ends the play.

But not the evening, for the giant afterwards goes through some wonderful performance with the dwarf. And Johnnie, the youthful athlete, gives ample evidence of his prowess in swinging dumb-bells and Indian clubs, all to suitable music. He even lifts the giant off the stage with one hand, while Willie stands on his shoulder.

“But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!
Or like the snowfall in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place.”

The time is up; the end has come; the curtain drops and the band plays “God Save the King!”

CHAPTER V.

A Nymph of the Wave.

“WHAT I says is this, my dear,” said old Molly to Peggy McQueen, when she found her up and dressed next morning at a little past six, “it ain’t nateral, and if you take old Molly’s advice you’ll go back to bed again, as fast as you likes.”

“But you are up yourself, Molly!”

“I be’s an old crittur, Miss Peggy, and old critturs doesn’t get so much sleep as the young. ’Sides, Miss Peggy, they doesn’t need it.”

“But I’m going to the rocks, Molly, to fish. Don’t tell Johnnie, because I want to be first to-day.”

Old Molly laughed.

“Oh, indeed, my dear; Johnnie’s been up this hour and more forbye.”

The tide was far back this morning, and there was not a breath of air to stir the surface of the sleeping sea. It was one vast sheet of leaden gray, with a haze on the horizon, through which a ship or two was looming. Long strips of blackest rock, shaped like needles, jutted out seawards, and on their extreme points the waves broke lazily. Great stretches of yellow sand lay between. At the very end of one of these rocky capes a figure no larger a pigeon could be seen moving about, very actively indeed.

“Yonder’s Johnnie,” said Molly.

“I’m going to him, Molly. Come, Ralph.”

The dog bayed, and went bounding round his little mistress. Even Johnnie on the rock point could hear that deep-mouthed sound and knew that his cousin Peggy was coming, and next minute both she and the hound were seen feathering across the sands in his direction. The boy’s handsome face brightened when he saw his child companion.

“I somehow knew you would come this morning, Peggy.”

“Yes?” said the girl, inquiringly.

“Yes, I knew you wouldn’t go to the forest again to-day, after yesterday.”

“Oh, but I might!” she answered, mischievously. “You know I’m always going to take Ralph with me now.”

“Well, you’d better—or—I could come.”

“A dog,” said Peggy, sententiously, “is often better than a boy. A dog is quieter, and a dog can bite.”

“Come, and we’ll fish some more, Peggy, and look at things among the pools of the rock.”

Peggy sat down and extended her bare legs in front of her.

“Take my sandals off.”

Johnnie did as he was told, and slung them over his shoulder.

Then hand in hand away they went sight-seeing over the rocks and across the pools. Ralph was in the water, splashing about and having great fun with the jelly-fishes. Sometimes he took a big mouthful of water and seemed to wonder it was so salt. Had it been fresh, he would have swallowed some; as it was, he only let it run out of his red jowls again.

But what a world of marine life was to be found among the weeds and in the little, sandy-bottomed pools! Shell-fish of every shape and colour, crimson medusa, and wee, wicked-looking crabs, like big spiders that walked sideways and had their eyes on stalks handy for looking round corners; brown crabs, blue crabs, gray and yellow crabs.

The seaweeds themselves were most beautiful to behold, specially the tiny, fern-like ones, that floated pink and sienna in the clear pools. Sometimes, when Peggy put her foot on one of the bladders which float the very large algæ, it gave a crack like a small pistol, and quite startled her.

They spent quite an hour at the seaside; but Peggy couldn’t find a mermaid, though she felt sure there were little fairy ones, and that they dwelt deep down in just such pools as these, and didn’t wear much clothes, except bits of fringy seaweed around their waists to hide their fishy tails.

“Oh!” cried Peggy, suddenly. She was some yards away from her companion.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the boy. “You want to be a mermaid yourself, Peggy, I think.”

But he fished her out of the pond at once, and tried to wring her frock.

“No good,” sighed Peggy. “I must take it off and spread it in the sun to dry.”

Johnnie helped her, and then made a tippet for her of his own merino muffler to cover her bare shoulders.

“Oh, if you are going to dress me,” said Peggy, pouting, “I must have something more than your merino wrap, though that does feel soft and warm.”

She ran away a little distance shorewards to a spot where the rocks were higher, only stopping just for a moment to wave her hand back to him.

“Go on shrimping, Jack. I’m going to the green-room to dress.”

When Peggy called Johnnie “Jack,” then Johnnie knew that Peggy meant business.

But as she stood there for a moment on the top of a boulder, with bare brown limbs and laughing face, Johnnie had to allow that she looked a very pretty and a very provoking picture. Then she dropped down behind the great boulder, and he saw her no more for a time.

“When I am a man,” said Johnnie to himself, “and have a house or a great caravan, or a ship or something of my own, I shouldn’t wonder if I married Peggy.”

He proceeded to seek for more shrimps and dabs, or whatever he could find. He had a long trident, such as Neptune, the sea-god, is supposed to carry. He lowered this almost to the bottom of a pool, and whenever he noticed the sand stir, down went the three-pronged spear and up came a flat fish. He got several thus, and one wriggley-waggley conger eel.

When he looked up, lo! there was Peggy, standing on her boulder again, but how changed! She was Peggy still in face—she could be nothing sweeter—but her whole body down to the knees, with the exception of her shapely arms, was covered with a garment of seaweeds; strings of shells were around her neck, her arms, and ankles, and her hair was adorned with sea-mosses which matched its auburn beauty. Peggy possessed the gift of “getting up,” but never before had she done anything so perfect as this.

Johnnie wasn’t often taken back, but he was now; he merely opened his eyes and said, “Oh, Peggy!”

The little minx tripped lightly down and took his trident from the boy’s hands, then, holding it with the spear-points upwards, she stood on a rock in the sunlight and began to sing.

If there were any fairy mermaids in those pools, I am sure they looked and listened too.

“Do you like my new dress, Johnnie, boy?”

“Yes; and oh, Peggy, you must sing in it to-night. You look a perfect little nymph of the wave. And now we are going to breakfast, dear cousin.”

“What! In this dress of weeds?”

“Yes, and that trident and all. You won’t catch cold, will you?”

“No, silly; this dress is ever so cool and nice.”

The dog went bounding on in front, barking and baying; the children followed, hand in hand as usual, and, as usual, singing.

They were so happy. Oh, would that happiness would ever last!

When Johnnie led his cousin into the breakfast tent, Father Fitzroy jumped up.

“By Jupiter, Peggy McQueen!” he cried, “you’re a genius. You look somewhat damp, else, ’pon my honour, I’d take you in my arms and kiss you. But, Johnnie, you may do so.”

But the saucy little sea-goddess wheeled round, lowered her trident to the defensive, and repeated some lines from one of her favourite dramas.

“Come not near me, sirrah. Advance but one step and you have looked your last on yonder sun. Seek to molest me, thou craven coward, and thy life-blood dyes the heather!”

“Sit down, my dearie, sit down,” said Molly; “are ye sure ye won’t catch cold in them cloes?”

“I’m going off to write a song. Now, at once.” This from Fitzroy. “The music and words are ringing in my head even now—‘The Seaweed Queen'—and you shall sing it to-night, my damp little darling. Molly, keep my coffee hot.”

This evening was Peggy’s benefit, and the “house” was even more crowded than ever. The same performance was gone through, and ‘The Seaweed Queen’ was voted the greatest success of the season.

* * * * *

On the morning after Peggy’s benefit the camp was struck.

Striking camp seems an easy matter, does it not? But, having travelled in caravans with tents for many a long year, I can assure my gentle and my simple reader, that it is not half so easy to get clear away out of one’s pitch as it may seem.

All hands had to be called very early to-day. It is no hardship, however, for caravan people to rise betimes. They live constantly in the open air, and are wont to consider morning the sweetest time of all the day.

In the case of the Wandering Minstrels the trouble of striking camp was minimised, because everyone had his own duties to perform, and all obeyed the orders of Father Fitzroy, while he himself worked as hard as anyone.

At four o’clock that morning Willie the dwarf shook himself clear of his sack, and with his little bugle to his lips sounded the reveille. The notes of his horn were very beautiful, as they rose and fell on the still air of what was a blue-skied and heavenly morning. They went swelling over the woods and startled the wild-birds; forest rangers still abed heard them and wondered what they were, and fishermen out at sea yonder, who had been toiling all night at their silver harvest, turned their weary eyes shorewards and wondered.

Still with the bugle over his shoulder, Willie, without waiting to note the effects of the blast he had blown, hurried away now and neatly folded up his sack, and stuck it in its place beneath the two-horse caravan. Then he took his bundle of straw away to some distance on the lee-side of the camp, and coming back, proceeded to hang up all the buckets and the field-lamp, and the oil-cans, the vegetable-baskets, and other odds and ends daintily and neatly on their hooks below the vans. He had, moreover, to see that nothing was left lying about the field. In ten minutes’ time the camp-fire was lit and the kettle was filled and hung over it.

Molly was soon busy bustling about to prepare the six o’clock breakfast. Meanwhile, all the theatrical properties were loaded on the cart, which Willie himself was permitted to drive, for dwarfs are strong for their size. By the time this cart was loaded and the quiet horse harnessed, the breakfast was ready in the tent. Though a little sorry to leave so sweet a camping-ground, everyone was more or less excited with the thought of starting off once more and through the woods in search of further adventures.

It is needless to say that the breakfast was a hearty one. If there is one thing in this world that gipsy people can do better than another, it is making a good show at table. Even Willie the tiny did ample justice to the good things Providence had placed before him. As for the giant—

“Well, my children,” he said, “I must confess I like a square meal. Given a good breakfast, a jolly dinner, and a hearty supper, no one need go hungry if he can only work in a few pints of good fruit between whiles, and maybe a few cocoa-nuts.”

Then Molly cleared away and washed up. She stowed plates and dishes in the rack of the big caravan, so neatly that they never even rattled during the journey. The mugs that did duty as cups and saucers were hung in the after-cabin, and knick-knacks placed in cupboards.

“Now, then, Molly, bear a hand,” cried the giant.

“I’se ready, Gourmie, my dear, and bless the Lord, lovie, that we’ve got a fine day and a dry tent to pack. To pack up a wet tent is——”

Gourmand seized the big pole.

“Gee-ho-up!” he shouted; “stand clear, all hands that don’t want to be smothered.”

Down came the tent!

“Honolulu!” he cried, a moment afterwards. “Where on earth is old Molly?”

And a faint voice answered him from under the canvas—a skinny leg with a boot on its foot was protruding from under it!

“I be’s a-scrambling in here, Gourmie. You’ve been and gone and lowered the tent right atop of your poor Molly. Oh, my poor old bones!”

But Gourmand soon had her clear. Then she helped him to get out the pegs and to smooth and fold the canvas, till it was all small enough to put into the sack—pegs, mallet, divided pole and all. The bag was hoisted on to the cart.

Then the harnessing of the horses began. Two horses to the great caravan, one to Peggy’s bonnie wee one, and one to Willie’s cart. While this was being done, the dwarf boy was as busy as a rag-picker. Every morsel of paper or string or stick or straw was collected and placed on the “burning-heap.”[A]

[A] A hole dug in the ground in which gipsies burn rubbish.

“Fire!” cried Fitzroy, as if he stood on a battle-deck.

Willie scratched a match, and lit his pile, after scattering oil over it, and in five minutes more it was quite consumed.

“All ready?”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Off!”

Crack went the whips; round went the wheels, and away rolled the show, leaving the beautiful sea, with its grays and greens and stretches of sand, and its wild, weedy rocks behind it.

“Good-bye!” cried Peggy, waving her little white handkerchief in the breeze; “good-bye, dear old ocean; we will meet again another day.”

Then the silent woods swallowed them up, and the rooks and starlings alone were left on the old camp pitch.

CHAPTER VI.

Peggy’s Home upon Wheels.

PEGGY’S caravan was a very pretty, though small, house upon wheels. It was her bed and dressing-room, her study and her boudoir all in one.

Peggy swung here in a dear little hammock at night. The little hair-mattress and the bed-clothes were folded and put away in a locker as soon as she got up, but the hammock was left out. It came in handy at the mid-day halt for dinner, to swing beneath the trees. To lie thus, with the blue of the sky above and the warm sunlight flittering through the greenery of branches, with a book in one’s hand, is indeed to enjoy dolce far niente, and as delightful an experience as any traveller can enjoy.

Old Molly was Peggy’s coachman; she slept on the floor of the same caravan with Ralph the blood-hound.

If you have never seen the inside of a caravan like Peggy’s you scarce could believe what a charming room it makes. It was all mirrors, brackets, lounges, tiny pictures, photos, and flowers, and at night the swing-lamp was lit, and the fairy lights shimmered through the foliage and petals of bright bouquets; it looked like the palace of an elfin princess, and pretty Peggy was its presiding genius.

She had always Kammie, when Kammie was awake and not stalking flies, and she had always Ralph, and to these she used to play and sing. But sometimes of an afternoon a gentle knock would be heard at the door, and lo! there was little Willie with his little violin.

“May I come in, Miss Peggy?”

“Oh, yes, Willie.”

Then out came the mandoline. Willie put on the mute, so that the notes of the violin might be softer, sweeter, and more thrilling. Perhaps Johnnie would now enter with his clarionet, and throw in a bar here and there when it would be most effective. I do believe our little people enjoyed these chance concerts, as Willie called them, better than anything else in their wandering lives.

The great saloon of the large caravan, with its after-cabin, was simply a villa upon wheels. This was the chief abode of Fitzroy and his son Johnnie, who took turn about in driving. But Johnnie also acted as courier, and as the show took up much time on the road, one of this sturdy lad’s principal duties was to ride far ahead, towards evening, to find a suitable field for the camp or settlement. The horses were all fed on good oats, and slumbered at night in an extempore stable composed of bamboo poles and canvas.

The caravans on that morning, after leaving their pitch and entering the forest, passed many a rustic cottage, and so early was it that the pretty rural children rushed to the door just as they had jumped out of bed, not taking time to dress.

“Hooray! Hoo-ooo-ray!” they shouted, waving brown, fat arms in the air. “Hooray, the big, big caravans.”

“Oh, look at the pretty little one!”

“And the fairy lady at the window!”

“Oh, listen to the lion a-roaring for his bekfust.”

“Oh, Maggie, Betsy, Mary, Doddie, come here! Come quick and see the giant and the dwarf!”

The giant, who was lolling on Willie’s cart, made ogre mouths at them, and the dwarf shrieked shrilly, and squeaked and squalled like Punch at the fair.

It was good fun!

But how delightful for the youngsters of a village they soon came to, when the whole show was stopped for twenty minutes in the principal street, that the horses might get water, and the giant stretch his legs!

The giant was the hero then, and the boys vied with each other as to who should get nearest to the giant. The lad who was brave enough to rub his shoulder against Gourmand’s jacket skirts was considered a hero. To rub against a real giant, was among those simple village lads deemed a feat to be remembered for ever and a day.

* * * * *

There would be no play to-night, for Father Reginald Fitzroy knew his people needed rest after the fatigues of that campaign by the sea. The boys and girls who would have fain crowded into the field and broken up the peace of the encampment were warned that it might be dangerous to come near, as the wild chameleon was very restless this evening, and if he escaped there was no saying what might happen. One lad, however, ventured to inquire what sort of an animal a “chameeling” was.

“Something like the awful crocodile of the Nile,” replied Johnnie; “only, instead of seizing his prey with his jaws, he darts forth a terrible tongue, which is nearly as long as his body, and draws the victim in.”

“Swallers ’em alive, sir?”

“Yes, swallows him alive, and he is slowly tortured to death in his dark inside.”

