A TROPICAL HURRICANE.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

High noon in the little Anglo-Spanish town of Queenston, island of St. Vincent: everything and everybody seem to be dozing quietly in the hot, drowsy atmosphere.

"Why, all the people must be asleep or dead," mutters Ned Brandon, discontentedly, as he stands on the corner of the one principal street of Queenston, under the shade of a neat silk umbrella, and stares about him. Truth to tell, Ned, who is something of a dandy, had before going ashore dressed himself with exceeding care in his little state-room on board the brig Calypso, owned by his father, and in which, under the care of good Captain Hardy, he is making a vacation trip to the West Indies.

He has on a dazzling suit of pure white linen, a handsome Panama hat, a white neck-tie, low patent-leather shoes, and striped silk stockings.

"Well, I certainly took a great deal of trouble for nothing in this matter of dressing," grumbles Ned, looking listlessly up and down the almost deserted street.

Gayly painted shops, where one may buy anything from a penny roll to a steam-boiler, alternate with small, one-story "bonnet-roof" houses, with barred and jail-like windows. Past these an occasional group of meek-looking yellow coolies, as much alike in appearance as a flock of sheep, shuffle over the rude pavement. Occasionally the blackest kind of a negro from some neighboring plantation appears, driving before him three or four diminutive donkeys laden with sugar-cane or panniers of ripe fruit.

In the shade of the little stone custom-house, the open door of which is guarded by a negro, in tattered uniform, bearing a flint-lock musket, sits a drowsy Creole woman on the edge of the pavement. Before her, on a brazier of glowing coals, bubbles a pot of odorous soup, to be retailed to possible customers at a penny per bowl. Whatever may be the remaining ingredients of the compound, it is plainly evident that garlic predominates.

The reason why there is no one to admire the elaborately dressed young fellow on the corner is very simple. Queenston is taking its noonday siesta.

In every little court-yard and inclosure swing sleeping forms in grass hammocks, shaded by luxuriant growths of pawpaw, banana, and plantain, orange, mango, and tamarind, while above all towers the beautiful cocoa-palm with its clusters of golden green fruit.

"I might as well go down to the landing-steps and signal the Calypso to send the boat ashore," mutters Ned, with a yawn, himself not unaffected by the drowsy surroundings.

"Oh, I say!" suddenly exclaims a boyish voice behind him. Ned feels a timid touch on his shoulder, and he wheels sharply round. "I'm Joe Sampson," continues the new-comer, who is a young fellow a year or two younger than Ned, speaking in an eager, hurried tone, "and I belong out to Dedham, Massachusetts. I ran away from a Provincetown whaler. Don't you think your Cap'n will give a fellow a chance to work his passage back to the States?" And the gaunt, hollow-eyed, sun-browned face of the speaker is lit up with eager anticipation as he breathlessly awaits the other's answer.

Ordinarily Ned would have answered, "Of course he will," with hearty cordiality. But the thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees in the shade; he is hot, hungry, and irritable. Besides, Joe Sampson in his rimless straw hat, coarse blue shirt, tattered trousers, and worn-out shoes is anything but prepossessing as to outward appearance.

"I don't think Captain Hardy cares to ship a green hand," coldly begins Ned, and is thoroughly ashamed of his words as soon as he has spoken. But before he can mend them, Joe, with a mute gesture of despair, turns the corner, and hurries off.

"Hi, there!" shouts Ned, remorsefully, "hold on a bit." But Joe either can not or will not hear. He is walking along a narrow street of picturesque but unclean negro cabins—a street which ascending as it leaves the town limits, widens into a mountain road, leading upward to the heights which overhang Queenston on all but the harbor side.

Impulsive Ned stands for a few moments irresolute.

"Hungry no doubt, and homesick of course," he says, half aloud. "What a wretch I am, to be sure!"

With the words he furls his umbrella, and unmindful of the scorching rays of the sun, starts in rapid pursuit of the runaway, who is now out of sight in a bend of the rising road.

Past the dirty suburbs Ned hastens, and now he is climbing the steep side of Monte Rosa. On either hand are great thickets of tree-ferns, which as he ascends give place to thickets of the wild-growing banana festooned through and through with fragrant flowering vines where humming-birds of gorgeous hue disport themselves. Across the reddish earth of the roadway dart green and gold lizards with black beady eyes, land-crabs scuttle hastily away from his hurrying footsteps, and once or twice the ugly face of a harmless iguana leers at him from a way-side stump.

Breathless, and dripping with perspiration at every pore, Ned reaches the summit, but runaway Joe is nowhere in sight. The plateau at the left is smooth and level, a crumbled stone parapet follows the edge of the cliff, and the ruins of what was once a small fortress stand further back. Perhaps Joe is hidden thereabouts.

"This is a pretty go; now isn't it?" exclaims Ned, in a disgusted tone, as, tearing off his saturated collar and tie, he throws himself at full length on the greensward under the shade of a cabbage-palm which grows close to the parapet, to cool off a bit. Yet the wonderful outlook almost repays him for the exhaustive climb. Before his gaze lies the far-reaching Caribbean Sea, not sparkling and blue as is its wont, however, but strangely calm, and of an oily smoothness, unbroken by a ruffle of wind. There is a curious yellowish haze, too, which has been creeping up from the distant horizon since morning, and is now tempering the heat of the sun, which shines through it with a singularly brassy effect.

