CAPTAIN WEATHERBY'S FUR CAP.

BY DAVID KER.

"If you're going out again to-night, my friend, I'd advise you to leave this new fur cap of yours at home, and take your sea cap instead."

So spoke a hospitable Russian merchant to his guest, Captain Cyrus Weatherby, skipper and part owner of the good ship Seabird, of Boston. The Captain had reached St. Petersburg late enough in the fall for it to be already pretty cold at night, and his first exploit on landing was to buy a magnificent fur cap, which, as he said, would "astonish his folks at the Hub some" when he got back.

"What should I leave it at home for?" asked the skipper. "I s'pose I ain't going to be arrested as a Nihilist 'cause I've got a new cap on?"

"No; but if you go out with it, you'll most likely come back without it."

"Somebody going to steal it, eh?"

"Just so, and I'll tell you how. There's a fellow going around here just now who makes a regular trade of snapping up all the good caps he can lay his hands on. He hires a hack carriage, and drives about the streets after dark at a rattling pace, the driver being, of course, a confederate of his own. Then, whenever he passes a man with a high-priced cap on—like yours, for instance—he leans forward and snatches it off,[1] while the driver puts his horse to speed, and is out of sight before there's time to cry, 'Help!'"

"Pretty smart that," growled the Massachusetts man. "I guess I must give that land-shark a wide berth. Whereabouts does he cruise, so as I may keep clear of him?"

"Well, you might meet him in any of the streets near the Isaac Cathedral, but his general place is the Bolshaya Morskaya [Great Marine] Street."

"All right."

Up to his room went Captain Weatherby, and taking out the precious cap, began to stitch on to it, with sailor-like dexterity, two huge ear-laps, each furnished with a stout ribbon. Then he tied it on, and tested the strength of the fastenings by a vigorous tug.

"Won't do," he muttered; "they mightn't break, but again they might, and then it would be all up. Guess a strap won't do any harm."

The strap being drawn round his head, and buckled firmly under his chin, the worthy sailor seemed more at his ease, and grunted, defiantly, "Now, then, let's see if a Boston boy ain't a match for any Russian that ever ate tallow!"

Out went the Captain; but his friend's warning seemed to have made very little impression upon him, for instead of avoiding the neighborhood of the Isaac Cathedral, he went straight toward it. The vast golden dome, towering over its massive pillars of polished granite, made a gallant show in the brilliant Northern moonlight; but just then the Captain had something else to think about. At the very corner of the great square he suddenly caught sight of a bare-headed man shouting lustily for the police, while a drosky (hack carriage) was just vanishing in the distance.

"Well, if that pirate hain't scuttled one craft already!" muttered our hero; "but he don't catch Cy Weatherby so easy, all the same."

Away tramped the valiant Captain along the sidewalk of the Morskaya, turning up the cuffs of his pilot-coat with a business-like air as he went. He had scarcely gone a hundred yards when his quick ear caught the roll of wheels coming toward him from the other end of the short street, which, for a wonder, was almost deserted.

"Stand to your guns, boys," chuckled the Captain; "here comes the enemy."

A drosky came dashing by, and its occupant, just as he passed, bent forward and made a snatch at the new cap. But the strap held firm; and instantly the sailor's iron hand grasped the fellow's wrist, and jerked him from his seat. The next moment he lay writhing on the sidewalk, under a shower of battering blows dealt with all the power of a fist that might have done duty for a sledge-hammer; while his worthy confederate, so far from helping him, drove off as fast as he could go.

"What's all this?" asked a gruff voice in Russian, as a tall frieze-coated figure, with the cap and badge of a city policeman, appeared at Weatherby's elbow.

The Captain was not much of a Russian scholar, but his expressive signs, and a glance at the robber's face, soon enlightened the policeman, who rubbed his big hands gleefully.

"You've done us a good turn, father, whoever you are. This is the very fellow we've been looking for, and there's a good big reward offered for him. Here comes one of my mates, and we'll just bundle the scamp off to the tchast [police office] at once."

This was soon done, and Captain Weatherby got his fair share of the reward, as well as the satisfaction of having been "too smart for a thieving Russian," which, as he assured his Boston friends on his return home, was well worth double the money.