At that moment the deep-mouthed bloodhound began to bay and roar, and all the crowd backed away from the gate in some confusion.

Only one brave English boy stopped.

“I say, gipsy!”

“Well?” replied Johnnie.

“I’d like to come inside and foight thee for a farthin’ stick o’ toffy.”

“No, I won’t fight,” said Johnnie; “but I’ll wrestle you, and if I don’t hold you down half a minute, then throw you over this five-barred gate, I will give you sixpence.”

“Done wi’ thee,” cried the boy, and he stripped to the waist in an instant, and confidently leapt over into the field.

The juvenile crowd gathered round to see their champion win. They felt certain of his success. But when they saw Johnnie stripped, and noticed his bulging biceps, and the flesh lumped upon his chest and forearms, they began to have their doubts.

Now Johnnie was a strong lad, but not a freak. There was no unshapeliness about his muscular formation. And he had that staying power and nerve which are better even than extra strength. Two villagers (men) volunteered to see fair play, and after shaking hands the lads got into grips.

They both kept their wits about them, and showed considerable skill, but in less than two minutes, Jack—we must call Johnnie “Jack” on this occasion—cross-buttocked his opponent, and next moment he was on his back. And Jack held him down for fully a minute, while wild cheers rent the air. The boy owned up like a man to being beaten.

“Shall I throw you over the gate now?” said Jack.

“N—o, thank you,” was the reply. “I know when I has enough. But shake hands again. You’re the first chap as has ever ‘downed’ Charlie Crockett. Shake again.”

They shook.

“Now,” said Charlie, “I’ll keep away the crowd, as ye says you’re tired and needs peace. But——”

“Well, Charlie?”

“Well, Jack, as they calls you, couldn’t we just see the beautiful young lady once?”

“I’m sure you may,” said Johnnie. (He is Johnnie now, you see.) “Wait!”

And off he ran to camp and saw Peggy. He told her all.

“Couldn’t you sing just one song at the gate?”

Peggy could and would, and Willie the dwarf took his fiddle to accompany her. Standing on a barrow by the gate, the good-natured girl, who was charmingly dressed, sang not one song but two.

When the cheering had about finished, the strong boy, whom Jack had beaten, jumped into the field and popped a bag into her hand.

“What’s this?” said Peggy, simply.

“Them’s lollipops, Miss,” he answered, shyly, “with my love, Miss.”

Then he ran right away to hide his blushes before the cool and collected little lady had time to thank him for his lollipops and love.

They all slept very soundly that night, specially Peggy, until the early birds singing and pattering on the caravan roof awoke them to the joys of gipsy life.

CHAPTER VII.

Peggy Little Knew What Was Before Her.

AH, but a gipsy’s life is not all joys by any manner of means, although to those so young as Peggy and Johnnie, it is quite the life idyllic.

Fitzroy, the captain of the show, had often enough, like most of us who are not born with silver spoons in our mouths, to scratch the elbow of troublesome care. He had to make his caravan tours pay, and the public is a most insatiable monster. The public, in fact, is the same with its amusements as it is with its food, the public want to get the biggest chunk of enjoyment, as well as the biggest hunk of cheese it can possibly get for its penny, and it likes variety too.

Therefore Captain Fitzroy had to be for ever on the qui vive, and looking far ahead of him; and no sooner was one little play put upon the boards for probably a month’s run, than he had to be thinking and planning what he should start next. Some startling innovation, some play with a daring plot, wild music, scenic effect and plenty of go and change, with a glorious finale. “That was the thing to draw ’em,” as Giant Gourmand used to remark.

It was the immortal Dickens who said that giants were all a trifle weak about the knees. Whether that be so or not we will not pause to consider, but one thing is certain—Gourmand was not weak about the head. He was possessed of gigantic intellect, and he generally carried it about with him.

Fitzroy and he used to have many and many a consultation as to ways and means.

“What we want, cap’n,” said the giant, “is to keep the pot a-boiling.”

This wise remark was made in the evening of the day after Johnnie had the grand wrestling match with Charlie Crockett.

“Pot a-boiling, Mr. Gourmand? Yes, and twenty pots, to say nothing of nosebags. And they must all be filled at the expense of the public, of course.”

“Well, sir, we give them the worth of their money. We give the beggars value.”

“That we do, and that we must, else the beggars will soon growl and may scatter the show.”

“And hitherto,” he added, “we have never known what hunger is. Look how well filled out our horses are, and how contented, and how their shins glitter like the back of a boatman beetle. See how contented our dogs all are and how happy Ralph is. But, Gourmand, my boy, the day might come when things wouldn’t be so comfy with us all. We might be reduced to starvation and have to kill and eat our horses.”

Gourmand laughed his gruff “Ho! ho! ho!” and added his half-comical “Ha! ha! ha.” “Not,” he said, “cap’n, whilst you have that nut on you. ’Xcuse me for calling it a nut, sir, won’t you?”

Captain Fitzroy sighed a three-to-the-pound sigh and shook his head.

“The nut is maybe all right, friend, but it strikes me we need a change of——”

“A change of programme, cap’n?”

“No, that isn’t quite what I meant, but a change of audience, a change of public. This part of England seems getting played out as regards the—ahem!—legitimate drama, Mr. Gourmand.”

“Too near London, eh?”

“That’s it, I think, and London is a jolly sight too near Paris. Ever been to Yorkshire?”

“They are rare fine animals up there, sir. But why shouldn’t we make a proper exodus when we’re about it. For I know that an exodus is in your noddle, and you’ll ’xcuse me for calling it a noddle, sir, won’t you?”

“Noddle or nut, Gourmand, it’s all the same to me. But what, my friend, would you think would be the best place to emigrate to?”

“Why not to Scotland, cap’n? It is the land of chivalry and romance, you know.

“Land of green heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood.”

“Land of fiddlesticks, Gourmie! Do you think it would pay?”

“Pay? Ay, all to pieces. Ours is just the sort of entertainment, cap’n, to draw bumper houses on the outskirts of Glasgow to begin with, and so on to Paisley and Greenock. The Scotch are naturally musical, and they adore a good play. Needn’t be so much blood and thunder in it either as for England here.”

“We’d have to throw in the kilts though, wouldn’t we, and make our company learn Scotch.”

“Nonsense, sir. We’d make fools of ourselves if we did. Believe me, captain, Scotch spoken by English lips never ends but in one thing.”

“And that is?”

“Ridicule. But the Scotch will hold out the right hand of friendship and hospitality to their English brothers if we go as English, and nothing assume. Brave young Johnnie with his Saxon strength will be a favourite first night. Wee Willie too, with his fiddle, and—well, and the rest of us.”

“Including Peggy, Gourmand?”

“Ah, there, sir. Peggy’s young English beauty, her sweet voice and winning ways, will completely take the Scottish heart by storm. There will be a furore, sir; she’ll win the day for the lot of us.”

There was positively a tear of pride in the honest giant’s eye as he spoke.

Captain Fitzroy held out his hand.

“Gourmand, we’ll go,” he said, “we’ll start to-morrow morning right away for Southampton, ship the whole show there to be next heard of in the second city of the Empire.”

* * * * *

They had been bearing up for the Midland counties, but now the course was altered, and the bows of the first great caravan were headed away for the west, or, as a sailor would say, west with a little bit of south in it.

“Wherever be we off to now, lovie?” said Molly Muldoon, when she met the giant next morning early. He looked full of business, his great shoulders well square back and strong enough apparently to have lifted Peggy’s caravan, wheels and all, hands a little begrimed, no hat, hair like heather, but a good-natured smile all over his broad and energetic face.

“Where be we off to? Eh? Why, my dear little roly-poly Molly, we’re going by sea to bonnie Scotland.”

“Lauk-a-mussy-me!” cried Molly. “Preserve us all from ’arm. To Scotland, where they all runs wild in short kilts, with red heads and red, bare legs. To Scotland, where they kills and eats babies, and serves old folks up in a stoo, where——”

“Ah, Molly, they’ll find you and me pretty tough eating, I’m thinking, even if they do try us in a stoo.”

“But, lovie, dear, my pet Gourmie, try to perswade Mr. Fitzroy not to throw his life away, and the life of hall of us. Mussy-me, lovie, it’s terrible.”

But terrible or not terrible, that very day they had put five-and-twenty miles of east behind them, and pitched at night in a sweet green field not far from Midhurst.

There was no entertainment that night. But they did lots of billing, and, early next morning it was evident from the interest the rustics were showing round the gate and the fences that a bumper house might be counted upon.

Nor were they disappointed. “The Forest Maiden” was new to them here, and so successful was the entertainment, that, when, on the morning after, the rustics saw the tents being struck, they were very much disappointed indeed. Just as they were starting, a busy little clergyman bustled up, and saluting Fitzroy, told him the show was just the sort of thing he would like to see encouraged, as it kept the people away from the public houses, and he would like him to promise that if ever he was anywhere in the neighbourhood again it would not be one night nor even one week he would stay, to give his (the parson’s) parishioners pleasure, but a month at the very least.

Fitzroy smiled and replied that he would certainly consider the matter.

* * * * *

It was getting on towards the end of leafy May, May with its glorious blue spring skies, its green fields and waving woods, its wealth of wild flowers in meadow-land, and on wayside sward; May with its music of wild birds, days of dreamy sunshine, and nights of stars. And Peggy sighed a little, as she looked her last on the rolling trees of England south, some miles before they rolled into busy bustling, Southampton.

Peggy little knew what was before her.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Dark like a Winter’s Eve.”

A CHANGE, and what a change!

Faces and footsteps and all things strange! From the very minute the caravans struck the suburbs of great Southampton all the glamour of gipsy life faded and fled.

There were snug villas and well-kept gardens, it is true, and tidily cropped hedges with here and there a leafy elm, though its stem looked dark and sooty. But the gardens were far too snug and trim, with their tiled walks and edgings of box, to suit Peggy’s tastes or Johnnie’s, and on the hedges of privet or hawthorn a wild rose, beautiful beyond compare though it be, would scarce have dared to bloom. Then there were gravelled pavements, with lamp-posts, and, more dreadful than anything else, tram-lines, with rattling bell-ringing cars, and shouts of unromantic conductors.

This was civilisation, and the well-dressed clerks or bagmen who went hurrying along the streets were too busy even to glance at the prettily-curtained windows of the lofty caravans, though one or two did cast an admiring glance at the young and beautiful girl with sweet, laughing eyes, and wealth of bonnie hair that leaned over the half door of her little home on wheels and the noble hound that lay on guard beside her.

Street after street, noise and bustle, stir and din, how these children of the wilds hated it all, but worse was to come! They passed through unsavoury slums, where every fourth house was either a public or a pawnbroker’s; where sluts—half dressed sluts with arms akimbo—lolled at the openings of yawning courts; where ragged children played bare-headed, bare-legged, in gutters, and idle, unkempt youths smoked at filthy corners.

Peggy kept indoors now, ay, and took noble Ralph in beside her also, the dog was too good for such grim civilisation as this. And she sighed as she thought of the greenery of the woods and fields she had left behind her. And so, on and on till they reached their pitch at last. It was—somewhere, and that is all the girl knew or cared. On a piece of waste land in a neighbourhood that was mean, and all about the show—which did not open to-night—unwholesome children yelled and howled till far into the night.

Molly Muldoon came into Peggy’s caravan to comfort her, and so did wee Willie. But they only just sat and talked, for no music could be thought of to-night. This would but encourage these youthful imps, those civilised savages, to stay still longer.

“It be only for one night, lovie,” said Molly, to comfort her, “bless your sweet face, my dearie, you’ll forget all this in after days.”

But it took two whole days to load up the show for the far-northern Clyde, days of wretchedness and misery, little food by day and little sleep at night, and there was neither peace nor pleasure until the big steamer got out and away on the blue of the Channel.

The weather was fine, the sea smooth, and the vessel made excellent progress. It was the sweet time of the year, not only on the land they had left, but on the ocean too. Just a day of mal-de-mer or hardly even that, and then the young people settled down to enjoy themselves. Everything was so new and delightful to them, and the great steamer—a merchantman she was, and rarely carried passengers—seemed bent on showing herself off to the very greatest advantage. Clean and tidy she was, her flush decks ivory white both fore and aft; her dark funnel dandified with two stripes of vermilion, and she bobbed and bowed to every advancing wave as if she and they were on terms of the utmost intimacy, which was quite true, or as if she and they had never fallen out, which was not correct, only whenever they had quarrelled it had been owing to the interference of a third party—the surly wind.

The caravans had been taken off their wheels and lay—the largest amidships, with one astern of it, and one—Peggy’s—forward. All day these gipsy folks passed in and out of their caravans as if they had been on shore, but at night they were all snugly cabined or berthed below.

Had a real gale of wind arisen, I fear that the show would have been reduced to matchwood, and perhaps the horses killed. But then a gale of wind did not arise, and, besides, Fitzroy was well insured, and therefore easy in his mind.

They were four days and four nights getting up and into the rolling Firth of Clyde, for they had to go all the way round and south of the Scillies.

Jolly evenings they did spend to be sure. All for love a concert was given every night, and wee Willie, the dwarf, with his friend, Gourmand, the giant, performed feats that quite astonished the honest sailors.

It is needless to say that Peggy became a very great favourite before she had been four-and-twenty hours on board, and so did Ralph the hound.

Johnnie sang “Maggie by my Side” with such charming effect that the tears rolled down the cheeks of Charlie Chat, the skipper’s cabin boy.

Here let my home be,
Upon the waters wide,
I roam with a proud heart,
Peggy’s by my side.
(Chorus) My own love Peggy dear, etc.

And Charlie that same evening told Chipps, the carpenter, that if he, Charlie Chat, had Peggy by his side, he would “sail the seas o’er, and never think of returning to the dull shore, not nevermore.” Which was poetic if not quite grammatical.

But everything has an end—a German polony has two by the way—and the saucy Sea-Witch arrived alongside the Broomielaw at last, and when the caravans were landed, when the horses were put to, and they rolled away, Peggy waving her white handkerchief from her little stern window back towards the ship, Charlie turned tearfully round to Chipps and said—

“She is faded and gone, Chipps. My love has obliterated, my life’s dream is a thing of the grizzly past.”

“Don’t be a bally hass,” said Chipps.

These show folks were not long in finding out that the working people of Glasgow among whom they pitched on a beautiful green, dearly loved a good play and a pretty song, and it was just as Gourmand had predicted, they—especially Peggy—carried everything before them and the money kept rolling in for weeks on end.

Wee Willie, the sad-eyed dwarf, took every heart by storm, for he was neither mis-shapen nor deformed, and the music that seemed to float out of his fiddle was inexpressibly tender and sweet.

Not only was Willie called out before the footlights every evening, but he had to be handed round.

“Hand roon’ the wee yin,” the audience would cry, and Gourmie had to obey. Wee Willie was passed around both boxes and pit, and if he received caresses from the ladies he amply repaid them, for he made them laugh till the very rafters rang. But he himself didn’t laugh in the very least. Oh, no, as serious as a Madonna was he.

I think that though they admired her, the gallants of Glasgow were a little afraid of Peggy. She was so ethereal, such an ideally lovely child, that she looked to them more like a being from another world than anything else.

Molly Muldoon was a bit of timber of quite another grain. She acted a witch to perfection, but when she was called before the curtain, never the much of a witch was about Molly. She gave a wild Irish whoop, the band struck up a jig, and no Paddy ever danced more merrily than she did then. When she was summoned a second time, she placed upon the stage two brooms crossed like swords, kilted her “coaties,” and danced Ghillie Callum to perfection.