"I think," drowsily remarked Ned, "that I'll take a bit of a nap, and hunt for Joseph the unfortunate later."

So Ned, resigning himself to slumber, dreamed that he was the admiral of a fleet manned by deserters from whaling vessels. This fleet was anchored in Queenston Harbor, and was returning the fire from the guns of the fortress above. The cannonading grew louder and louder, until Ned awoke with a start.

But what is this?

Above him is a sky blacker than the ink with which the Calypso's log is written. Great sheets of rose-colored lightning shimmer continually upward from the distant horizon like the rays of aurora borealis, while rattling peals of thunder follow each other in quick succession. Then, as he starts up in a fright, the heavens directly overhead are rent asunder with one blinding flash, simultaneous with which comes a crash of thunder that seems to jar his very brain. Then, as though this were a pre-concerted signal, the sound of a mighty rushing wind, constantly increasing in intensity, is heard, before which, hurtling through the thickening gloom, come clouds of dust, branches of trees, and débris of every sort. The force of the hurricane is not only sufficient to throw Ned to the ground, but to pin him there as by giant hands, as it goes roaring seaward with an awfulness of deafening roar which can not be described in words.

"It is the Day of Judgment!" is the thought which sweeps through Ned's bewildered mind. And then as suddenly as the storm arose there is a lull, followed by an ominous silence as terrifying as the roar itself, for the darkness seems if possible to grow more intense.

"The Calypso," thinks Ned; "where is she?" Crawling to the edge of the parapet, he strains his eyes downward through the darkness. A momentary flash illumines the gloom, and shows a phantom sail, which he hopes may be the Calypso's, scudding out of the harbor mouth.

And now the hurricane breaks forth from an almost opposite quarter, bringing with it torrent upon torrent of driving rain, drenching Ned to the skin, and fairly blinding him with its force. He is about to fly, he knows not whither, when some one, dimly seen through the darkness, clasps his hand.

"This way—quick!" exclaims the voice of Joe; and feeling himself urged rapidly forward, Ned in a moment or two finds that at last he has reached a place of shelter.

"I stop here nights," laconically observes Joe, as the two boys drop, dripping and out of breath, on a pile of dry leaves and grasses in one corner of what Ned sees by the continuous play of lightning is a low circular stone cell, and which Joe explains was probably used as a sort of powder-house before the fort was demolished.

For three long hours the hurricane swept above them, and the sea roared beneath, while the crash of thunder, almost without cessation, seemed to jar the stones about them. At last its violence subsided by degrees, and as Ned and Joe finally emerged from their refuge, it was to see the clouds rolling away in great rifted masses, through which shone the beams of sunset.

"And now, if the Calypso is only safe," said Ned, as they made their way with difficulty down the mountain road, which had become the bed of a small stream, "you shall have your passage back to the States, Joe, and not work it either."

"Ah! if," returned Joe, soberly. He was wondering how they should live until the brig arrived, even if she was safe; and what on earth would become of them if she was lost! For the Queenston people do not take kindly to penniless wanderers, as poor Ned found to his cost before another twenty-four hours had passed over his head.

Fortunately for the companions in misfortune, fruit had been dislodged by the hurricane in such quantities that it was to be had for the taking. The boys supported life for a fortnight on oranges, ripe bread-fruit, bananas, guavas, mami apples, and soursops, which are "all very well for dessert," as Ned afterward remarked, "but for a steady diet I prefer roast beef; fruit gets monotonous after the forty-fifth or forty-sixth meal."

Thus for three weary weeks the boys wandered listlessly by day through the streets of Queenston, and by night suffered innumerable tortures from mosquitoes.

"Tell those two dirty-looking darkies to sheer off, Mr. Nason," sharply said Captain Hardy, as with only the stump of her foretopmast standing, and her bulwarks completely gone, the brig Calypso slowly swung to her moorings.

There had been a terrible struggle with tempest and storm, and it was only after a succession of head-winds and exasperating calms of many days' duration that the Calypso had finally managed to work back to the anchorage from which the hurricane had driven her so many miles out to sea.

"Be off there!" gruffly commanded Mr. Nason, in obedience to his Captain's orders, as a shore boat touched the vessel's side. "We don't want yams or fruit, and we've got nothing for you to beg or steal."

"If you've only got something to eat, that's all we want," replied a familiar voice, whose owner sprang lightly over the rail, while his companion followed more slowly.

"Upon my word!" ejaculated the Captain, in amazement. "Is that you, Ned, and what do you look like?"

A white linen suit that has been soaked with rain or dew and dried in the sun several times has a tendency to cling to its possessor's figure with more closeness than ease; its hue becomes dingy by being slept in and used to wipe fruit-stained fingers on. Such was the case with Ned's once brilliant costume. He was also barefooted and nearly bare-headed, while his face was burned to the color of shoe leather.

"I used to think," said Ned, helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit, and passing the corned beef to Joe, who sat opposite him at the tea table in the Calypso's cabin that evening, "that it would be rather nice to try a touch of vagabond life on some island in the tropics, but I rather think I prefer my regular meals at a table, and all night in bed—eh, Joe?"

And Joe, whose heart and mouth were too full for utterance, nodded an emphatic assent.