There was no doubt about it, Fitzroy’s company not only deserved success but commanded it.

After nearly a month the show journeyed north, but not until Peggy and Willie, the two favourites, had bumper-house benefits, and at the finish the house rose en masse and sung that beautiful song that so appeals to every truly Scottish heart—“Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’.”

Fitzroy and his people would long remember the sweet ringing chorus—

Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better loo’d ye canna be,
Will ye no come back again?

* * * * *

The success of the “Forest Maiden Company” was secured, and their fame had gone abroad, so that the very first night, and indeed during all the week they appeared in Paisley they received splendid ovations.

Of course they were but a poor little bit of a show, compared with other great ones that had visited the “City of Thread,” but of their kind they were first-class. Anyhow, they pleased the people, and what more can any of us do?

On to Stirling by easy stages, staying for a night and sometimes three at most villages and towns, and so through Perth, and north and west by the great Highland road that leads to Dunkeld and Pitlochry, across the Grampian Range to Inverness itself.

But they were destined never to reach the capital of the Scottish Highlands, something occurring that completely disorganised the show, and put acting entirely out of Fitzroy’s head for weeks and weeks to come.

They had passed over the highest point of the range, through Dalwhinnie, surrounded by its mountains patched with summer snows, with lofty Ben Alder frowning darkly over the leaden lake, and had reached one of the sweetest little towns that nestle here in the Scottish Alps. They had given their first performance, which was so successful that they determined to stay for a week.

Their pitch was both romantic and beautiful, with wilder scenery around them than ever before their eyes had looked upon.

On the very second morning Johnnie and Peggy went off through woods and wilds under the guidance of a ghillie to a lonely little mountain loch or tarn to fish. Quite surrounded by rocks and birch-clad braes is Loch Bran, and unknown to the Saxon tourist. The glad fish leaped up in the sunshine as if wanting to be landed, and though by no means adepts at the fisherman’s craft, it was not many hours before the little creels they carried were nearly full, so they left off to dine in a brown pine wood.

It was very solemn and still here, not a sound to be heard save the low murmur of a little silvery cascade that came tumbling down through gray boulders and brackens green to seek the rest and silence of the lake.

After dinner Peggy sat quietly reading, but Johnnie lay on his back gazing dreamily up at the dark pine branches through the shimmering green of which he caught sight of the blue of the sunlit sky.

He was very happy and contented, and so too was Peggy, for she presently threw down her book to talk, and both of them began to build many a beautiful castle in the air.

“My idea of happiness,” the boy concluded, “would be to build a house in such a fairy glade as this, and you could come if you liked, Peggy, but every day I would sally forth with my merry, merry men to fish in the lake, and awake the echoes of the forest with my hunting horn, but return at night to dine and to sleep under the greenwood tree.”

Peggy shook her wise wee head.

“Wouldn’t it be just a trifle uncomfortable when the snow fell, Johnnie?”

“Ah! but then we should have music and mirth in the great halls and drink horns of wassail by the roaring log-fires! I know I should be happy.”

By the time the sun was sinking low towards the horizon they were back again in camp.

But the next day and the day after that found them back again at that lonesome tarn which somehow seemed to have a great charm for both of them. And it was on this particular day that the adventure I am about to relate befell the romantic twain.

They had lingered longer by the loch side than usual, for not the breath of a breeze ruffled its surface, and the trout seemed to slumber below.

But they made small baskets at last, and taking their rods to pieces gave them to the ghillie to carry, and set forth now for the forest.

So intent were both on the discussion of the meal they had brought with them and the trout, roasted gipsy fashion over a fire of wood, that they noticed not the rising clouds and gathering gloom, until suddenly a flash of lightning seemed to extinguish the flames and rolling thunder reverberated through the woods, re-echoed back from hill and rock. Flash after flash, peal after peal, and then fell a darkness like a winter’s eve.

But when great drops of rain began to fall, they were glad to be told by the ghillie that there was the Kelpie’s can not far off, and so thither they followed the lad, and glad was Peggy when she found herself sheltered from the pitiless storm.

Fitzroy and Gourmand felt very anxious indeed when evening deepened into darkness about ten that night, and still the children did not come.

Seek them they must, and so they rolled themselves in Highland plaids, and accompanied by two sturdy ghillies as guides, set off to find the lake, accompanied by Ralph.

About half way to the glen they met little Stuart, the children’s ghillie. He was dragging himself along, and was covered with blood and mud.

He was dazed, too; but at last, sentence by sentence, they managed to get all the story out of him, and a sad and melancholy one it was.

CHAPTER IX.

Bloodhound on the Trail.

“OCH! yes, to be surely, they were all nearly murdered evermore, the bit laddie Shonnie was killed dead whateffer, and tied to a tree so he shouldn’t run away at all, and the bit bonnie lassie was rowed (rolled) in a plaidie and carriet away. Ochne! Ochne!”

“And who did this terrible thing?”

Stuart wasn’t sure. First he thought they were men, and then he thought they were beasties, for their faces were all black and hairy, but now he believed they were “just water-kelpies and nothing else, forbye, whateffer.”

They found the tarn at last. There is practically no night in Scotland north, at this season, and the sky having cleared now, they found poor Johnnie soon enough, tied by ropes to a pine tree.

The boy was not dead, however, and soon pulled himself together sufficiently to tell the story more succinctly than the terror-stricken ghillie had done. They had been attacked by two masked men. Peggy had fainted, while he himself, after being knocked down, was roped and made fast, and the villains fled west and away with the insensible form of his companion rolled in a shepherd tartan plaid.

“But I am sure, father,” added the brave and sturdy lad, “we can find them with Ralph yonder. Had we not forgotten to take him with us, it would have been all right.”

“Well, boy, you had better run back now and wait. Gourmand and I with the hound will follow up the trail, and Heaven help them when we lay hands on them.”

“Go back, daddie? Me go back and dear Peggie in danger? I’m going with you, father, and you may need me. No going back for Johnnie!”

“So be it, lad, but I fear you are not strong enough after what you have come through.”

“I can only fail, father, then I can rest.”

“See, cap’n, what is this?” said Gourmand, holding up something black.

“Why, I declare,” said Fitzroy, “it is a crape mask, wires and all complete. One of the scoundrels must have dropped it. This will come in handy, however.”

The showman was a man of quick thoughts, and actions that just as quickly followed. And now was the time for both. He had been much in for foreign lands, especially in America, and travel in that country sharpens one’s wits.

His right hand passed round towards his pistol-pocket as if by instinct. Yes, it was there, that little friend the revolver, which had saved his life ere now. He had money also, therefore was he prepared to go immediately on the war-path.

Encumbered with the child Peggy, the villains could not have got far away yet, albeit they had many hours’ start.

They would have to carry her when she got tired, or stay and hide with her somewhere. Unless—the thought made him start and turn cold, surely murder was not meant.

He had shown Ralph the crape mask and bade him go seek.

“Hie away, good dog,” he said, “wide away, boy. Your little mistress’s life depends on your picking up the trail.”

After a snuff or two at the mask, Ralph, with an impatient cry, half anger, half grief apparently, made a few circles round, muzzle and long ears down, and then with a more joyful yap, set off at a shambling trot straight away from the tarn and through the pine wood. It was rather dark here, but they soon emerged on to a sheep track which led them upwards in a winding direction until they struck the main road, and northwards went the dog.

His progress was rapid at first and it was all Fitzroy and the others could do to keep up.

And the showman’s thoughts kept time with his pace. They reverted now to the last time an attempt to kidnap poor Peggy had been made. He had certainly put that down to the desire on the part of some one to possess the girl as a speculation, for she was undoubtedly very clever, not only as an actress, but a danseuse.

But this second attempt threw a more lurid light on the affair. Peggy, alive or dead, was wanted for some other reason. She was in some one’s way and had to be removed at all risk and all expense. But by whom or why he did not trouble to think for the present.

Moreover, ten to one, the kidnappers—mere tools doubtless of some rich man in whose pay they were—were the same fellows who had made the first attempt, else why did they wear masks?

Should he send Gourmand off to seek police assistance? Better not, he thought. The police, although more methodical in their ways of dealing with things, would more likely hinder rather than help Fitzroy. They would want to deliberate and follow their deliberations up by red-tape cut-and-dry investigation, and so valuable time would be lost and the robbers get off.

Some such thoughts must have been running through Gourmand’s mind at the same time, for he found time to remark—

“Shall we seek for police assistance, cap’n?”

“Hang the police!” cried Fitzroy. “In a case like this they would only be in the way. ‘Sharp’ is the word, my friend, and they don’t know the meaning of it. If this good dog of ours gets me alongside the scoundrels who have stolen my poor Peggy we won’t need policemen, Gourmand, nor handcuffs either. It will be a dear day’s work for them!”

On and on the party went, hour after hour, and it was evident that the kidnappers were making all the speed possible, for wherever the road made a sweep the trail left it, taking a direct course across the heather until on the road once more.

Excitement kept the pursuers up, and they thought neither of sleep nor of hunger.

The trail now left the main road and was picked up again in the adjoining wood. But now for the first time honest Ralph seemed puzzled. He made wide circles, sometimes at a trot, sometimes slowly, as if considering and studying every inch of ground.

There was no doubt, therefore, that for some reason or other the men had separated for a time. The raison d’etre was soon apparent for the dog rushed suddenly on ahead, left the wood and climbed a small hill or knoll, then came as quickly back and took up the old trail.

It was evident enough one of the men had gone up that hill for the purpose of taking his bearings or looking ahead for something.

In less than another half hour, on rounding the corner of a hill, the trail now leading along a mere foot-path, they came in sight of a solitary hut or shieling, no doubt the sheltering bield belonging to some shepherd, and not far below this was a river.

The hound made straight for the door of the little hut and paused.

Fitzroy himself advanced cautiously, making the others wait. It was already broad daylight, and soon the sun would rise.

No sound within, in answer to his knock. But the door was frail, so he boldly kicked it in, then entered, revolver in hand.

The birds had been here but the birds had flown. A fire still burned on the rude hearth, and food was on a small table near it, oatcakes, cheese, and milk. There were two plates, and two knives on the table also, but only two, so that it was evident poor Peggy had not partaken of the frugal banquet.

Was she dead? Had she been murdered? Fitzroy looked at Giant Gourmand.

“Only two plates,” he said slowly, pointedly.

“Yes, yes, I know your thoughts, cap’n. But bless your good soul, sir, the devils wouldn’t have dared.

“Come,” he added, “it was nice of them to leave the table so well covered, and so abundantly. Mountain goat’s milk, too. Sit in and let us do justice to it. We don’t know what is before us. Here, Ralph, dear boy.”

But the hound would not look at food. He had lapped at springs and pools while on the march. That was enough for him; he had work to do. But the giant, with Johnnie and his father, made a hurried but hearty meal, and Gourmand, after finishing the milk with some whisky in it, put all the solids in his capacious pockets.

“In case we cross Mount Hunger,” he said, nodding to the boy.

They were soon on the trail once more and coming to the edge of the water, the hound was once more puzzled.

He stretched his neck up, sniffed and howled a little, then he dashed away along the bank back again to the place where the men stood, then gave voice, impatiently, and plunging in swam right across.

Johnnie had been missed for a short time, he was now noticed rowing up stream towards them in a cobble which he had seen farther down the river on the other side, and to gain which he had boldly swam over. It had evidently been left there by the kidnappers. But the lad’s keen eyes had detected something else that now gave them all heart, namely the impression of Peggy’s boots on the soft ground by the river, so it was evident she was not dead.

The trail was once more found and now it was evident from all that had occurred, and the still burning fire in the shieling hut, the villains could not be far ahead, and that, indeed, they might expect to come up with them at any moment. Johnnie’s fishing line was formed into a leash or leader, and this was attached to Ralph’s collar to curb his extra speed and impetuosity. Neither the hound nor his owners had much experience of this sort of work, and instead of capturing his man or men, the sagacious animal might proceed to attack on sight.

To keep on the trail, however, was by no means easy work, owing to streams of water which the kidnappers had evidently waded, and which for a time destroyed the scent.

It led northwards almost directly, and there could be no doubt, now, that the object of their ambition was to gain the seashore, and either to conceal themselves in some town, or get picked up by a boat.

By noon, when the sun was at its height, rest became imperative, for the day had become very hot, and the pursuers quite exhausted. So tying the dog to a tree, they lay down under its welcome shade and were soon fast asleep.

When they awoke all of a sudden they found themselves very much refreshed. But Fitzroy suddenly sprang to his feet and whipped out his revolver, for there, not ten yards away under the shadow of another tree, stood two rough-looking men with guns across their arms.

They were keepers, however, and Fitzroy’s mind was much relieved, so was Gourmand’s flask which he had handed to the men. There was only a spoonful or two left for decency sake.

And “och! and och! and she was a good dram, and what could they do for the strangers at all?”

These men were wiser far than they looked, and when Fitzroy told them the story of Peggy’s abduction they offered their services at once, and explained their plans. They were just a dozen miles and a bittock from the seashore on a bee-line, but to the left was a town and to the right another, with a small cluster of fishermen’s huts on a tiny cove close by the sea.

They, the keepers, would take different roads, one to the western town, the other to the left, so as to intercept the kidnappers if they took either direction, while Fitzroy and the others would keep up the man-hunt in whichever way the dog chose to lead them.

Luck favoured them for once, for the brave Ralph, after trotting his masters along at the double, for three miles over a high rough heatherland brought them directly to the door of a shepherd’s cottage. A woman answered their loud knocking and they told the story.

“O, the villains, and it isn’t an hour since they left this place. O dear, and O dear, and I knew the weeping lassie who would neither touch bite nor sup wasn’t theirs. And it was the good mind to keep her I had. But I made her lie down in my room, and they, the scoundrels, lay before the fire, for two hours, and if my husband Donald, and his dog Curlin had been at home, sure they would have throttled the pair of them.”

“And which road did they take, my good woman?”

“Is it which road, sir? O, sure then, straight for the little clachan by the sea.”

Fitzroy slipped a silver coin into her hand, they swallowed a draught of milk each, and once more took the road.

* * * * *

The sun was in the west but still high over the blue Moray Firth, and the purple sierras of Ross and Sutherland, when the tired band paused for consultation on the cliff not more than half a mile from the seashore.

Gourmand, still holding the hound, who seemed anxious to tear on, looked round at his companions.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his best stagey manner, “the curtain now rises on the last act of this beautiful drama ‘The Captive Princess; or the Giant, the Boy, and the Fairy Hound.’

“Behold before you the final scene. Down beneath on the green links a solitary hut close by a creek. In that hut hide the villains in possession of the innocent princess. Afar off, the blue sky and blue sea, and on its bright bosom a sprightly yacht with spreading sails, heading for the shore. Presently the anchor will be dropped, a boat will be lowered and impelled by sturdy rowers, head on towards the creek, where the villains——”

“Here, my dear fellow, that is enough,” cried Fitzroy impatiently. “I don’t doubt that the kidnappers are in yonder hut, but let us be moving, and that right quickly too, else we’ll lose the game which now seems so easy to win.”

Nor was there any time to lose or to squander in talking, for already the yacht was nearing the shore, and even as he looked, Fitzroy noticed a flag run up to the peak and as quickly lowered again.

This signal brought a man right out of the cottage. He stood on the knoll for a moment, gave one quick suspicious glance around him, then waved a shawl and disappeared once more.

Fortunately there were some bushes—a rugged sort of seaside hedge—betwixt the cliff and the hut, and, like most fishermen’s cottages, this ran at right angles to the beach, there being no window in the landward gable.

It was along this hedge that Gourmand and Fitzroy approached to the attack. The giant had furnished himself with a club like a weaver’s beam, while the “cap’n” had a stout stick, a stout heart, and his revolver. But Johnnie was left concealed behind a tree at the cliff foot with strict orders not to let loose the hound unless summoned to do so by a shrill whistle.

The two pursuers now dashed quickly past the window, and knocking at the door loudly demanded admittance.

Even as they did so they heard out yonder in the bay, the rattle of the chain as the anchor was let go, and knew there was not a moment to spare, for a boat would speedily be lowered.

“Open the door, lads. Your little game is up!”

No answer.

The fellows inside knew their book.

“Dash in the door, Gourmand!”

The giant’s right shoulder fell on it like a muffled battering ram, and, at the second blow, it fell with a crash almost on top of those behind it.

“Up arms or I shoot,” cried Fitzroy.

This was a vain threat, and I suppose the kidnappers knew it. For to have fired would have endangered the life of poor Peggy.

But Gourmand knocked both fellows down as they tried to escape, and the showman stood over them with his revolver.

The battle was not yet over however. Indeed it had not well begun. There was a shout from beach-wards, and the yachtsmen, six in all, were seen rushing on to the rescue.

And bad would it have gone with Fitzroy and even the giant himself had not at that very moment not only Johnnie with the hound, but the two keepers arrived to join the fray.

That fray would have done an Irishman at Ballyporeen credit, and to have seen how Gourmand laid around him, flailing right and left, would have rejoiced the heart of a Cuscerora Indian.

He fell at last, however, with a shot through his wrist, and there was a lull and a few moments’ parley. But fishermen were being attracted to the scene and dreading capture, the whole band made good their retreat to their boat. Soon they were on board and getting up anchor.

Peggy was saved.

CHAPTER X.

Oh, for that Beautiful Summer!

THE worthy showman was now more convinced than ever that an enemy existed who would move heaven and earth to remove Peggy from his charge, and she was quite as much to him as if she had been his daughter. He determined, therefore, to keep a more watchful eye over her. She was a wilful, wandering little maiden, who took everybody to be good even as she herself was good. She had no suspicion of evil in any one, because it existed not in her own warm little heart.

But Fitzroy told her now that she must promise never to go away from the camp without her bloodhound. Wondering much, the girl made this promise, and the good fellow breathed more freely now.

But for weeks after that strange adventure, they spent a really good time in Scotland, and drew in the dollars too, for above all countries in the world, perhaps, Caledonia is the land of song and poetry. The love of beauty lies deep down at the bottom of each far-northern heart, side by side with sentiment and true patriotism, a flower that can only bloom in a mountain land.

Then one day they found themselves all back once more, safe and sound in England, the scenery of which, though less wild than that of its warlike neighbour, is very sweet and tender.

Summer would not be leaving here for some time to come.

They had given Wales a turn, and lay for a whole week on the beautiful bank of the Wye. The music of Wales is also Celtic, that is the old, old music, and though the country is now famous for its study of the classical, dearly do they love the more simple lilts of the land of Burns and Tannahill.

So Fitzroy did well to introduce Scottish scenes and customs, and Scottish melodies into the little plays he now presented to the rural public. At L—— they had one of the heartiest welcomes ever accorded to them anywhere, and it was with great reluctance that Fitzroy at last intimated to a bumper house, that next morning they must start on their wanderings once again.

“But we are coming back, my friends,” he concluded, “for never while life holds on to burn within our breasts shall we forget the kindly welcome we have received in Wales.”

* * * * *

So early did they start, on and away over the hills and through the beautiful woods, next day, that there was hardly a soul astir to see them off.

They did not give another entertainment for a whole fortnight. But nobody was really idle. Indeed, Fitzroy was the busiest of the busy. Wasn’t he building a new play to be put upon the boards late in autumn? Besides, he spent his leisure time in fashioning flutes. This was most congenial employment, and he could think out his drama even as he worked. The flutes when fashioned were really beautiful instruments, and there was in London a firm that knew their value and gave him good prices. But he received even larger sums for the flutes he sold privately.

When they lay for a few days at some village, they billed it, not for the play, but for “Peggy the Palmist.”

“Oh, yes, she had studied palmistry as an exact science. I myself have doubts concerning its exactness, but after reading a hand, Peggy made wonderfully good guesses as to the past and future life of her visitors. The bills ran something as follows:—

“THALASSAINE,

The world-renowned Child Palmist, will deliver an outdoor lecture on Palmistry in the camp of the Wandering Minstrels

On etc., etc.,
Admission Free.

Thalassaine may be consulted by appointment at her caravan, the ‘Little Rover,’ or will attend ladies at their own residences. Fee on application.”

Did the lectures pay? Indeed they did. Though they were free, a collection was made to defray all expenses, and after this Peggy would sing and play, the giant and dwarf went through a short performance, and Johnnie gave an exhibition with the Indian clubs.

Then the lecture led to such good business that the Wandering Minstrels often stayed for three weeks in a nice pitch, which under other circumstances they would have left next day.

* * * * *

Oh, for that beautiful summer that so quickly wore away! And, oh, for the charming scenery of the south and the west of Merrie England, which they might perhaps never see again!

Shall I describe the scenery in detail which day after day they passed through as the weeks glided over their heads? If I had space, nothing on earth would please me more, my dear girl and boy readers. Some day perhaps—yes, some day! Heigho! But I must not seem to sadden you, children, even with a sigh.

The events and the incidents of the road were for ever changing. Every turn of the highway brought before them a new scene—woods draped in all the glory of sunshine, high green lights, and darkest foliage; the silence of forests, broken only by the songs of the wild-birds or the croodling of the ring-doves in the thickets of spruce; the solemn silence of moorlands—in spring-time dotted over with the white blossoming hawthorn or may, and the golden glory of furze that scented the air for miles around—in autumn, crimson and purple with heather and heath; great stretches of greenest grass-land, undulating, charming, with maybe a streamlet meandering through them, by the banks of which rustic divinities in the shape of red or speckled cows waded knee-deep in buttercups and daisies; cattle and sheep happy together on lone hill-sides; hares on the heaths, who sat up and quietly washed their faces as they gazed at or after the caravans; wild-flowers everywhere, by the river’s brink, afloat in the river itself, standing erect in their glory of crimson or pink among the bulrushes; wild-flowers on the moors, on the mountains, in the fields, by the hedgeways, and covering great patches of level sward through which the brown road went winding and winding till it climbed mountain and hill perhaps, and disappeared over its brow, or went rapidly downwards till lost in the rolling shadows of woodlands; little lakes and lonely tarns near to which they often made the mid-day halt, and rippling streams, with here a pool and there a pool, from which glad fish leapt up into the sunshine.

Sunshine? Oh, yes, sunshine, but not always. There were days of wind and rain, drizzling mountain rain that soaked the roads, that saddened the very horses; wild storms of wind or sudden squalls that at times all but overturned the great caravan. Then there were the thunder-storms that so delighted Peggy, for the louder heaven’s artillery, the heavier the spate, and the more vivid the lightning, the better pleased were Peggy and little Willie.

On rainy days even with the wind ahead, little concerts would be held in the wee caravan, as the horse jogged slowly on. On days like these they tried to get earlier into camp, and after the tent was erected and the horses seen to, an excellent dinner made all hands forget the weariness of the long, long way they had traversed.

I pause here—give one more sigh for the summer that passed so soon away.

* * * * *

One autumn evening they encamped in a field not far from a sweet little village, or rather hamlet, of scattered, old-fashioned, and very Saxon houses. The children were as Saxon as the village, fair-headed, rosy-lipped, bare-headed innocents, with eyes of “himmel blue”; beautiful enough were they to dream of.

There was an inn here and there in the village, but the streets, as they might have been called by courtesy, were so winding and so interlaced, crossing here and crossing there, that to walk down any one of them

“You cowards,” cried the captain.

Page 130.

streamlet and play to it and its water-lilies. The blood-hound was her constant companion, hardly ever leaving her side for a moment. Nor did she ever go out without Kammie. She never cared much whither she went or wandered, so long as there was rustic beauty around her, and I daresay she was guilty of trespassing as often as not.

The sun was declining in the west, and his beams were already shimmering horizontally through the tall and leafy elms of a beautiful park, one afternoon when she came to a tiny Gothic bridge and crossed it. It was evidently private ground, for there was an air of cultivation everywhere around, and two snow-white swans sailed up to her and looked sidelong at her with their wise, soft eyes. These swans seemed to be fifty years of age, if a day.

Peggy wandered on and over the grass, past great clumps of brown-stemmed pine-trees, clumps of ferns and rhododendrons, at present out of bloom, till she came in sight of a fine old English mansion-house: yellow were its walls against the green and well-kept lawn, and in the rays of the fast-declining sun.

Peggy stopped now and gazed in a bewildered way at the house, then at all its surroundings. Where had she seen a house something like this before? Was it in a dream, or had the place only some resemblance to mansions she must often have seen during her wanderings. But no; it must have been a dream. She seated herself on a little rustic bench, and Ralph jumped up by her side. Her fingers touched the mandoline. Music always clears memory, because it calms the mind.

She was singing a song that was sad but sweet. She could not tell who had taught her that song, nor where she had heard it, only it welled up in her memory, and seemed to mingle with the dream that was around her.

Presently Ralph rose slowly and growled low, but not in an unfriendly way. Indeed, he was wagging his tail. Peggy looked quickly round, for a gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.

“Dear child,” said a white-haired, kindly-faced, elderly lady who stood over her, “will you oblige me by playing that air again and singing the song? It is an old, old favourite of mine. I will sit beside your noble hound.”

Peggy had been used to encores all her life, or ever since she had joined the Wandering Minstrels, so she readily complied. When she looked about again, she noticed that tears had been falling over the lady’s face. But these were quickly dried.

“Thank you, dear. Thank you, Thalassaine. You see I know your name. What is on your shoulder, child? You are smoothing it with one finger.”

Then the truth flashed upon Peggy’s mind. This gentle-faced lady, with hair like the winter’s snow, was partially blind.

“Oh, dear lady,” she said, soothingly, and laying her tiny hand on hers, “are you—I mean, don’t you see quite well?”

“But,” she added, before she could receive an answer, “this is my pet chameleon. Johnnie baptised him Kammie. He never speaks nor makes a single sound, but he is quiet in all his ways, and so droll that—well, I think Johnnie and I have grown fond of him.”

“Who is Johnnie?”

“Oh, Johnnie is—just Johnnie.”

“Naturally, but——”

“I live in a show, lady, and Johnnie’s the owner’s son. He is very strong and good, and nice, and he always calls me cousin. But I don’t know why. Father Fitzroy—we all call him Father—brought me to the show when I was very tiny, and that was after mother and father died, you know. He told me that. I think you would like Kammie. May I put him in your hand?”

The lady stretched out her white palm, and immediately she did so Peggy forgot all about Kammie, and he remained there on her shoulder looking all round him for his evening meal of unwary flies. Peggy took the hand, and as she did so a strange and unaccountable thrill ran through her.

“Ah, little maiden, you are a palmist, and what soft, little, fondling hands you have. Yes, you may read my palm if you please.”

It was a sweet, still evening, the winds whispering through the trees; and though summer was over, a blackbird still fluted on the hawthorn. Beauty everywhere around, in the sky, on the trees, and on yonder lakelet, that shone like a mirror, and reflected the dying glory of the shrubs that grew around it. But Peggy heard nothing, saw nothing except the white palm held out for inspection.

The child believed in palmistry as she believed in the Book, and yet often she found it difficult indeed to read a hand. But now, it was all so very different, and everything was as clear to her as a landscape in the noonday sun. Nay, more, it did not seem to be herself who was talking, or rather, I should say, it did not appear to be her own self that was accountable for the words she spoke. Something appeared to be talking to her—through her, and she was but repeating what she heard. It was a soul voice. The child spoke earnestly, as she examined line after line.

“You have had much sorrow and disappointment in life, lady—more, I mean, than many have. (A sigh from her patient attested to the truth of what she said.) You were born to wealth and riches—you married, but not the man you loved—he was reported false—he was true as needle to the pole—he might never talk to you again—you were the bride of another—for long years, though you never knew it, he dwelt near to you in a humble cottage, that he might see you as you passed his garden—an undying love—but your child, a prattling infant girl of four, made the hermit’s acquaintance—he had always a flower for her or sweets as she passed with her maid—and the child became fond of the recluse—became the light of his soul—he was never happy on the days she did not come—a wild wintry storm raged—the village was blocked for weeks—at last the sun shone—bud and burgeon on the trees—bird song in the copse—but the blinds were drawn down over the hermit’s windows—he was gone.”

“Was he dead?” said the lady.

“There is one line, dear lady, that I cannot read.”

“Go on, child.”

“Months after this, proof of death and a will.”

“Yes, yes.”

“That will left all his wealth to your little daughter—in case of her death it would revert to his brother, a man who lived by his wits, a betting man, a man of the world, yet poor. Then, lady, that child was lost—she had wandered away from her maid and had fallen into a disused pit, where the body was found a month afterwards, recognisable only by the clothes she wore.”

Peggy stopped. The soul voice had ceased to prompt her.

“I can tell no more,” she said. “All your future seems dark and misty.”

“Ay, child, and dark will it be when my sight goes—quite dark. I shall then have but the past to dwell on. Would it had been a happier one! But,” she added, “you have read my hand aright. I hope you will come here again often before you go, and that you will write to me. Down in that clump of trees is a marble tablet, and under it the remains of the child I loved so dearly. Good-bye, little one. Mind you come again to-morrow. Bring your beautiful dog and your little cold Kammie.”

And so Peggy said “Good-night.” The lady kissed her beautiful hair, and though she could not tell why, the tears came with a rush to Peggy’s eyes as she did so.

Johnnie himself came to meet her, as the shades of evening were now falling and the boy was anxious. Peggy sighed sadly as she was told that Father Fitzroy had ordered an early start for next day. Father Fitzroy must be obeyed.

And Peggy had no time then to call on the gentle, white-haired lady. But the meeting was one she would never, never forget.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

Poor Kammie.

SUMMER was done; autumn itself was far spent, and once more near the suburbs of a pretty and fashionable seaside town the Wandering Minstrels had pitched their camp.

The dear old life by the dear old sea had commenced again, and Peggy and Johnnie were very happy; so, too, was white-faced wee Willie, while as for the giant—well, nothing ever put him out.

Father Fitzroy was jolly enough also, because he was drawing good houses with his new play, and selling many flutes. What more could heart of wanderers wish? Ah! well, nobody ever is altogether content in this world, and there were times when Fitzroy thought his life had been almost thrown away, and that he might be better off than he now found himself—lessee of the “Lyceum,” for instance. But better days might even be in store for Fitzroy. So he lit another huge cigar, and took up a new flute to see if he could improve it.

* * * * *

There were woods all round this seaside town, more romantic even than the forests about Bootle-super-Mare, because there were hills and rocks in them, and a rushing river and a waterfall. Although there were but few leaves now on the trees, and winds tossed the branches to and fro, it was pleasant to walk on the silent turf beneath, or to climb the cliffs and gather the last wild-flowers of the year.

Peggy was more often alone than with Johnnie Fitzroy during these rambles. She never asked him to come, and he was a strange and wayward boy, who never made up his mind to do anything until the last moment.

The sea was usually more sullen in temper now, yet Peggy loved it in its every mood, and liked to lie on the shingle and watch its waves chasing each other shorewards, erecting their white manes and spending their wild-beast fury on the beach. They sang a song that was eternal, and it was that eternal song she liked to lie and listen to.

Was Peggy becoming a dreamer of dreams as she lay by the seashore, the blood-hound by her side ever watchful, the chameleon on her wrist or shoulder? I could not say for certain, but I know she sometimes wondered what her future life might be. There were people who lived in great mansions like that of the snowy-haired lady she had met that day in the park, and who, simply because they have money, must be happy, because they can go where they like, and do what they like—theirs surely must be life in a sort of fairyland—the fairyland of wealth and greatness! Was she herself longing for an existence like this, and if ever it came to her, would she not look back to the days that had been so happy, in woods and wilds, with Kammie, with Ralph, and—well, and with Johnnie?

She used to return in the autumn twilight, coming back to camp through the town itself, with its clean and beautiful streets, and with everywhere around her signs of a life in which she mingled not, and about which she knew little or nothing.

The evenings were colder now, for it was the month of September, and while stars were becoming visible in the blue-green of the east, and struggling with the dying glow of the twilight, lights sprang up in the houses and villas she passed by, and as people at this seaside resort seldom drew their blinds down, Peggy, though by no means inquisitive, could not help having a peep inside, and a glimpse of the happiness and cosiness of many a family circle. The crimson or blue hall-lights looked very pretty, she thought. How big and rich-like even the great hall-mats, and the clean, shining linoleum! Here was a pretty cottage, and its snug drawing-room, and white-haired gentleman quietly reading in an easy-chair, his wife knitting by the fire, a cat and dog on the hearth-rug. A peaceful scene! And Peggy sighed, she knew not why. She would have liked just such a father and mother as that to tuck her up in bed of a winter’s night, in a room with a real fire in a real pretty grate, and pictures on the walls—to tuck her nicely up, and then, perhaps, sing soft, sweet lullabies to her till she glided away into the land of dreams.

Here is a party in a parlour not quite so pleasant. Yet the room is beautiful, and the ladies and gentlemen who stand around the table playing ping-pong are well-dressed, and all look happy and gay. And here again she paused a minute, to gaze into a room in which were five or six fair-haired and pretty young children, each engaged in some parlour game, a big black cat right in the centre of the table, and a hobby-horse in one corner of the room—it was as good as a pantomime. Then came a great house with great windows, brilliantly lighted with flittering balls of electric lamps. It was a hotel dining-room, and those were the guests all sitting at the dozens of tables, looking like kings and queens. Waiters bringing silver trays glided hither and thither, and on the snow-white table-cloth lay silver and gold dishes, and sparkling glasses, and flowers of every hue. Peggy sighed again, but could not even yet say why she did so.

She turned and came slowly back. But she increased her speed when she came in sight of her own little cosy camp, the tent lit up and as white as linen, the lights streaming from the caravan windows. She sighed no longer.

One night, when everybody was out of the camp, save old Molly and herself, Peggy sat at the tent table. And Peggy felt very sad, for Kammie, her weird, old-world pet, had been ailing for weeks, and had got thinner and thinner, and colder and colder. He had taken no food, and when placed on the grass he hardly moved. Indeed, when laid on his side he scarcely cared to wriggle into a more comfortable position. He was on his little branch of wood, and had gone to sleep with one arm raised, which he did not seem to have the strength to take down again.

Peggy had been sitting in the tent for hours watching him. She did not even want to play. Presently she got up, and, followed by Ralph, walked down the winding pathway that led from the sea-road and shingle to the camp. She leaned over the gate, and as she did so noticed a figure advancing. She was a little timid, but Ralph gave voice at once to a welcoming bay, and sprang forward to place two friendly paws on Johnnie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Johnnie,” she said, when he got close to her; “poor Kammie.”

“Not dead?”

“No; maybe not dead, but I’m sure he is going home.”

Then the innocent child began to sob and cry in her handkerchief.

Johnnie and she covered the cage up that night. They could not bear to see their favourite so very white and with so little colour in his tail.

Next morning the change came. Kammie was dead in reality now. The wonderful circular, brown, wrinkled eyelids that had always been a bonnie brown were black. The sides only of the body were jet black, every other part pale, white almost as snow, only about the gills a sunset glow of red. The tail was speckled yellow and gray.

Yes, Kammie was beautiful in Death. Stiff and stark he lay in state all that day, and on the morning after, they placed him in a little coffin of cardboard, and he was laid to rest in a grave that Willie had made in a distant corner of the field. And they planted a flower to mark the spot.

CHAPTER II.

Storm and Wreck.

“AND what a change it will be, too,” said Reginald Fitzroy to Johnnie and Willie, while Peggy McQueen sat listening in the tent to every word that was said.

He had already signed the agreement with the Macgilvray Company to bring out Peggy on the Australian stage. In her acting and singing she had made such progress this winter, that she was certain to cause a sensation in that new land of sunshine.

It was spring again once more; it is a sorrowful thing for anyone who loves nature, to sail away from his native land when the birds begin to build and sing, and wild-flowers spring wanton, to be loved and admired.

But ever since he had met Macgilvray’s agent, Fitzroy had been a different man.

“It will be for the good of us all, my dears,” he said, hopefully. “Peggy will become a queen of the stage.”

Poor Peggy’s eyes sparkled with delight, but she sighed immediately afterwards, for she was very fond of her caravan. But then—well, she couldn’t be always a child.

Father Fitzroy had already written a three-act piece for Peggy, and he himself believed he would get rich. Willie would be a draw, and the splendid blood-hound would work beautifully into the play. Such a chance would never come again, he thought—

“There is a tide....
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

Thus Fitzroy, with gestures suited for the occasion. But poor old Mother Molly took Father Fitzroy down a peg.

“Which ye doesn’t get Molly to sail for no furrin parts, ’cept heaven itself when her day comes; there’s no tide but that for her.” And Molly resolved now to reside with a sister.

The caravans would not be sold, but left in comfortable quarters. A show like this, Fitzroy said, might be something to fall back upon.

The expenses would all fall on Macgilvray’s agent. He pooh-poohed them. Fitzroy would be able to pay him back out of his first week’s gate-money.

No wonder hope rose high. They were

“She dressed him in flowers.

Page 163.

going in a sailing-ship, though. This would be quieter, and though a longer voyage, it would be a healthier; and Fitzroy was just old enough to begin to think of his health and comfort.

A smart little barque enough, and a kindly skipper; a trader, however, and ordered to make straight for Rio first, then Buenos Ayres, etc.; and, at each town he visited, the Wandering Minstrels were to give their great entertainment.

Nothing succeeds like success, and had Fitzroy elected to stay on with his company even at Rio, he might have made a pile.

But he didn’t. There was a golden future before them all, he told himself, when they should reach the land of the Southern Cross.

They had troublesome times weathering Cape Horn, and the barque leaked badly. Often and often it was all hands to the pump. Pump or drown, Fitzroy phrased it. The children were told nothing about their danger, and the stormier the weather the merrier they were. Why, in two months’ time, somewhat to Fitzroy’s consternation, Willie grew a whole quarter of an inch!

“If he starts growing,” said Fitzroy to the giant, “he’ll ruin himself, and hurt me also.”

“But,” said Gourmand, “I suppose you don’t mind me growing, do you?”

“Goodness sake, Gourmand!” cried Fitzroy; “grow a foot if you want to, or a yard even would be better.”

Somehow, when the ship was stretching up north and west into sunnier seas, she stopped leaking. Seaweed sometimes gets sucked into a leak and stops it. Ah! then it was a happy and a merry time on board!

But another storm arose which drove them far out of their course, which split the sails, and smashed the bulwarks to pieces.

One night the mate came to the skipper’s state-room.

“The ship is sinking, sir, and the men have seized the boats. They are going to leave her, you better come.”

“You cowards!” cried the captain, springing up and seizing his revolver. “I will shoot the first man who attempts to leave the vessel.”

This was only what the scoundrel of a mate expected. He darted out of the state-room and locked the door.

The captain was a prisoner, probably to be drowned like a rat in its hole.

When the sun rose about six next day, like a big, blood orange shimmering red through the horizon’s haze, the good barque Vulture lay like a log upon the water, and reeled like a drunken man. The waves were high, but there was not a breath of wind. Only those smooth, oily-looking billows.

The children had to be told of the danger now, for at any time the Vulture might take her final plunge. But they bore up most bravely.

The captain had been set free again, and he, with Fitzroy himself and the giant, set about cutting away every stick. Few sailors could wield axe or adze as Gourmand did. It was splendid to see the splinters fly! But thus relieved, and the rolling seas going down, the vessel recovered herself.

She might float a long time yet. But for a time she was at the mercy of the currents, or of any breeze that might blow.

Two little jury-masts were rigged just to catch the wind, which soon came from the south-east, only bits of staysails, but they served the purpose of keeping her head before it.

Every day they kept looking out for the ship that never passed their way, and every night they burned a light.

They spent a terrible time. The sun was so hot that the pitch between the planks of the quarter-deck boiled and stuck to the shoes. There were plenty of provisions, but the mutinous mate and crew had taken most of the water and all the rum away in the boats. The remainder of the water went bad, and both Peggy and Willie began to pine. Oh, it was pitiful to see them, and even to hear the poor, faithful blood-hound appealing in his own canine fashion for the water that was not forthcoming. To make matters worse, the captain found he was far out of the track of ships, far away from any of the ocean’s great highways.

“But,” pleaded poor Peggy, hopefully, “a ship may come. God may send a ship.”

Alas! God seemed to have forgotten them, if that indeed were possible.

One night, the sky bright with heaven’s jewels, sheet-lightning playing behind the low, rocky clouds on the horizon, that seemed to forebode a storm, and a phosphorescent light upon the waves, something happened. There was a rasping noise coming from beneath the keel, and all motion suddenly ceased.

The Vulture had grounded on a reef! No one slept two consecutive hours, and everyone was astir before the sun leapt out of his ocean bed. But it was not an ocean bed this morning, for in the east, and but a short distance off, lo and behold! a green and beautiful island, with a beach of coral sand, and strange round huts built under tall and stately poplar trees. A cry of joy burst from every lip. They were saved!

Yes, saved from the sea!

But on those sands spear-armed savages danced and yelled, brandishing their weapons and waving their naked arms as if to keep them off.

What now would be the fate of the Wandering Minstrels?

CHAPTER III.

When the Worst Comes to the Worst.

WHAT a welcome sight those cocoa-nut trees were! They only grow in islands where water abounds, and the young cocoa-nut itself, before the kernel is formed, contains at least a quart of the most delicious fluid in the world. No wine is equal to it.

But never a boat was there left on board the Vulture to take them on shore, when they should dare to make the venture, as dare they must, or die!

Canoes with armed natives came towards them, but kept aloof, making many threatening gestures. It was evidently their intention to board at night, and so the one swivel-gun which the Vulture possessed was loaded to her adamantine lips, and kept in readiness, and so were all the small-arms.

It was long past midnight, however, before anything occurred. The stars were burning very brightly, specially the Southern Cross, when suddenly Ralph gave warning voice. A fleet of dug-outs was approaching, although nothing could be seen distinctly, and the gun was immediately pointed in its direction.

First the savages were warned off: they only came on faster. A rifle fired into their midst had merely the effect of stopping their progress for a moment. In a few minutes they would be swarming up the sides, knives in hand, and murder in their fierce and fearful eyes.

It is hard to have to take the lives of even savages, but needs must now, and so the gun gave voice. It was fired into their very midst, its canister-shot doing dreadful damage, as the yells of the foe fully testified. There were loud shrieks and groans, and speedily all that was left of the dark fleet retreated shorewards. But just as speedily the gun was now loaded, and once more discharged with deadly effect.

The natives had probably never heard a gun fired before, nor ever seen the face of a white man.

Presently, when all was still, a rasping on the ship’s side told that a canoe was rubbing against her, and Johnnie himself ventured down. There was no one in it, and the paddles were gone. But a large calabash of pure water was found. How glorious! God had not forgotten these shipwrecked wanderers after all, and the savages who had come off thirsting for blood had brought life instead.

Ralph kept watch. The others slumbered on deck, with the exception of Peggy, who was hard and fast asleep on the cabin sofa.

Morning revealed another marvel.

The tide had risen and floated the Vulture off the reef and into a creek!

When they awoke, to their astonishment, our heroes found woods all round them, composed of a species of mangrove, and a far taller, more spreading tree laden with beautiful, peach-like fruit. The anchor was at once let go, lest the returning tide might drift the old barque once more out to sea.

* * * * *

A council of war was assembled, and it was agreed that unless they could make peace with these savages or save themselves by stratagem of some sort, in all probability they would be unable to hold out many days, and indeed the tragedy might be but a few hours distant.

The wiles of black men, into whose breasts the civilising influence of religion has never entered, are many. In this case they must be met by the stratagems of whites.

To fight for any length of time was impossible. To fight at all was but to invite death in its ugliest form. If fighting, therefore, must take place, it must be a last resource, and to sell their lives as dearly as they could. It was for Peggy that all feared most, and dreadful though the resolve was, Fitzroy determined that she should not fall alive into the hands of those fearful blacks, to be tortured to death, and probably devoured afterwards. Though he said nothing of this to Johnnie, he spoke his mind quietly to the skipper of the Vulture, as well as to Giant Gourmand.

They each pressed his hand. They knew well what he meant. Had they put it in words it would have ran thus: When the worst comes to the worst, the last shot shall be for Peggy McQueen.

* * * * *

Savages are very superstitious, and next morning when they found the Vulture gone—no signs of her anywhere—they must have jumped to the conclusion that the men on board were evil spirits and possessed the power of disappearing whenever they had a mind to. They evidently visited the creek but seldom, or this part of the island was uninhabited, for the whole forenoon passed away without a sign of a savage.

The captain of the Vulture determined, nevertheless, to explore his surroundings. This man had been a blackbirder in his time, and knew all the tricks and the manners of these islanders. The blackbirder is, or was, a man who fitted out a vessel in some Australian harbour, and sailed for these islands, taking the natives off with them, nolentes volentes, to be used as black labourers. These poor labourers are terribly treated, and the blackbirder is a meaner, more despicable wretch than even the slaver.

So after the guns were loaded and every preparation made to repel an attack, he slid over the side and swam on shore.

The time passed wearily by on board the Vulture, and it wanted barely an hour to sunset when the captain returned. He came hand over hand up the side, smiling, and as soon as he had changed his wet garments he made his report.

“I think,” he told them, “it will be all right for one night at least, whatever may happen another day. I have had a strange experience, for I have captured an outlying savage.”

“Was he asleep?”

“Sound, and I questioned him in his own language, which, as it happens, I know right well. This part of the island, for miles around, is uninhabited. It has a bad name. The blackbirders and the natives, he told me, had a battle here, and their spirits (gooboos) still haunt the woods. This is all in our favour, though gooboos or not gooboos, if they find we are here in the flesh they will attack us.”

“Captain Stransom,” said Fitzroy, “you didn’t murd—— well, kill the poor savage, did you?”

“Not much, though I’ve shot many a prettier bird. No, I have him tied up with withies—sailors’ knots—in the wood here, and we’ll have him on board to-morrow; I expect we can make him useful later on. But to-morrow we must fortify our position here, and prepare ourselves for whatever may happen. Luckily, there is a stream of pure water not far from this, and fruit enough for a line-of-battle ship.”

This was good news, and innocent little Peggy was happy once more, if nobody else was.

“Oh,” she cried; “I should like to go and sing and dance to these poor people.”

“Ah! my Peggy, you would never sing or dance any more after that,” said Fitzroy.

Ralph, who slept with one eye open, was on duty again that night.

About two bells in the morning watch, everyone was suddenly aroused by the hound’s deep baying. All hands rushed to arms at once, prepared to repel boarders. But no attack was made, and no sound was audible to human ear, so the skipper concluded it must have been Tootaker, the savage, trying to make his escape.

“He can’t, though,” he added; “not if he were the devil. Sailors’ knots and plenty of them!”

The only arms these savages possessed were knives and ugly spears, which they could throw with great precision.

The sun rose in another hour’s time, and, after breakfast, wood was got up from below and a barricade was built around the quarter-deck. The saloon was provisioned, and all the other hatches were battened down. They were now in a position to stand a siege, if need were.

Luck was in their favour, for they noticed two canoes beached near by, and Stransom, the skipper, with Johnnie, swam over the creek and took possession of them. There was a shot-hole in the gunwale of each, so no doubt those canoes had formed part of the hostile fleet. The paddles were in both.

“The natives,” said Stransom, “must have jumped overboard and left these.”

First the prisoner was taken on board, and so well was he treated that he told the skipper he never wanted to leave the ship any more, for if he returned his people would cook him alive, then gobble him all up, and lick their lips afterwards. He was a well-formed man, this savage, with a high skull and somewhat full lips, but most intelligent eyes. He wore only one garment, of coarse hair stuff. But Peggy liked him from the first, and it seemed to delight the child to play and sing to him.

Tootaker glared at her with his black eyes and said, “Oo! oo! Yum! yum!” but whether he was enraptured with the music, or was thinking how nice Peggy would be to eat, I cannot say for certain. “Yum! yum!” means so much.

The two canoes came in very handy, and that forenoon the ship’s chief water-tank was filled.

At first the blood-hound was very suspicious of Tootaker, and Tootaker looked upon the dog as some fearful wild beast. But they soon became friends.

This savage, in conversation with Stransom, said his people had taken the ship for a blackbirder, and were determined to slay every man on board. This was not very comforting, and for the present, at all events, the best thing that our heroes could do was to lie perdu. “Defence not defiance” must now be their motto. Stratagem might come in afterwards.

* * * * *

To say the least—the position of Fitzroy and his friends was one that could not be envied.

On the one hand they had water and provisions enough to last them for a very long time indeed, but they were literally in a stage of seige. There was no saying what might occur at any moment. Not less than five hundred wild natives lived on this lonesome isle of the Pacific, which was so far out of the usual track of trading vessels that there was little chance of its being visited, unless a ship should happen to be driven out of its course as the Vulture had been.

The island was certainly not a large one, probably only about five miles in any one direction, very irregular and wooded in parts. Although the sea was swarming with sharks, there were no wild beasts in it larger than a species of rock-rabbit, but turtles abounded, and there were thousands of wild-fowl. Bar an accident to their magazine, there was but little danger of their being starved, and the ship was now dry and trustworthy, being no longer strained and buffeted by the waves.

But oh! the lonesomeness of the situation; for they were afraid even to put out a little way to sea in the canoes, lest their position should be discovered.

When a whole fortnight passed away and absolutely nothing occurred, except one tropical storm, which served to break the monotony, all agreed that the life was becoming unbearable. The giant became morose, Willie looked as sad as if he had been heat-struck, and would sit forward in the fo’c’sle for two hours at a time silently gazing into the water. Even Peggy lost heart and seldom touched her mandoline. And Johnnie, who was evidently forcing himself to keep up his spirits, tried in vain to rouse Peggy from her lethargy. Ralph would get up often and stretch himself and yawn, but he had no heart to romp. He would walk over to Peggy, and placing his great head in her lap, look up in her face with his beautiful, beseeching eyes, as much as to say: “Dear little mistress, how long is this going to last? When are we going back to the wild woods, the tent, and the little caravan?” The child believed she knew what he was thinking about, and as she bent down to kiss his noble brow, her eyes were wet with tears.

“And is this to be the end of all my ambition?” thought Fitzroy. “Are we never to reach Australia, the land of all my hopes?”

“I tell you what it is, Stransom,” he said one day to the skipper, “something has got to be done, else I shall go out of my mind.”

As the skipper made no reply—

“I say,” he continued, “couldn’t something be done with the ship herself? Couldn’t we put to sea again and try to make some land, somewhere? She seems trustworthy now.”

“You are no sailor, Mr. Fitzroy. We are shorthanded, and the ship once strained by a heavy sea would certainly sink. No; I myself think something should be done, else we’ll get as cowardly as rats in a hole. I’ll think it over and let you know. Are you ready to follow my advice?” he added.

“Yes!” cried Fitzroy and Johnnie both in one breath. And even Gourmie wakened up out of his lethargy and smiled a ten-inch smile. “I’m on for anything, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “and if it comes to a fair stand-up fight Gourmie’ll do two men’s share at least.”

The giant rubbed his hands again. The skipper lit his pipe and threw himself down on the deck to think. And Johnnie ran forward to see Willie.

“Willie, Willie; don’t sit and mope there like a baby owl. Something is going to be done. Father and the captain said so. We’re going to get out of this hole by hook or by crook.”

“Wowff—wow—ow—ow!” bayed Ralph, and Willie jumped joyfully up, and five minutes afterwards he and Peggy and Johnnie were having a concert together in the saloon.

Everybody had more appetite for dinner that day, and after it Stransom said, carelessly—

“I’m going on shore to-night with Tootaker. Don’t worry if I don’t come back till sunrise.”

Johnnie liked that speech, and couldn’t help admiring the captain for his coolness.

“I couldn’t have made a better speech myself,” he told Willie, in confidence.

But everyone wondered what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER IV.

On the Cannibal Isle.

STRANSOM, the old blackbirder, was a go-ahead kind of fellow, and as bold as a lion. He was just the man who would “make a spoon or spoil a horn”—“do a deed or perish in the attempt.” There was no fear of failure in his heart.

About a couple of hours before sunset he stuck his revolvers in his belt, nodded to those he was leaving behind, and beckoned to Tootaker to follow him into the canoe. A few minutes after this the white man and the friendly savage stood together in a woodland glade.

“I can trust Tootaker?”

“Tootaker will die for master. Not false, true, true!”

This in the language of the islanders.

“Lead me through the woods, Tootaker. I would speak with your chief.”

The guide darted forward. Stransom looked at his revolvers. He meant to shoot that guide through the head if he exhibited even a trace of treachery or fear. The only thing to dread in this wood was the snakes. Creatures of marvellous beauty, small, slender, green or crimson, they crept and twined everywhere. Among the reeds by pools, in the pools themselves, and in the branches of the trees, Stransom had often to dash them aside with his brown hands. Yet beautiful though they were, a single bite would mean an agonising death.

This jungle was a most intricate one. The trees did not grow from roots underground: the roots were above, so that one had to climb over them, or creep under them. It was a swamp and a labyrinth combined, and if Tootaker had wished to be unfaithful, he had a good chance now, even in spite of Stransom’s revolvers. But the white man had won his affection; and, above all, the wondrous beauty of the child Peggy had so stolen around his savage heart, that he had lost all desire to live longer among his own people.

The sun was almost down before they got clear of the forest. They were on a bare green hill now, and far below on the east side of the island they could see the waving cocoa-palms and the green banana banks near to which the savages dwelt.

“Halt!” cried Stransom.

Then he took out a long piece of rope and tied the guide’s arms to his side and his wrists to one another, bidding the wondering Tootaker watch exactly how it was done. Tootaker had cute eyes, and he needed them to follow this wondrous intricacy of knot.

“Now,” said Stransom, laughing, “pull your hands apart.”

Tootaker did so, and to his amazement every knot was instantly loosed and the rope fell to the ground.

“Now bind me, Tootaker.”

The black was a little awkward at first, but he soon managed the whole trick.

By this time the moon had risen, and in less than half an hour Tootaker marched with bold strides into the camp, and right up to the great kraal of the king, leading a white captive, apparently bound and helpless.

There were shouts of savage joy, but Tootaker held up his hand authoritatively and commanded silence. The natives followed as far as the verandah of the palace, but on being told that he and his captive must first hold chik-chak with the chief, they retired.

Critical moments followed. Stransom was staking his life and the life of all on board the Vulture on one bold stroke. If it failed—well, after all, people have only once to die!

But Tootaker had been well instructed how to play his part, and forgot nothing.

The king was squatting on a daïs, from which he did not rise, but received Tootaker with great joy, and asked him question after question, while with bowed head Stransom stood before the throne. He smiled to himself though, when he heard this cannibal king telling Tootaker how his body was to be cut up, and what joints should be roasted for the royal table, and what apportioned to his under-chiefs and people. The king evidently intended that all the most toothsome and appetising portions of Stransom’s body should fall to his own share.

“Now,” cried the king, “bring him here that I may drink the white man’s blood.”

He seized an ugly knife as he spoke. But he certainly was not prepared for what followed. With a sharp kick Stransom struck the knife from the savage hand, and next moment he stood before him a free man armed with a revolver in each hand. Stransom spoke hurriedly now, but with excellent effect.

“One loud word, King Karoo, and you are a dead man.”

Their eyes met. The king cowered before his captive.

“Ah, you know me now? I am Stransom the blackbirder. How you came here I know not, but you were chief of the Luttoo Isles, five hundred miles to the west, and you and your fellows massacred every man of the brig Ranger. Don’t be afraid, old friend. I was her captain, and the only man saved.”

“I saved you!” cried the king, excitedly, as he glanced down the barrel of that revolver in evident dread that it might go off. “I saved you!”

“Yes, you thundering old scoundrel, you saved me, to be tortured and thus made more tender, and so to serve as a side dish for your own table. But, listen! I did not come here to have revenge and kill you! Your people did nothing wrong in massacring the blackbirders. They had come to drag you into bondage worse than slavery. I would have done the same had I been in your place. No, I don’t come now to take revenge, else I’d shoot you like a rabbit right off. I’m no longer a blackbirder.”

Then in far simpler language he told the story of the storm, the mutiny, and the desertion of the ship, and the wreck.

“The blackbirders will come to your island by and by, but if you now make friends with the remainder of my people we will give you and your fellows and your women wonderful gifts and beautiful beads. See, here are some of them.”

He emptied his pockets as he spoke, of strings of beads that quite dazzled the savage king.

“Oh-h-h!” he cried, “and you will give me all this?”

“Yes, if you will come with me to-night, at once, through the moonlight in your big canoe to the creek where lies our ship.”

“And you will not kill me and eat me?”

“Eat you, King Karoo! I’d be precious hungry before I touched a morsel of such a tough old rascal as you. Be true to me as Tootaker has been, and you and your island will be spared when the great ship comes. For I can save you.”

“You are a white devil?” asked the king.

“Angel or devil, I’ll keep my word. Now, which do you choose, death or life?”

And Karoo bent his head in submission, only begging leave to take in his boat ten trusty warriors.

Stransom, by way of reply, coolly counted the number of chambers in his revolvers, going round them with his finger-tips—“One life, two lives, three lives,” etc., up to ten; then he nodded and smiled.

* * * * *

Neither Fitzroy nor his boy were easy enough in their minds to-night to sleep.

The moon was at its height, when suddenly Ralph started up and bayed in anger. A huge war-canoe had swept round the point and was entering the creek.

The big gun was directed at it immediately.

“Who goes there? Speak quick, or I fire!”

“All right, Fitz. It’s Stransom. Prepare to receive royalty.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Gourmand, seizing his big bass instrument which had been made specially for him, and wound right round his shoulder like a Highlander’s plaid. The mouthpiece of it was so big that Willie could get inside easily. He blew a blast that would have awakened the dead.

When with considerable difficulty, for he was very fat, the old king got up the side, and saw Gourmand, he started back and nearly went heels over head into the sea again.

“Don’t be afraid, old boy,” said Stransom, hitting him a smack on the back that almost took his breath away. “That’s only one of my little boys.”

Then Stransom gave Tootaker orders not to let anyone else up the side, for savages are arrant thieves, and took the king below to the saloon. The king’s eyes were now like bull’s eyes with amazement mingled with fear.

But Stransom made him sit down, and gave him a stiff glass of whisky. Hand in hand with Willie, Peggy herself came in, all smiles. Stransom introduced them.

“Two babies,” he said, “just three days old.”

Johnnie entered next.

“Born four days ago,” said Stransom, coolly.

“How do, old block? Delighted, I’m sure!”

The king took Johnnie’s extended hand, but holloed with pain immediately after, for the athletic boy had given him what he called an artistic squeeze. It was artistic enough, anyhow, to make the blood ooze from under his nails. No wonder he holloed.

Meanwhile Fitzroy entertained the men in the canoe. They ate like ogres of the good things handed down to them—a bushel of biscuits and about fifteen pounds of salt beef. Fitzroy could see them, their stomachs swelling even in the moonlight. Then he threw them down beads, and coloured cloth.

They fought over this till they nearly capsized the great war-canoe. But the fittest survived: the rest were hors de combat between the thwarts.

The king had more whisky!

He grew happy and fought all his battles over again, and told of all the wondrous cannibal feasts he had taken part in. He even volunteered a song, though he had no more music in him than a carrion crow.

He had some more whisky, and was then induced to go on deck, and walk forward, or rather totter, gibbering all the time like a blithering idiot. Here he lay down, and Fitzroy threw a tarpaulin over him.

Tootaker stood sentry over his king all night, and the savage emperor was a different man in the morning, and a sadder.

But in this strange way was friendship established between the white men and this terrible tribe of cannibals.

CHAPTER V.

A Bloodless Battle.—Life on the Island.

A HEARTY breakfast—and it was a hearty one too—put King Karoo into fine form again. He was quite friendly now.

“We don’t want to eat any more white men,” he said.

“If you try it,” said Stransom, “you may find that the bones will stick in your throat.”

“Now, Fitz,” he added, turning to the playwright and flute-maker, “I believe in striking the iron while it is still hot—I purpose going back with the king. The canoe is big enough to hold us all. But you and Johnnie had better stay here to guard the ship, not that there is any danger, but if I take Gourmand——”

“I’m on again,” said Gourmie.

“And Willie and Peggy, and give these savages a little entertainment and a few presents, I think we shall win a bloodless battle. What say you?”

“I’m a little afraid for Peggy,” replied Fitzroy; “she is the strength of the company; besides, we all love her, and——”

But Fitzroy’s scruples were soon overcome, and so, after dressing like an angel—this was Johnnie’s expression—Peggy was the first to get into the war-canoe, much to the astonishment of the savages. Peggy had no fear. All were armed with revolvers. But there did not seem very much to dread. They took quite a bale of goods with them, and Gourmand had his great duck-gun: so big and heavy was it, that few ordinary men could have wielded it.

On his way to the king’s camp, and while still at sea, Gourmand raised the piece and brought down a bird of the hawk species. The report was so awful and so unexpected, that most of the crew fell backwards with alarm, and lay there with their naked legs in the air.

The king himself almost fainted, but when he saw the great bird lying dead on the water—

“Oh, good, good!” he exclaimed, in his own language. “The big boy clever, clever. When we get back, the big boy shall shoot my old fat wife. She is good for nothing now—only for soup.”

The landing was very impressive. The savages crowded round their king, and it was evident from his gestures that he was telling all his adventures, and speaking in favour of these white men.

When a few minutes after this the pigmy Willie led Peggy on shore, and Peggy smiled and bowed to them, and then quietly ran, chattering and laughing, into the very midst of the wildest-looking group, those cannibals were completely vanquished.

But when Gourmand jumped on shore with his marvellous trombone, they fell back, and would have turned pale with superstitious terror, if it were possible for a negro to do so. Then Gourmand blew a blast from the instrument, and twenty men at least fell flat on their faces. But seeing the king laughing, they took heart and advanced, and in less than five minutes the giant was so great a favourite that they would willingly have killed and eaten Karoo in order that Gourmand might reign in his stead. And so this bloodless battle was won.

* * * * *

The child Peggy had brought her mandoline, and was invited by the king to sing, in order that his people, he said, might rejoice.

Peggy needed no second bidding. She mounted a grassy mound beneath a spreading tree and sang her best and sweetest song. It did seem strange, this crowd of listening, spear-armed savages, around the one little mite of a white child who had the power to enthral them with the music of her voice!

But when, with Willie as a partner, she danced a fandango, the natives grew wildly excited, and they too must dance. Before Peggy knew exactly what was the matter, behold, a triple ring of them were whirling madly round the tree, shouting, screaming, and yelling, while they brandished their spears aloft!

“Give them a solo,” shouted Stransom to Gourmand; “it will help to quicken the beggars.”

And at the very first blast from that marvellous instrument, a scene of panic ensued, such as is seldom witnessed. The savages darted back in all directions, knocking each other down, falling on each other, with legs, arms, heads and spears, in such a mad comminglement, the wonder is that many were not killed; and before Gourmand had finished his gigantic solo, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

“‘Music hath charms,’” cried Gourmand, doing an attitude, “‘to soothe the savage breast.’”

The king almost went into a fit with laughing, while Peggy and Willie joined in the general merriment, and the giant added his bass “Ho! ho! ho!” and his deep “Ha! ha! ha!” till the very welkin rang.

But the natives soon returned, and “Little Gourmie,” as Willie called him, gave an exhibition of his strength and skill that astounded his audience.

The giant was then requested by the king to shoot his fat old wife.

“No,” said Gourmie; “I’ve never been used to shooting fat old wives, and I’m too old to learn. Thank you, all the same.”

* * * * *

Peggy and Willie had described all their picnic that evening at dinner to Johnnie, and Johnnie sighed because he hadn’t been there.

The friendship between the savages and the whites soon ripened into something very real and lasting.

The king gladly gave his people permission to build a fort for the Wanderers, and they worked so hard under Stransom’s supervision that it was soon completed. It was erected close to the wood, and was to all intents and purposes impregnable.

In boats, round from the creek, all provisions and everything of value was brought. The Vulture, indeed, was now dismantled, for she had begun to leak again.

About a month after our heroes had settled down in their strange wild home, a cyclone swept over the island; so terrible was its force, that trees were torn up by the roots and carried high into the air. The sea rose and threatened to sap the very foundations of the fort, and hundreds of the native huts were scattered about like so much hay.

Next day all was calm again, and the savages quietly commenced to rebuild their huts. But the Vulture had sunk at her moorings. Well was it for our people that they had left her in time.

* * * * *

Long months passed with no signs of deliverance from this beautiful island-life, which was, after all, but exile; and Fitzroy and Stransom were now the greatest of friends with the savages, and really nothing else save friendship and love ruled the place.

Yes, they were cannibals, but what one eats is merely a matter of taste, and I have known many respectable cannibals, though I never accepted the invitations to dinner they sent me. Her majesty the fat queen had somehow disappeared.

“Haven’t seen her majesty of late,” said Stransom, one day, to the king.

“What!” was the reply. “You are sorry, then, I did not send you a joint?”

That was the answer put into English. It was really a much more gruesome one. “It was a shuddery reply,” Johnnie said.

The lives of Johnnie, Willie, and Peggy (with noble Ralph, of course) were nearly all woodland and wave now. They had canoes, one each, in which they rowed races, or from which they fished, whenever it was fine, and around this enchanting island, cannibalistic though it was, the seas were nearly always smooth and blue.

They all carried revolvers wherever they went, not that there was much danger, but one should always be prepared. “Peggy was an excellent shot,” so said Willie; “because,” he added, “she always manages to hit the thing she isn’t aiming at.” By the way, the cannibals made a canoe for this dear little dwarf boy, and it wasn’t much bigger than a pocket dictionary—well, it might have been a little larger. It is best to be exact in matters of this sort.

The king dearly loved to have Peggy and the dwarf to play and sing to him, and usually went to sleep during the performance. This was very “sweet” of him, Peggy said, and “quite complimentary.”

Peggy’s influence over this cannibal king was very great. She twined him round her little finger, so to speak. He had to do everything the pretty little minx told him, and take her and her companions out in the royal canoe whenever she wanted a picnic or an airing. The king would sit patiently on his daïs sometimes, as calm and serene as a summer sunset or a stucco cat, while she dressed him from top to toe in flowers and leaves and strings of beads, and finally crowned him with her oldest tartan Tam o’ Shanter. He looked so droll in this get-up that Peggy had to clap her hands and laugh and run round and round about him, to view him from every quarter. If there had been a missionary on the island and Peggy had asked the king to throw a stone at him, the king would have obeyed, unhesitatingly.

There had been a missionary there once, the king allowed. The missionary said Providence had sent him. The king believed him, for that missionary, his majesty told Johnnie, made the best curry ever he had tasted!

“The missionary was a good cook, then?” said Johnnie.

“Good cook!” cried the king. “No, no, my fat old wife the cook. My wife cookee he!”

The king was being taught English, but it wasn’t the best.

“Oh, I see,” said Johnnie, “I see now. Your wife cookee he, and you cookee she. Well, you’re a queer lot, you cannibal fellows.”

At first Ralph the blood-hound used to terrorise the whole population, specially the little pickaninnies or children, who all ran from him when he appeared on the white sandy beach where they played.

It made our young heroes laugh till their sides were sore to see a crowd of these naked little black children fleeing from Ralph, who, by the way, never condescended to chase them. It was a crowd of whirling legs and arms, and each tiny cannibal looked like the three-legged wheel you see on a Manx half-penny, only without stockings or bootlets on.

The king delighted to see the giant exhibit his strength. But when one day the tiny dwarf boy, unknown to the king, hid inside the bell-shaped end of Gourmand’s enormous brass basoon and jumped out with a wild shriek when the giant began to play, his majesty nearly went into a fit with laughing.

It was fun! And some fresh fun was invented every day for the purpose of making this great big baby of a king laugh and shake.

Ah! well, but after all, our shipwrecked Wandering Minstrels did long for home often enough too, and at supper-time or after, while by themselves in the fort, they were never tired of talking about their adventures in dear old England—in wayside camp and caravan.

One morning early, Johnnie, who had been out shooting rock-rabbits, came back into the fort with a rush or a run.

“Oh!” he cried; “the ship! the ship!”

Then indeed there was excitement in the little fort.

CHAPTER VI.

White Wings upon the Waves.

THERE she was, just rounding the point—the bonnie, white-winged barque—and standing in for the beach near to which the natives dwelt.

“That’s a blackbirder,” said Stransom, “as sure as I’m a sailor. But we shall stop her game, shan’t we, Fitzroy?”

There was no time to lose.

The savages had already assembled on the beach to give the enemy a warm welcome, and Stransom sent a black fellow off at once to the king, bidding him be of good cheer, because Fitzroy and Gourmand would be with them round his own kraal without a moment’s delay.

This was done, but the blackbirders had the cruelty to fire a volley at the retreating cannibals, killing and wounding several. The men from the fort now hurried up, making a slight detour through the bush in order to keep out of sight. Gourmand carried the swivel gun. Fitzroy and the other two, rifles and the ammunition. There was a battery in front of the native village, and behind this they quickly hid.

The blackbirders landed in three well-armed boats, and forthwith commenced the attack, stopping every now and then to fire a volley at the trenches. This was harmless enough, and Stransom would not permit the savages to show themselves, although they were now burning for revenge.

Probably the blackbirders—a more cutthroat-looking crew it would have been impossible to conceive—suspected an ambuscade, for they now advanced somewhat more slowly.

Again they fired.

And immediately the trenches replied—a regular peppering volley that both astonished and staggered these accursed slave-hunters.

“Back to your boats, you villains,” shouted Stransom, “or we’ll blow you to Jericho.”

A volley was all the reply, and on came the blackbirders with a rush. They thought to carry the trench by storm.

The swivel gun was emptied into their very midst, and the slaughter was terrible: what had been a crowd of living men seemed now but a mangled mass of dead and dying. For even those unwounded threw themselves down and shouted for mercy.

It needed all the skill of the cannibal king to prevent his men from utterly wiping out the enemy. They were restrained, however, after a fashion, yet nearly all the wounded were speared.

Stransom and his men gathered round the rest and made them prisoners.

As the fight took place well out of sight of the few men left in charge of the barque, these had no idea what had occurred.

The leader of the raid was the captain of the ship himself. He was wounded, but had sufficient strength to sit up, and his eyes met those of Stransom. The man was Allison, first mate of the old Vulture.

“Allison, it is you!”

“It’s me, skipper. I deserve my fate. Let me now die in peace.”

“Die in peace, you shall,” answered Stransom, “but, my good fellow, had you not been wounded I should have hanged you!”

“Thank you,” sneered Allison.

Fitzroy now advanced. The playwright had some knowledge of surgery, and at once applied a tourniquet to the mutineer’s bleeding limb, and dressed it as well as he could.

The man was very faint, and begged for water. A negro lad climbed a cocoa-nut tree and threw down some of the greenest fruit.

After Allison had drunk, he appeared to fall asleep, and Fitzroy got the giant to carry him gently in under the shadow of the banana shrubs.

Presently he opened his eyes. Fitzroy was kneeling by his side.

“Don’t leave me,” he moaned. “Don’t let me die just yet. I have that on my mind I would fain confess—and it concerns yourself—and Peggy McQueen.”

Meanwhile Stransom, with Johnnie and the giant, had gone off in one of the boats, towards the barque. They had the swivel gun in the bow.

As soon as they were near enough they hailed, “Ship ahoy!”

“Ay, ay. What’s in the wind?” cried a black-bearded, cut-throat-looking man over the stern.

“You’ve got to surrender, that’s all, my sweet little seraph. Your game’s up. Surrender quietly and your innocent life will be spared. If you make a bit of bobbery, I’ll hang you from your own jibboom.”

“We surrender.”

“Does you now? Well, that is really very thoughtful of you. Been a blackbirder myself, though, darling. So just fire your guns in the air to please me, and to show us all is safe.”

“Curse you!” cried the ruffian.

The rifles rang out, and immediately after were flung on the deck.

Next minute, Stransom and Johnnie stood on the blackbirder’s poop.

“Good-morning,” said the former, with provoking coolness. “Sulky was he? Eh? Ah, but his mother’s darling mustn’t. Your new captain, that’s me, doesn’t like sulky boys. Ah! he smiles! See this little thing? Look, this is a revolver. His new captain doesn’t want to shoot, but must now send all hands below, prisoners—four of you? Eh? All right, down all of you to the hold. And when your new captain comes back he’ll let you all free and not hang anybody if everybody will be good and do as he is told.”

In five minutes more all four blackbirders were under lock and key.

“She’s safe enough,” said Stransom, as they pulled back shorewards. “They can’t weigh anchor and give us the slip.”

Allison’s Strange Story.

Fitzroy poured a little brandy from his flask into the man’s mouth. He swallowed it, and presently he felt strong enough to raise himself slightly and to sit supported in the arms of a native.

“Mr. Fitzroy,” he said, “you must bear with me, and you must forgive me for what I have done. Can you? Do you?”

“I do,” said Fitzroy, solemnly, “as I hope to be forgiven when as close to the shadow of the grave as you are now.”

“You remember, sir, when Peggy McQueen first came into your charge?”

“I remember when I first adopted the dear child.”

“You were paid to do so. The money you received helped to set you up in life.”

“If there has been any setting up in it,” answered Fitzroy.

“You have been successful ever since.”

“Till now, yes, fairly so.”

“And you knew, Peggy had a history which you did not trouble your head much to inquire into?”

“Perhaps, perhaps; but come, what has this to do with your confession?”

The man had fainted, but was soon restored, and went on again.

He was weaker now, however, and again Fitzroy held a little more brandy to his lips.

“In my pocket—feel,” he said, slowly, “a key.” The left jacket pocket. Yes, that is it. When you go on board, open my private drawer, and you will find letters to testify to the truth of all I tell you. Peggy McQueen is a stolen child—stolen that she might not reap the benefits of an uncle’s will. This uncle was an old bachelor and lived with his sister-in-law—yes, the address is in my drawer—the estate, it is a fine one, would be his only brother’s had he died without a will. His only brother was his greatest enemy. He loved the child, and left her all his fortune. But the very night on which he died this evil brother came to me. I was poor, and fell an easy prey to bribery.

“Oh, horrible!” continued the dying man. “I was told off to steal Peggy and throw her down a disused well.”

A light began to dawn on Fitzroy’s mind now, for he remembered the story poor Peggy had told him about her meeting with the beautiful, white-haired lady in her own park, and about everything that happened.

He grasped Allison by the cold hand.

“And you—you murdered another child and threw her into the well—you stole Peggy and—sold her to me!”

“No—no—there was no murder. I could not do that, but—God forgive me, I robbed a grave of its little girl inmate. It was a ghoulish thing to do. It was her corpse in Peggy’s clothes that was found down the well.”

“Yes, but——”

“Listen, for I feel I am going fast. When the money I received for the—the deed—was squandered—I blackmailed the evil brother! He laughed at me first, but when I told him that Peggy was still alive, and threatened to bring her up, he trembled like the coward he was, but promised that if I brought the child to him—but I would not—I was bribed again—but my men failed to kidnap her. Then came the plot to get you and her out of the country to a place where she would never likely be heard of again.”

“Hold a moment! There was no Macgilvray?”

“No—no—it was all a plot to ruin you—forgive—I—I——”

It was no faint this time. The brandy Fitzroy tried to pour into his mouth ran out again over his cheeks and chin.

Only one brief spasm, and the jaw dropped. The eyes were fixed for ever.

Fitzroy lowered him slowly to the ground and left the place, sad, though he did not know why, and wondering if all this could be true.

But he had the key, and before nightfall he would know everything.

CHAPTER VII.

She Sailed Away in the Middle Watch.

SO complete was the rout of the blackbirders, and so terrible a tale would the survivors have to tell when they returned to Australian waters, that many a long year, no doubt, would elapse before that blood-stained though beautiful island would be visited again.

I fear that a great carnival commenced on this very night, and that it lasted for days. Our people were glad to be out of it, and they had much to do. But as many of the bodies as could be recovered were taken out, by Stransom’s orders, and buried at sea. The cannibals might do what they pleased with their own dead. They would no doubt afford them decent interment after their own fashion.

The cannibals did, but over their orgies we must draw a curtain.

Only five of the blackbirders had escaped intact, and to these Stransom offered life and liberty if they would help to work the ship to the nearest British port.

They were only too glad to do so. As far as regards their share of blackbirding, they could hardly be called free agents. Allison himself was the only man who could have been brought to account. And he was gone.

Stransom and Fitzroy spent the next few weeks in determining the latitude and longitude, and studying the topography of the island, taking soundings, and surveying generally.

Very pleasant indeed were these little picnics, as the young people called them. They were made in the barque’s own boats. Stransom was an old sailor, and knew well the tricks and manners of the blackbirders. He knew that they would not hesitate to get up anchor and sail away with the ship if he gave them but half a chance. But he kept his weather eye lifting, and while cruising round the island he only left one hand on board.

Is it strange that Peggy felt really sorry when the time drew near when she would have to part for ever with the cannibal king? But she really was so.

This curious being, however, was offered his passage to England, if he chose to accept it.

“No,” he replied, in his broken English; “no goodee fo’ me. Plap Eenglan’ moochee too small place! Den ebery man haf on’y one wife. King Karoo stop ’long his people. When King Karoo too old, his people knockee on de head and truly bury him, plenty.”

“Bury him in the usual way, I suppose,” said Fitzroy, smiling.

“Plaps,” said the king, laconically.

Feeling perfectly safe now, the girl with Johnnie and their friend the dog made many excursions into the far interior of this beautiful island.

There were hills here of rare beauty, green wooded, almost to their summits, between which glimpses could be caught on every side of a sea more blue and lovely than any other in all this wide world—a sea in which many a little island was afloat apparently ’twixt ocean and sky, islands with white and silvery sands along the beach, but bedecked with many a waving tree-fern and feathery palm, among which fairies and elves must play in the starlight if any such there be in this world of ours.

No doubt those seas are wild and stormy enough at certain times and seasons. Indeed I myself have found them so, but placid and peaceful enough were they all the time our heroes were there.

The birds were numerous enough and beautiful, yet all but songless. Everywhere the flowers were gorgeous. And butterflies as large as fans, but far more radiant in their rainbow beauty, flitted from bush to bush revelling in the warm sunshine.

Being somewhat of a naturalist, Johnnie determined to make a collection of these. It is a delightful fancy, this of butterfly hunting, for although it is against my own principles to take life, or deprive a summer’s day of anything that is beautiful, still these creatures are numerous enough, and hardly suffer pain when caught and killed by pinching the thorax, or with chloroform.

Anyhow, with their nets, Peggy and Johnnie, sometimes Willie being with them, and always Ralph, spent many a happy hour.

But one day they wandered farther a-field than usual, and presently found themselves nearing a wood, where the trees were higher than any they had yet seen, and where there was but little undergrowth, the stems rising tall and pillar-like straight into the air, and mingling their palm-like leaves to form a canopy of green.

Had they taken the faithful hound’s advice they would have turned back at once, for he stopped at the entrance of the forest, and sniffed the air suspiciously, and it was with something like terror in his eyes, and with evident reluctance, that he followed his little master and mistress into the gloomy depths.

Nor was it long before the two became conscious of a sickly, death-like odour that went straight round their hearts.

Then all at once they found themselves in one of the most awful places that pen can describe, a temple built of human bones. They felt a kind of terrible fascination steal over them as they gazed with fear and terror at the walls around them.

Ghastly designs with long bones and spines and ribs, a fearful species of rude architecture; the walls of the avenue that led to the oval interior, the walls of the temple itself, and even a raised platform—no need to say for what dread purpose this had been built—all were built of human bones. Climbing wild flowers trailed here and there over the walls, little lizards crept in and out of eyeless sockets, and bright-winged birds perched innocently on rain-bleached skulls!

No wonder Peggy clutched Johnnie’s hand.

“Oh, lead me on, lead me out of this,” she cried.

It was a sight she would never forget, a sight she would dream of many a night in after life when on a bed of sickness. Ugh!

* * * * *

That very night Peggy McQueen formed a resolution. Some may call it a childish one. Perhaps it was, yet even from the mouths of babes and sucklings wisdom at times may come.

She would try to convert that blood-stained cannibal king.

She now spent an hour or two each day with him at his palace of huts, and surely no preacher ever expounded the doctrines of Christianity in language more simple and beautiful, yet forcible, than did our little heroine. Its loveliness, its truths, and its terrors, she told him all.

Did she succeed? Ah, that I cannot tell, but the king’s soul, it must be remembered, was like that of a little child. The souls of all savages are, and if the guileless prattle of child Peggy did not appeal to it and touch a chord, the sterner, though more learned logic of no missionary may hope to succeed.

The Wandering Minstrels gave one more performance the night before they left, and every one of Fitzroy’s troupe excelled himself and broke all former record.

Johnnie never felt in better form; Willie had never been so funny before; Peggy never sang nor played more sweetly; the giant’s great brass bassoon made echoes ring from tree to tree; then good-byes were spoken.

Fireflies were flitting from bush to bush, and moon and stars shone softly on the sea when the boats took all hands back to the barque.

When poor King Karoo looked seaward at sunrise next morning, never a sign of ship was there, nor on the distant horizon.

She had sailed away in the middle watch.

* * * * *

The owners of the blackbirding barque, which had been so cleverly captured off the cannibal island, served their own interests, I think, by denying all knowledge of her, when written to on the subject. She was a splendid clipper, and must have cost a deal to build. But she now became the property of her captors, and when paid off in Southampton waters, the black-bearded mate and his men were very glad to get off scot-free. They had not expected such leniency.

The vessel herself was sold at a good figure, and Stransom had his share, which was a good and a solid one. He disappears from our story, and so, too, does the barque.

Fitzroy and his people had their shares also, and Johnnie’s father was now able to set up as a music publisher in London.

He is there now, in winter that is. If you want to know where he is in summer, reader, you must read on.

* * * * *

Dr. Annandale was sitting in his easy-chair one summer evening, when his servant entered with a silver salver in his hand, on which lay a card with the simple inscription—

“Reginald Fitzroy.”

“Show him in, James.”

Next minute Fitzroy himself and Peggy, now a beautiful, ladylike girl of thirteen, entered.

The white-haired old physician rose, and bowing, prayed them to be seated.

“Is this to be my little patient?” he said. “She does not look ill.”

“No,” answered Fitzroy; “she is not ill, but we have a strange story to tell, which will interest you; at least I believe so.”

The doctor touched the bell.

“James,” he said, when the man re-entered, “I am not to be disturbed until I ring. Let callers wait. Now, Mr. Fitzroy, I am at your service.”

“You have been physician, I believe, for many years to Mrs. Wycliffe of Wycliffe Park here, in your neighbourhood?”

The doctor folded his thin white hands and leaned back complacently in his chair.

“For over twenty years,” he said.

“It is of her we would speak, doctor. And I must be brief. She had one child, sir?”

“Alas! yes, a dear, sweet little girl, who disappeared mysteriously, and was found many weeks afterwards at the bottom of a well.”

“Did—did you make a post-mortem, doctor?”

“I did.”

“Was there any evidence of foul-play?”

“Nothing that we could hinge a case upon. The poor little tot had wandered away and fallen into this terrible place. So we believe, at least.”

“Was there any birth-mark?”

“There was, or rather, had been before death, a curiously-shaped mark on the right arm above the elbow.”

“Did you find this mark on the little body which had fallen into or been thrown into a pit?”

“The body, sir, had lain too long to distinguish this. The identification was simple. The clothes and even trinkets were those the child had worn on the very morning of her disappearance.”

“Doctor, look at my adopted child here. Can you say that you have never clapped eyes on her before?”

The physician scrutinised Peggy for a short time.

“The same hair and eyes,” he said, slowly.

“Was the child found in the well auburn-haired?” asked Fitzroy.

“Ye—es, or brown-auburn, I think.”

“Bare your right arm, Peggy.”

The child did so, and the doctor started as if he had seen a ghost.

“Why—God have mercy on us, Mr. Fitzroy, this is Maggie Wycliffe back from the grave!”

“Now,” said Fitzroy, “will you listen patiently to my story and hers?”

And he told the doctor all.

The doctor, after hearing it, took several strides up and down the floor.

“We must be cautious,” he said at last, “how we break the news to—to Maggie’s mother. A shock might kill her. Even a shock of joy.”

“All this I leave to you, my dear sir. But you are convinced yourself now, that here stands Maggie Wycliffe, and convinced, too, of the terrible wrong that has been done her.”

“I see it all very, very clearly now.”

“Then I have nothing further to say at present, doctor, and shall take my leave. I have my part to play; you have yours. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. Good-night, little Maggie.”

The meeting between Peggy, for I must continue to call her by this sweet name, and her mother, the gentle-faced old lady with the snow-white hair, whom the child had met in the park, was a very tender one.

There were tears in Mrs. Wycliffe’s eyes as she pressed the child to her heart, and tears in Peggy’s too.

“I’m going to live for your sake. I am going to try to make you happy, child.”

“And I will make you happy, mother.”

The word “mother” was a new one to Peggy, but it seemed a very, very fond one.

Fitzroy was so pleased when asked to take up his residence at the Park till things were settled. He lost no time about this settlement, notwithstanding, but placed the matter at once in his lawyer’s hands.

There was like to be some little trouble at first. The evil brother had held the estates of Creve for eight long years now, and he felt it hard to give them up. But so terrible was the evidence of his guilt that even his own solicitor advised him not to fight the case.

On the very next day after this advice had been vouchsafed, the unhappy man was found dead in his bed. It matters but little now what the verdict of the coroner was. He is gone, and we must hope that he is forgiven.

* * * * *

The estates of Creve in Devonshire, under the guardianship of her mother, are worth many thousands annually, and Peggy Wycliffe is the beautiful little mistress thereof, but somehow neither she nor her mother care to reside there, and so they are let.

* * * * *

My story is told—my “ower true” tale. And so the curtain drops.

Yet it seems but right that we should raise it again for a few moments to have one last look at our heroes and heroines.

Little Peggy McQueen or Wycliffe is very happy in her new home, and her mother is really renewing her youth. Sad it is that she is almost blind. She and her daughter are never parted. They may often be seen walking together in the beautiful park when the weather is fine, and always followed by that noble blood-hound, Ralph.

And there is one seat among the trees on which they very often rest. It is the rustic daïs on which Peggy was sitting with her dog that day, when quietly up behind her came the gentle lady with the snow-white hair.

Willie Randolph, Peggy’s old favourite, she is going to see frequently, also poor little Gourmie.

As for Molly. Oh, bless my soul, my dear young reader, I wouldn’t forget her for the world. She is a resident at Wycliffe now, and looks after the plate and the linen, and is just as happy as the twenty-first of June is long.

Molly says she is getting old. “Getting” you know, and Peggy smiles kindly on her when she says so. “And my poor back, Miss Peggy,” she says, “it do ache unkimmon sometimes, with that plaguey rheumatiz. But what can I expect, dear Missie. I be’s six-and-forty years o’ age. Ay, be I.”

I think myself that if Molly had said sixty-four instead of forty-six she would have been nearer the mark. The same figures, four and six, but the dear old lady had put the cart before the horse.

What matters it? Old Molly is happy.

Both Fitzroy and Johnnie are frequently down at Wycliffe enjoying a few days’ sport, for game abounds on the estate.

And right happy days these are. Johnnie is going into the Army. I am curious to know what sort of a soldier he will make. I shall keep my weather eye lifting, but I feel sure that if Johnnie doesn’t win the Victoria Cross it will be through no fault of Johnnie’s.

But the dear old life in wayside camp and caravan is not going to be altogether given up. No, because with her mother’s sanction Peggy is preparing for a grand tour right away from the beautiful New Forest in Hampshire to the wild grandeur of the Sutherland Highlands, far beyond the Caledonian Alps. Peggy’s caravan will be no longer the little one over the half-door of which she was leaning when we first made her acquaintance. It is to be the most spacious and the handsomest travelling car on the road, saloon-cabin and after-cabin. But Peggy’s mother will go also, and old Molly and Ralph as well.

Peggy has told me that she does not mean to do things by halves, and that not only shall Gourmie be one of the crew, but little Willie the violinist, and Fitzroy himself.

Will Johnnie be there? Was that what you asked? What a question, to be sure! If you asked Peggy herself, she would look at you in sweet surprise and say, “Why, of course. Caravan life would not be caravan life, nor a camp a camp, without Johnnie!”

I end by wishing them a happy cruise.

And you, my young reader, boy or girl, a happy Christmas, with a right merry and jolly New Year to follow!

Ta, ta!

LONDON AND GLASGOW, COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

The “Forward” Series.

The Original Series, with Coloured Pictures.
New Attractive Bindings, in Art Colours.

This Series of Books for Boys and Girls has been Edited by Herbert Hayens, author of “Under the Lone Star” and numerous other Books for Boys; and care has been taken to publish only what can be confidently placed in the hands of youth.

Each Book is printed from a new font of Clear Type.

54 Stepping Heavenward. | Mrs. Prentiss
53 A Mystery of the Sea. | Herbert Hayens
52 Old Jack. | W. H. G. Kingston
51 Gisli, the Outlaw. | Sir George Dasent
50 The Water-Babies. | Charles Kingsley
49 Manor Pool Island. | Harold Avery
47 Alice in Wonderland. | Lewis Carroll
46 Will of the Mill. | G. Manville Fenn
45 The Old Lieutenant and His Son. | Norman MacLeod
44 Ungava. | R. M. Ballantyne
43 What Katy Did. | Susan Coolidge
42 What Katy Did at School. | Susan Coolidge
41 Ned Myers. | J. Fenimore Cooper
40 Tales from Shakespeare. | Charles Lamb
39 Favourite Tales from Grimm. |
38 Cousin Christine. | Florence Dugdale
37 The Basket of Flowers. |
36 Little Susie. | Mrs. Prentiss
35 Fairy Tales from Andersen. |
34 Fairy Tales from Grimm. |
33 The Flower of the Family. | Mrs. Prentiss
32 The Young Pilgrim. | A.L.O.E.
31 The Three Midshipmen. | W. H. G. Kingston
30 Audrey Marsh. | E. Everett-Green
29 Young Peggy M’Queen. | Dr. Gordon Stables
28 Delmayne’s Adventures. | Bessie Marchant
27 Jack Fraser’s Adventures. | Herbert Hayens
26 Stories from Grimm. |
25 Stories from Andersen. |
24 The Lost Jewel. | A.L.O.E.
23 The Kopje Farm. | William Johnson
22 The Captives of the Kaid. | Bessie Marchant
21 The Quest of the Luck. | Lewis Ramsden
20 The Lamplighter. | M. S. Cummins
19 Gorilla Hunters. | R. M. Ballantyne
18 Home Sunshine. | C. D. Bell
17 Two Years before the Mast. | R. H. Dana
16 Good Wives. | L. M. Alcott
15 Little Women. | L. M. Alcott
14 Manco, the Peruvian Chief. | W. H. G. Kingston
13 Masterman Ready. | Captain Marryat
12 The Scalp-Hunters. | Captain Mayne Reid
11 Tom Brown’s School Days. | Thomas Hughes
10 Feats on the Fiord. | Harriet Martineau
9 Prince of the House of David. | Rev. J. H. Ingraham
8 The Last of the Mohicans. | J. Fenimore Cooper
7 Martin Rattler. | R. M. Ballantyne
6 The Settlers in Canada. | Captain Marryat
5 Danesbury House. | Mrs. Henry Wood
4 The Rifle Rangers. | Captain Mayne Reid
3 Peter the Whaler. | W. H. G. Kingston
2 The Cruise of the Midge. | Michael Scott
1 The Coral Island. | R. M. Ballantyne

Additional Titles in Preparation.

London and Glasgow: Collins’ Clear-Type Press.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG PEGGY MCQUEEN ***

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Table of Contents

- YOUNG PEGGY McQUEEN

- CONTENTS.

- Young Peggy McQueen.

- BOOK I.

- CHAPTER I. On a Sweet May Morning.

- CHAPTER II. The Minstrels at Home.

- CHAPTER III. A Forest Play.

- CHAPTER IV. So Ends the Play.

- CHAPTER V. A Nymph of the Wave.

- CHAPTER VI. Peggy’s Home upon Wheels.

- CHAPTER VII. Peggy Little Knew What Was Before Her.

- CHAPTER VIII. “Dark like a Winter’s Eve.”

- CHAPTER IX. Bloodhound on the Trail.

- CHAPTER X. Oh, for that Beautiful Summer!

- BOOK II.

- CHAPTER I. Poor Kammie.

- CHAPTER II. Storm and Wreck.

- CHAPTER III. When the Worst Comes to the Worst.

- CHAPTER IV. On the Cannibal Isle.

- CHAPTER V. A Bloodless Battle.—Life on the Island.

- CHAPTER VI. White Wings upon the Waves.

- CHAPTER VII. She Sailed Away in the Middle Watch.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE