"The Battery and the Boiler" (continued 4)

“It cannot be like paradise without mamma,” said Letta, shaking her pretty head sadly. “I would not go to heaven unless mamma was there.”

Robin was silent for some time, as he thought of his own mother and the talks he used to have with her on this same subject.

“Letta,” he said at length, earnestly, “Jesus will be in heaven. It was His Spirit who taught you to love mamma—as you do, so you are sure to meet her there with Him.”

“Nobody taught me to love mamma,” returned the child quietly; “I couldn’t help it.”

“True, little one, but it was God who made you to—‘couldn’t help it.’”

Letta was puzzled by this reply. She raised her bright eyes inquiringly into Robin’s honest face, and said, “But you’ve promised to take me to her, you know.”

“Yes, dear little one, but you must not misunderstand me,” replied the youth somewhat sadly. “I promise that, God helping me, I will do the best I can to find out where your mother is; but you must remember that I have very little to go on. I don’t even know your mother’s name, or the place where you were taken from. By the way, an idea has just occurred to me. Have you any clothes at the cave?”

“Of course I have,” answered Letta, with a merry laugh.

“Yes; but I mean the clothes that you had on when you first came here.”

“I don’t know; Meerta knows. Why?”

“Because your name may be marked on them. Come, let us go back at once and see. Besides, we are wasting time, for you know I was sent out to shoot some ducks for dinner.”

Rising as he spoke, Robin shouldered the shotgun which had been supplied from the robbers’ armoury, and, descending with his little companion towards the lake, soon began to stalk the birds as carefully as if he had been trained to the work by a Red Indian. Stooping low, he glided swiftly through the bushes, until he came within a hundred yards of the margin of the lakelet, where a group of some thirty or forty fat ducks were feeding. Letta had fallen behind, and sat down to watch.

The distance being too great for a shot, and the bushes beyond the spot which he had reached being too thin to conceal him, Robin lay flat down, and began to advance through the long grass after the fashion of a snake, pushing his gun before him. It was a slow and tedious process, but Robin’s spirit was patient and persevering. He screwed himself, as it were, to within sixty yards of the flock, and then fired both barrels almost simultaneously. Seven dead birds remained behind when the affrighted flock took wing.

“It is not very scientific shooting,” said Robin, apologetically, to his fair companion, as she assisted him to tie their legs together; “but our object just now is food, not sport.”

On the way back to the cavern they had to pass over a narrow ledge, on one side of which a precipice descended towards the valley, while the other side rose upwards like a wall. It was not necessarily a dangerous place. They had passed it often before in safety, none of the party being troubled with giddiness; but at this time Robin had unfortunately hung his bundle of ducks on the side which had to brush past the rocky wall. As he passed, the bunch struck a projection and threw him off his balance. In the effort to recover himself he dislodged a piece of rock under his left foot, and, without even a cry, went headlong over the precipice!

Poor Letta stood rooted to the spot, too horrified to scream. She saw her friend, on whom all her hopes were built, go crashing through the foliage immediately below the precipice edge, and disappear. It was the first terrible shock she had ever received. With a convulsive shudder she ran by a dangerously steep route towards the foot of the precipice.

But Robin had not yet met his doom, although he had descended full sixty feet. His fall was broken by several leafy trees, through which he went like an avalanche; and a thick solid bush receiving him at the foot, checked his descent entirely, and slid him quietly off its boughs on to the grass, where he lay, stunned, indeed, but otherwise uninjured.

Poor Letta of course was horrified, on reaching the spot, to find that Robin could not speak, and was to all appearance dead. In an agony of terror she shrieked, and shook him and called him by name—to awaken him, as she afterwards said; but Robin’s sleep was too deep at that moment to be dispelled by such measures. Letta therefore sprang up and ran as fast as she could to the cavern to tell the terrible news and fetch assistance.

Robin, however, was not left entirely alone in his extremity. It so chanced that a remarkably small monkey was seated among the boughs of a neighbouring tree, eating a morsel of fruit, when Letta’s first scream sounded through the grove. Cocking up one ear, it arrested its little hand on the way to its lesser mouth, and listened. Its little black face was corrugated with the wrinkles of care—it might be of fun, we cannot tell. The only large features of the creature were its eyes, and these seemed to blaze, while the brows rose high, as if in surprise.

On hearing the second scream the small monkey laid hold of a bough with its tail, swung itself off, and caught another with its feet, sprang twenty feet, more or less, to the ground, which it reached on its hands, tumbled a somersault inadvertently, and went skipping over the ground at a great rate in the direction of the cries.

When it reached the spot, however, Letta had fled, but Robin still lay motionless on his back. It was evident that the small monkey looked on the prostrate youth with alarm and suspicion, yet with an intense curiosity that no sense of danger could restrain. It walked slowly and inquiringly round him several times, each time drawing closer, while its crouched back and trailing tail betokened abject humility. Then it ventured to put out a small black hand and touch him, drawing it back again as if it had got an electric shock. Then it ventured to touch him again, with less alarm. After that it went close up, and gazed in his face.

Familiarity, says the proverb, breeds contempt. The truth of proverbs can be verified by monkeys as well as men. Seeing that nothing came of its advances, that small monkey finally leaped on Robin’s chest, sat down thereon, and stared into his open mouth. Still the youth moved not, whereupon the monkey advanced a little and laid its paw upon his nose! Either the touch was more effective than Letta’s shaking, or time was bringing Robin round, for he felt his nose tickled, and gave way to a tremendous sneeze. It blew the monkey clean off its legs, and sent it shrieking into a neighbouring tree. As Robin still lay quiet, the monkey soon recovered, and returned to its former position, where, regardless of consequences, it again laid hold of the nose.

This time consciousness returned. Robin opened his eyes with a stare of dreamy astonishment. The monkey replied with a stare of indignant surprise. Robin’s eyebrows rose still higher. So did those of the monkey as it leaped back a foot, and formed its mouth into a little O of remonstrance. Robin’s mouth expanded; he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and the monkey was again on the eve of flight, when voices were heard approaching, and, next instant, Letta came running forward, followed at some distance by Sam and the others.

“Oh! my dear, sweet, exquisite darling!” exclaimed Letta.

It did much for the poor youth’s recovery, the hearing himself addressed in such endearing terms, but he experienced a relapse when the monkey, responding to the endearments, ran with obvious joy into the child’s bosom, and submitted to a warm embrace.

“Oh, you darling!” repeated Letta; “where have you been? why did you go away? I thought you were dead. Naughty thing!”

Recollecting Robin with a shock of self-reproach, she dropped the monkey and ran to him.

“It is an old friend, I see,” he said with a languid smile, as she came up.

“Yes, yes; an old pet. I had lost him for a long time. But you’re not killed? Oh! I’m so glad.”

“Killed!” repeated Sam, who was down on his knees carefully examining the patient; “I should think not. He’s not even bruised—only stunned a little. Where did you fall from, Robin—the tree top?”

“No; from the edge of the precipice.”

“What! from the ledge sixty or seventy feet up there? Impossible! You would certainly have been killed if you had fallen from that.”

“So I certainly should,” returned Robin, “if God had not in his mercy grown trees and shrubs there, expressly, among other purposes, to save me.”

In this reply Robin’s mind was running on previous conversations which he had had with his friend on predestination.

The idea of shrubs and trees having been expressly grown on an island of the Southern Seas to save an English boy, seemed doubtful to Sam. He did not, however, express his doubts at the time, but reserved the subject for a future “theological discussion.”

Meanwhile, Slagg, Stumps, and Johnson, having spread some palm branches on a couple of stout poles, laid our hero thereon, and bore him in safety to the pirates’ cave, where, for several days, he lay on one of the luxurious couches, tenderly nursed by Letta and the old woman, who, although she still pathetically maintained that the “roberts an pyrits wasn’t all so bad as each oder,” was quite willing to admit that her present visitors were preferable, and that, upon the whole, she was rather fond of them.

Chapter Twenty.

Various Subjects treated of, and a Great Fight detailed.

It was the habit of Robin and his friends at this time, the weather being extremely fine and cool, to sit at the mouth of their cavern of an evening, chatting about the events of the day, or the prospects of the future, or the experiences of the past, while old Meerta busied herself preparing supper over a fire kindled on the ground.

No subject was avoided on these occasions, because the friends were harmoniously minded, in addition to which the sweet influences of mingled star-light and fire-light, soft air, and lovely prospect of land and sea—to say nothing of the prospect of supper—all tended to induce a peaceful and forbearing spirit.

“Well, now,” said Robin, continuing a subject which often engaged their intellectual powers, “it seems to me simple enough.”

“Simple!” exclaimed Johnson, with a half-sarcastic laugh, “w’y, now, you an’ the doctor ’ave tried to worrit that electricity into my brain for many months, off an’ on, and I do believe as I’m more muddled about it to-night than I was at the beginnin’.”

“P’r’aps it’s because you hain’t got no brains to work upon,” suggested Slagg.

“P’r’aps it is,” humbly admitted the seaman. “But look here, now, doctor,” he added, turning to Sam with his brow knotted up into an agony of mental endeavour, and the forefinger of one hand thrust into the palm of the other,—“look here. You tells me that electricity ain’t a substance at all.”

“Yes, that’s so,” assented Sam with a nod.

“Wery good. Now, then, if it ain’t a substance at all, it’s nothin’. An’ if it’s nothin’, how can you go an’ talk of it as somethin’ an’ give it a name, an’ tell me it works the telegraph, an’ does all manner of wonderful things?”

“But it does not follow that a thing must be nothing because it isn’t a substance. Don’t you see, man, that an idea is something, yet it is not a substance. Thought, which is so potent a factor in this world, is not a substance, yet it cannot be called nothing. It is a condition—it is the result of brain-atoms in action. Electricity is sometimes described as an ‘invisible imponderable fluid,’ but that is not quite correct, because a fluid is a substance. It is a better definition to say that electricity is a manifestation of energy—a result of substance in action.”

“There, I’m muddled again!” said Johnson, with a look of hopeless incapacity.

“Small blame to you, Johnson,” murmured Slagg who had done his best to understand, while Stumps sat gazing at the speakers with an expression of blank complacency.

“Look here, Johnson,” said Sam, “you’ve often seen men shaking a carpet, haven’t you?”

“In coorse I have.”

“Well, have you not observed the waves of the carpet that roll along it when shaken!”

“Yes, I have.”

“What are these waves?”

“Well, sir, I should say they was the carpet,” replied Johnson.

“No, the waves are not the carpet. When the waves reach the end of the carpet they disappear. If the waves were the carpet, the carpet would disappear. The same waves in a whip, soft and undulating though they be, result in a loud crack, as you know.”

“Muddled again,” said Johnson.

“Ditto,” said Slagg.

“Why, I’m not muddled a bit!” suddenly exclaimed Stumps, with a half-contemptuous laugh.

“Of coorse you’re not,” retorted Slagg. “Brainless things never git into that state. You never heard of a turnip bein’ muddled, did you?”

Stumps became vacant, and Sam went on.

“Well, you see, the waves are not substance. They are a condition—a result of atoms in motion. Now, when the atoms of a substance are disturbed by friction, or by chemical action, they get into a state of violent commotion, and try wildly to fly from, or to, each other. This effort to fly about is energy. When the atoms get into a very intense state of commotion they have a tendency to induce explosion, unless a way of escape is found—escape for the energy, not for the atoms. Now, when you cause chemical disturbance in an electric battery, the energy thus evolved is called electricity, and we provide a conductor of escape for it in the shape of a copper or other metal wire, which we may carry to any distance we please, and the energy runs along it, as the wave runs along the carpet, as long as you keep up the commotion in the battery among the excited atoms of copper and zinc.”

“Mud—no, not quite. I have got a glimmer o’ su’thin’,” said Johnson.

“Ditto,” said Slagg.

“Supper,” said old Meerta.

“Ha! that’s the battery for me,” cried Stumps, jumping up.

“Not a bad one either,” said Robin, as they entered the cave; “alternate plates of beef and greens, steeped in some such acid as lemonade, cause a wonderful commotion in the atoms of the human body.”

“True, Robin, and the energy thereby evolved,” said Sam, “sometimes bursts forth in brilliant sparks of wit—to say nothing of flashes of absurdity.”

“An’ thunderin’ stoopidity,” added Slagg.

Further converse on the subject was checked at that time by what Sam termed the charging of the human batteries. The evening meal went on in silence and very pleasantly for some time, but before its close it was interrupted in an alarming manner by the sudden entrance of Letta with wild excitement in her eyes.

“Oh!” she cried, pointing back to the entrance of the cave, “a ship!—pirate-ship coming!”

A bombshell could scarcely have produced greater effect. Each individual leaped up and darted out, flushing deep red or turning pale, according to temperament. They were not long in verifying the statement. A ledge of rocks concealed the entrance to the cavern from the sea. Over its edge could be seen the harbour in which they had found the vessel whose total destruction has been described; and there, sure enough, they beheld a similar vessel, though considerably smaller, in the act of furling her sails and dropping anchor. There could be no doubt as to her character, for although too distant to admit of her crew being distinguished by star-light, her rig and general appearance betrayed her.

“Not a moment to be lost, Robin,” said Sam Shipton hurriedly, as he led the way back to the tavern, where old Meerta and blind Bungo, aided by Letta, had already cleared away all evidence of the late feast, leaving only three tin cups and three pewter plates on the table, with viands appropriate thereto.

“Ha! you’re a knowing old lady,” exclaimed Sam, “you understand how to help us, I see.”

“Me tink so!” replied Meerta, with an intelligent nod. “On’y us t’ree here. All de pyrits gone away. Dem sinners on’y come here for a feed—p’r’aps for leetil poodre. Soon go away.”

“Just so,” said Sam, “meanwhile we will hide, and return after they are gone, or, better still, if you, Letta, and Bungo will come and hide with us, I’ll engage to lay a train of powder from the barrels inside to somewhere outside, and blow the reptiles and the whole mountain into the sea! There’s powder enough to do it.”

“You tink me one divl?” demanded the old woman indignantly. “No, some o’ dem pyrits not so bad as each oder. You let ’em alone; me let you alone.”

This gentle intimation that Meerta had their lives in her hand, induced Sam to ask modestly what she would have him do.

“Go,” she replied promptly, “take rifles, swords, an’ poodre. Hide till pyrits go ’way. If de finds you—fight. Better fight dan be skin alive!”

“Unquestionably,” said Sam, with a mingled laugh and shudder, in which his companions joined—as regards the shudder at least, if not the laugh.

Acting promptly on the suggestion, Sam armed himself and his comrades each with a good breech-loading rifle, as much ammunition as he could conveniently carry, and an English sword. Then, descending the mountain on the side opposite to the harbour they disappeared in the dark and tangled underwood of the palm-grove. Letta went a short distance with them.

“They won’t kill Meerta or blind Bungo,” she said, on the way down. “They’re too useful, though they often treat them badly. Meerta sent me away to hide here the last time the strange bad men came. She thinks I go hide to-night, but I won’t; so, good-night.”

“But surely you don’t mean to put yourself in the power of the pirates?” said Robin.

“No, never fear,” returned the child with a laugh. “I know how to see them without they see me.”

Before further remonstrance could be made, the active child had bounded up the pathway and disappeared.

Not long after Sam and his comrades had taken their departure, the pirates came up to the cavern in a body—about forty of them—well armed and ready to fight if need be. They were as rascally a set of cut-throats as one could desire to see—or, rather, not to see—of various nationality, with ugly countenances and powerful frames, which were clothed in more or less fantastic Eastern garb. Their language, like themselves, was mixed, and, we need scarcely add, unrefined. The little that was interchanged between them and Meerta we must, however, translate.

“What! alive still!” cried the ruffian, who appeared to be the leader of the band, flinging himself down on a couch with the air of a man who knew the place well, while his men made themselves at home.

Meerta merely smiled to the salutation; that in to say, she grinned.

“Where are they?” demanded the pirate-chief, referring of course to those who, the reader is aware, were blown up.

“Gone away,” answered Meerta.

“Far away?” asked the pirate.

“Yes, very far away.”

“Goin’ to be long away?”

“Ho! yes, very long.”

“Where’s the little girl they took from Sarawak?”

“Gone away.”

“Where away?”

“Don’t know.”

“Now, look here, you old hag,” said the pirate, drawing a pistol from his belt and levelling it, “tell the truth about that girl, else I’ll scatter your brains on the floor. Where has she gone to?”

“Don’t know,” repeated Meerta, with a look of calm indifference, as she took up a tankard and wiped it out with a cloth.

The man steadied the pistol and pressed the trigger.

“You better wait till she has given us our grub,” quietly suggested one of the men.

The leader replaced the weapon in the shawl which formed his girdle, and said, “Get it ready quick—the best you have, and bring us some wine to begin with.”

Soon after that our friends, while conversing in low tones in the grove, heard the unmistakeable sounds of revelry issue from the cave.

“What think you, boys,” said Sam suddenly, “shall we go round to the harbour, surprise and kill the guard, seize the pirate-ship, up anchor and leave these villains to enjoy themselves as best they may?”

“What! and leave Letta, not to mention Meerta and Bungo, behind us? Never!”

“I forgot them for the moment,” said Sam. “No, we can’t do that.”

As he spoke the noise of revelry became louder and degenerated into sounds of angry disputation. Then several shots were heard, followed by the clashing of steel and loud yells.

“Surely that was a female voice,” said Robin, rising and rushing up the steep path that led to the cavern, closely followed by his comrades.

They had not gone a hundred yards when they were arrested by hearing a rustling in the bushes and the sound of hasty footsteps. Next instant Letta was seen running towards them, with glaring eyes and streaming hair. She sprang into Robin’s arms with a convulsive sob, and hid her white face on his breast.

“Speak, Letta, dear child! Are you hurt?”

“No, O no; but Meerta, darling Meerta, she is dead! They have shot her and Bungo.”

She burst again into convulsive sobbing.

“Dead! But are you sure—quite sure?” said Sam.

“Quite. I saw their brains scattered on the wall.—Oh, Meerta!—”

She ended in a low wail, as though her heart were broken.

“Now, boys,” said Johnson, who had hitherto maintained silence, “we must go to work an’ try to cut out the pirate-ship. It’s a good chance, and it’s our only one.”

“Yes, there’s nothing to prevent us trying it now,” said Robin, sadly, “and the sooner the better.”

“Lucky that we made up the parcels last night, warn’t it?” said Jim Slagg as they made hasty arrangements for carrying out their plan.

Jim referred to parcels of rare and costly jewels which each of them had selected from the pirate store, put into separate bags and hid away in the woods, to be ready in case of any sudden occasion arising—such as had now actually arisen—to quit the island. Going to the place where these bags were concealed, they slung them over their shoulders and set off at a steady run, or trot, for the harbour, each taking his turn in carrying Letta, for the poor child was not fit to walk, much less to run.

Stealthy though their movements were, however, they did not altogether escape detection. Two bright eyes had been watching Letta during all her wanderings that night, and two nimble feet had followed her when she ran affrighted from the pirates’ stronghold. The party was overtaken before half the distance to the harbour had been gained, and at length, with a cry of satisfaction.

Letta’s favourite—the small monkey—sprang upon her shoulder. In this position, refusing to move, he was carried to the coast.

As had been anticipated, the pirate vessel was found lying in the pool where the former ship had anchored. Being considerably smaller, however, it had been drawn close to the rocks, so that a landing had been effected by means of a broad plank or gangway instead of a boat. Fortunately for our friends, this plank had not been removed after the pirates had left, probably because they deemed themselves in a place of absolute security. As far as they could see, only one sentinel paced the deck.

“I shouldn’t wonder if the guard is a very small one,” whispered Sam to Robin, as they crept to the edge of the shrubs which lined the harbour, and surveyed their intended prize. “No doubt they expected to meet only with friends here—or with nobody at all, as it has turned out,—and have left just enough to guard their poor slaves.”

“We shall soon find out,” returned Sam. “Now, boys,” he said, on rejoining the others in the bush, “see that your revolvers are charged and handy, but don’t use them if you can avoid it.”

“A cut over the head with cold steel will be sufficiently effective, for we have no desire to kill. Nevertheless, don’t be particular. We can’t afford to measure our blows with such scoundrels; only if we fire we shall alarm those in the cave, and have less time to get under weigh.”

“What is to be done with Letta while we attack?” asked Robin.

“I’ll wait here till you come for me,” said Letta, with a sad little smile on her tear-bedewed face; “I’m quite used to see fighting.”

“Good, keep close, and don’t move from this spot till we come for you, my little heroine,” said Sam. “Now, boys, follow me in single file—tread like mice—don’t hurry. There’s nothing like keeping cool.”

“Not much use o’ saying that to a feller that’s red-hot,” growled Slagg, as he stood with a flushed face, a revolver in one hand and a cutlass in the other.

Sam, armed similarly, glided to the extreme verge of the bushes, between which and the water there was a space of about thirty yards. With a quiet cat-like run he crossed this space, rushed up the plank gangway, and leaped upon the deck, with his comrades close at his heels. The sentinel was taken completely by surprise, but drew his sword nevertheless, and sprang at Sam with a shout.

The latter, although not a professional warrior, had been taught single-stick at school, and was an expert swordsman. He parried the pirate’s furious thrust, and gave him what is technically termed cut Number 1, which clove his turban to the skull and stretched him on the deck. It was a fortunate cut, for the shout had brought up seven pirates, five from below and two from the fore-part of the vessel, where they had been asleep between two guns. With these his comrades were now engaged in mortal combat—three of them having simultaneously attacked Johnson, while two had assailed Jim Slagg.

When Sam turned round the stout sailor had cut down one of his foes, but the other two would probably have proved too much for him if Sam had not instantly engaged one of them. He was a powerful, active man, so that for nearly a minute they cut and thrust at each other without advantage to either, until Sam tried a feint thrust, which he followed up with a tremendous slash at the head. It took effect, and set him free to aid Slagg, who was at the moment in deadly peril, for poor Slagg was no swordsman, and had hitherto foiled his two antagonists by sheer activity and the fury of his assaults. He was quite collected, however, for, even in the extremity of his danger, he had refrained from using his revolver lest he should thereby give the alarm to the pirates on land. With one stroke Sam disposed of one of the scoundrels, and Slagg succeeded in cutting down the other.

Meanwhile our hero, Robin, and Stumps had attacked the two pirates who chanced to be nearest to them. The former thought of Letta and her wretched fate if this assault should fail. The thought filled his little body with such a gush of what seemed to him like electric fire, that he leaped on his opponent with the fury of a wild cat, and bore him backward, so that he stumbled over the combings of a hatchway and was thrown flat on the deck—hors de combat.

But Stumps was not so fortunate. Slow in all his movements, and not too courageous in spirit, he gave way before the villain who assailed him. It was not indeed much to his discredit, for the man was much larger, as well as more active and fierce, than himself. A cut from the pirate’s sword quickly laid him low, and his antagonist instantly turned on Robin. He was so near at the moment that neither of them could effectively use his weapon. Robin therefore dashed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face and grappled with him. It was a most unequal struggle, for the pirate was, as we have said, a huge fellow, while Robin was small and slight. But there were several things in our hero’s favour. He was exceedingly tough and wonderfully strong for his size, besides being active as a kitten and brave as a lion. The way that Robin Wright wriggled in that big man’s embrace, hammered his nose and eyes with the iron hilt of his cutlass, stuck his knees into the pit of his stomach, and assaulted his shins with the toes of boots, besides twisting his left hand into his hair like a vice, was wonderful to behold.

It was all Letta’s doing! The more hopeless the struggle felt, the more hapless did Letta’s fate appear to Robin, and the more furious did the spirit within rise above its disadvantages. In the whirl of the fight the pirate’s head chanced for one moment to be in proximity to a large iron block. Robin observed it, threw all his soul and body into one supreme effort, and launched his foe and himself against the block. Both heads met it at the same moment, and the combatants rolled from each other’s grasp. The pirate was rendered insensible, but Robin, probably because of being lighter, was only a little stunned.

Recovering in a moment, he sprang up, glanced round, observed that the pirates were almost, if not quite, overpowered, and leaped over the bulwarks. A few moments later and he had Letta in his arms. Just then a pistol shot rang in the night air. The last of the pirates who was overpowered chanced to use his fire-arm, though without success. It was fortunate the fight was over, for, now that the alarm had been given, they knew that their chance of escaping was greatly lessened.

“Cut the cable, Slagg. Out with a boat-hook, Johnson, ready to shove off. I’ll fetch Letta,” cried Sam, springing to the side.

He was almost run down, as he spoke, by Robin with the child in his arms.

“Ha! Robin—well done, my boy. Here, Letta, you understand the language, tell the slaves below to out oars and pull for their lives. It’s their only chance.”

The poor creatures, who were bound to the thwarts below deck, had been listening with dull surprise to the fighting on deck—not that fighting was by any means unusual in that vessel, but they must have known that they were in harbour, and that the main body of the pirates were on shore. Still greater was their surprise when they received the above order in the sweet gentle tones of a child’s voice.

Whether they deemed her an angel or not we cannot tell, but their belief in her right to command was evinced by their shoving the oars out with alacrity.

A few seconds sufficed to cut the cable, and the gangway fell into the sea with a loud splash as the vessel moved slowly from the land, while Johnson, Robin, and Slagg thrust with might and main at the boat-hooks. The oars could not be dipped or used until the vessel had been separated a few yards from the land, and it was during the delay caused by this operation that their greatest danger lay, for already the pirates were heard calling to each other among the cliffs.

“Pull, pull now for life, boys,” shouted Sam as he seized the helm.

“Pull, pull now for life, boys,” echoed the faithful translator in her silvery tones.

The oars dipped and gurgled through the water. There was no question as to the energy of the poor captives, but the vessel was heavy and sluggish at starting. She had barely got a couple of hundred yards from the shore, when the pirates from the cavern came running tumultuously out of the woods. Perceiving at once that their vessel had been captured, they rushed into the water and swam off, each man with his sword between his teeth.

They were resolute villains, and swam vigorously and fast. Sam knew that if such a swarm should gain the side of the vessel, no amount of personal valour could prevent recapture. He therefore encouraged the slaves to redoubled effort. These responded to the silvery echo, but so short had been the distance gained that the issue seemed doubtful.

“Give ’em a few shots, boys,” cried Sam, drawing his own revolver and firing back over the stern. The others followed his example and discharged all their revolvers, but without apparent effect, for the pirates still came on.

One of the sails had fortunately been left unfurled. At this moment a light puff of air from the land bulged it out, and sensibly increased their speed.

“Hurrah!” shouted Johnson, “lend a hand, boys, to haul taut.”

The sail was trimmed, and in a few minutes the vessel glided quickly away from her pursuers.

A loud British cheer announced the fact alike to pirates and slaves, so that the latter were heartened to greater exertion, while the former were discouraged. In a few minutes they gave up the chase with a yell of rage, and turned to swim for the shore.

About a hundred yards from the mouth of the harbour there lay a small islet—a mere rock. Here Sam resolved to leave the pirate guard, none of whom had been quite killed—indeed two of them had tried unsuccessfully to rise during the fight.

“You see,” said Sam, as he steered for the rock, “we don’t want to have either the doctoring or the killing of such scoundrels. They will be much better with their friends, who will be sure to swim off for them—perhaps use our raft for the purpose, which they will likely find, sooner or later.”

They soon ranged up alongside of the island, and in a few minutes the bodies of the pirates were landed and laid there side by side. While they were being laid down, the man who had fought with Robin made a sudden and furious grasp at Johnson’s throat with one hand, and at his knife with the other, but the seaman was too quick for him. He felled him with a blow of his fist. The others, although still alive, were unable to show fight.

Then, hoisting the mainsail, and directing their course to the northward, our adventurers slipped quietly over the sea, and soon left Pirate Island far out of sight behind them.

Chapter Twenty One.

Departure from Pirate Island and Hopeful News at Sarawak.

The vessel of which Robin and his friends had thus become possessed, was one of those numerous native pirate-ships which did, and we believe still do, infest some parts of the Malay Archipelago—ships which can assume the form and do the work of simple trading-vessels when convenience requires, or can hoist the black flag when circumstances favour. It was not laden with anything valuable at the time of its capture. The slaves who wrought at the oars when wind failed, were wretched creatures who had been captured among the various islands, and many of them were in the last stage of exhaustion, having been worked almost to death by their inhuman captors, though a good many were still robust and fresh.

These latter it was resolved to keep still in fetters, as it was just possible that some of them, if freed, might take a fancy to seize the ship and become pirates on their own account. They were treated as well as circumstances would admit of, however, and given to understand that they should be landed and set free as soon as possible. Meanwhile, no more work would be required of them than was absolutely necessary. Those of them who were ill were freed at once from toil, carefully nursed by Letta and doctored by Sam.

At first Robin and his comrades sailed away without any definite purpose in view, but after things had been got into order, a council was held and plans were discussed. It was then that Letta mentioned what the pirates in the cavern had said about her having been taken from Sarawak.

“Sarawak!” exclaimed Robin, “why, that’s the place that has been owned and governed for many years by an Englishman named Brooke—Sir James Brooke, if I remember rightly, and they call him Rajah Brooke. Perhaps your mother lives there, Letta.”

“Where is Sarawak?” asked Stumps, whose injuries in the recent fight were not so severe as had at first been supposed.

“It’s in the island of Borneo,” replied Sam; “you’re right, Robin—”

“No, he’s Robin Wright,” interrupted Slagg.

“Be quiet, Jim. I think it is highly probable that your parents are there, Letta, and as we have no particular reason for going anywhere else, and can’t hope to make for England in a tub like this, we will just lay her head for Sarawak.”

This was accordingly done, their new course being nor’-east and by east.

It would extend our tale to undue proportions were we to give in detail all the adventures they experienced, dangers they encountered, and hairbreadth escapes they made, between that point on the wide southern ocean and the Malay Archipelago. The reader must be content to skip over the voyage, and to know that they ultimately arrived at the port of Sarawak, where they were kindly treated by a deputy, the Rajah himself being absent at the time.

During the voyage, the subject of finding Letta’s parents became one of engrossing and increasing interest,—so much so, indeed, that even electricity and telegraph-cables sank into secondary importance. They planned, over and over again, the way in which they would set about making inquiries, and the various methods which they would adopt in pursuit of their end. They even took to guessing who Letta’s parents would turn out to be, and Sam went so far as to invent and relate romantic stories, in which the father and mother of Letta played a conspicuous part. He called them Colonel and Mrs Montmorenci for convenience, which Slagg reduced to Colonel and Mrs Monty, “for short.”

In all this Letta took great delight, chiefly because it held the conversation on that source of undying interest, “mamma,” and partly because she entered into the fun and enjoyed the romance of the thing, while, poor child, her hopeful spirit never for a moment doubted that in some form or other the romance would become a reality through Robin, on whom she had bestowed her highest affections—next, of course, to mamma.

On landing at Sarawak, Sam Shipton went direct to the Government offices to report the capture of the pirate vessel and to make inquiries as to Letta’s parents, leaving Robin and the others to watch the vessel.

“Isn’t it strange,” said John Johnson to Robin, as they leaned over the side and looked down into the clear water, “that a Englishman should become a Rajah, and get possession o’ this here country?”

“I can give you only a slight reply to that question,” replied Robin, “but Sam will enlighten you more than I can; he seems to be acquainted with the Rajah’s strange career. All I know is, that he is said to govern the country well.”

“Coorious,” said Johnson; “I shouldn’t like to settle down in sitch a nest o’ pirates. Hows’ever, every man to his taste, as Jack said when the shark swallowed his sou’-wester. D’ee think it’s likely, sir, that we’ll find out who the parents o’ poor Miss Letta is?”

Robin shook his head. “I’m not very hopeful. We have so little information to go upon—just one word,—Sarawak! Nevertheless, I don’t despair, and I’ll certainly not be beat without trying hard. But here comes Sam; he looks pleased. I think—I hope, he has good news for us.”

“I’ve got something, but not much,” replied Sam to the eager inquiries with which he was assailed. “The gentleman whom I saw knew nothing about a little girl having been kidnapped from this region within the last two or three years, but an old clerk or secretary, who heard us talking about it, came up scratching his nose with the feather of his quill, and humbly said that he had heard something about a girl disappearing at a fire somewhere, though he couldn’t recollect the name of the place, as he was ill at the time, besides being new to the country, but he thought there was a Malay, a drunken old fellow, living some five miles inland, who used to talk about something of the sort, and who had, he fancied, been in the service of the people whose house had been burned. But, altogether, he was very hazy on the subject.”

“Then we must go and ferret out this old man instantly,” said Robin, buttoning up his coat, as if about to commence the journey at once.

“Too late to-night, Robin,” said Sam; “restrain your impatience, my boy. You forget that it sometimes gets dark in these latitudes, and that there are no street lamps on the country roads.”

“True, true, Sam. And what said they about our capture?”

“That we must leave it in their hands at present; that they did not know exactly what the Rajah might have to say about it, but that he would be there himself in a few weeks, and decide the matter.”

“’Pon my word, that’s cool,” said Slagg, who came up at the moment; “an’ suppose we wants to continue our voyage to England, or Indy, or Chiny?”

“If we do we must continue it by swimming,” returned Sam; “but it matters little, for there is a steamer expected to touch here in a few days on her way to India, so we can take passage in her, having plenty of funds—thanks to the pirates!”

“It’s all very well for you to boast of bein’ rich,” growled Stumps, “but I won’t be able to afford it.”

“Oh! yes you will,” returned Robin with a laugh. “The Jews will advance you enough on your jewellery to pay your passage.”

“Sarves you right for bein’ so greedy,” said Slagg.

The greed which Slagg referred to had been displayed by Stumps at the time the parcels of coin and precious stones were made up in the cavern for sudden emergency, as before mentioned. On that occasion each man had made up his own parcel, selecting such gems, trinkets, and coin from the pirate horde as suited his fancy. Unfortunately, the sight of so much wealth had roused in the heart of Stumps feelings of avarice, which heretofore had lain dormant, and he stuffed many glittering and superb pieces of jewellery into his bag in a secretive manner, as if half ashamed of his new sensations, and half afraid that his right to them might be disputed.

Afterwards, on the voyage to Borneo, when the bags were emptied and their costly contents examined, it was discovered that many of Stumps’s most glittering gems were mere paste—almost worthless—although some of them, of course, were valuable. Stumps was much laughed at, and in a private confabulation of his comrades, it was agreed that they would punish him by contrasting their own riches with his glittering trash, but that at last they would give him a share which would make all the bags equal. This deceptive treatment, however, wrought more severely on Stumps than they had expected, and roused not only jealous but revengeful feelings in his breast.

Next morning, Sam and Robin set off with Letta to search for the old Malay, leaving their comrades in charge of the vessel.

There is something inexpressibly delightful to the feelings in passing through the glades and thickets of tropical forests and plantations after a long sea voyage. The nostrils seem to have been specially prepared, by long abstinence from sweet smells, to appreciate the scents and odours of aromatic plants and flowers. The soft shade of foliage, the refreshing green, and the gay colours everywhere, fill the eye with pleasure, not less exquisite than that which fills the ears from the warblings and chatterings of birds, the gentle tones of domestic animals, and the tinkling of rills. The mere solidity of the land, under foot, forms an element of pleasure after the tossings of the restless sea, and all the sweet influences put together tend to rouse in the heart a shout of joy and deep gratitude for a world so beautiful, and for powers so sensitively capable of enjoying it.

Especially powerful were the surrounding influences on our three friends as they proceeded, mile after mile, into the country, and little wonder, for eyes, and nostrils, and ears, which had of late drunk only of the blue heavens and salt sea and the music of the wind, naturally gloated over a land which produces sandal-wood, cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, benzoin, camphor, nutmeg, and a host of other gums and spices; a land whose shades are created by cocoa-nut palms, ebony, banana, bread-fruit, gutta-percha, upas, sesamum, and a vast variety of other trees and shrubs, the branches of which are laden with fruits, and flowers, and paroquets, and monkeys.

Little Letta’s heart was full to overflowing, so much so that she could scarcely speak while walking along holding Robin’s hand. But there was more than mere emotion in her bosom—memory was strangely busy in her brain, puzzling her with dreamy recognitions both as to sights and sounds.

“It’s so like home!” she murmured once, looking eagerly round.

“Is it?” said Robin with intense interest. “Look hard at it, little one; do you recognise any object that used to be in your old home?”

The child shook her head sadly. “No, not exactly—everything is so like, and—and yet not like, somehow.”

They came just then upon a clearing among sugar-cane, in the midst of which stood a half-ruined hut, quite open in front and thatched with broad leaves. On a bench near the entrance was seated an old grey-haired Malay man with a bottle beside him. Nearer to the visitors a young girl was digging in the ground.

“That’s the old Malay, for certain,” said Sam; “see, the old rascal has gone pretty deep already into the bottle. Ask the girl, Letta, what his name is.”

Sam did not at first observe that the child was trembling very much and gazing eagerly at the old man. He had to repeat the question twice before she understood him, and then she asked the girl, without taking her eyes off the old man.

“Who is he?” responded the girl in the Malay tongue, “why, that’s old Georgie—drunken Georgie.”

She had scarcely uttered the words when Letta uttered a wild cry, ran to the old man, leaped into his arms, and hugged him violently.

The man was not only surprised but agitated. He loosened the child’s hold so as to be able to look at her face.

“Oh, Georgie, Georgie!” she cried almost hysterically, “don’t you know me—don’t you know Letta?”

Georgie replied by uttering a great shout of mingled astonishment and joy, as he clasped the child in his arms. Then, setting her down and holding her at arm’s-length, he cried in remarkably broken English—

“Know you! W’at? Vous hold nuss—hold Georgie—not know Miss Letty. Ho! Miss Letty! my hold ’art’s a-busted a’most! But you’s come back. T’ank do Lor’! Look ’ere, Miss Letty.” (He started up, put the child down, and, with sudden energy seized the bottle of ruin by the neck.) “Look ere, yous oftin say to me afore you hoed away, ‘Geo’gie, do, do give up d’inkin’,’—you ’members?”

“No, I don’t remember,” said Letta, smiling through her tears.

“Ho! yes, but you said it—bery often, an’ me was used to say, ‘Yes, Miss Letty’—de hold hippercrit!—but I didn’t gib ’im up. I d’ink away wuss dan ebber. But now—but now—but now,” (he danced round, each time whirling the bottle above his head), “me d’ink no more—nebber—nebber—nebber more.”

With a mighty swing the old man sent the rum-bottle, like a rocket, up among the branches of an ebony-tree, where it was shattered to atoms, and threw an eaves-dropping monkey almost into fits by raining rum and broken glass upon its inquisitive head.

When the excitement of the meeting had somewhat subsided, Letta suddenly said, “But where is mamma? Oh! take me to mamma, Georgie.”

The old man’s joy instantly vanished, and Letta stood pale and trembling before him, pressing her little hands to her breast, and not daring, apparently, to ask another question.

“Not dead?” she said at length in a low whisper.

“No—no—Miss Letty,” replied the man hastily, “Ho! no, not dead, but goed away; nigh broked her heart when she losted you; git berry sick; t’ought she was go for die, but she no die. She jis turn de corner and come round, an’ when she git bedder she hoed away.”

“Where did she go to?” asked Robin, anxiously.

“To Bumby,” said old George.

“To where?”

“Bumby.”

“I suppose you mean Bombay?” said Sam.

“Yes, yes—an’ me say Bumby.”

“Is she alive and well?” asked Robin.

“Don’ know,” replied old George, shaking his head; “she no write to hold Geo’gie. Nigh two years since she goed away.”

When the excitement of this meeting began to subside, Sam Shipton took the old Malay aside, and, after prolonged conversation, learned from him the story, of which the following is the substance.

Mrs Langley was the widow of a gentleman who had died in the service of Rajah Brooke. Several years before—he could not say exactly how many—the widow had retired with her only child, Letta, to a little bungalow on a somewhat out-of-the-way part of the coast which Mr Langley used to be fond of going to, and called his “shooting-box.” This had been attacked one night by Labuan pirates, who, after taking all that was valuable, set fire to the house. Mrs Langley had escaped by a back door into the woods with her old man-servant, George. She had rushed at the first alarm to Letta’s bed, but the child was not there. Letta had been awake, had heard the advance of the pirate crew, and had gone into a front room to see who was coming. Supposing that old George must have taken charge of the child, and hearing him calling to her to come away quickly, the widow ran out at the back door as the pirates entered by the front. Too late she found that George had not the child, and she would have returned to the house, regardless of consequences, if George had not forcibly restrained her. When George returned at daybreak, he found the house a smouldering ruin, the pirates gone, and Letta nowhere to be found.

The shock threw Mrs Langley into a violent fever. She even lost her reason for a time, and when at last she was restored to some degree of health, she went away to Bombay without saying to any one what were her intentions. She could never entirely forgive old George for having prevented her returning to the house to share the fate of her child, and left Sarawak without bidding him farewell, though, as old George himself pathetically remarked, “Me couldn’t ’elp it, you knows. De scoundrils kill missis if she goed back, an’ dat doos no good to Miss Letty.”

This was all the information that could be obtained about Mrs Langley, and on the strength of it Sam and Robin resolved to proceed to Bombay by the first opportunity. But their patience was severely tried, for many months elapsed ere they obtained berths in a vessel bound direct to Bombay.

Of course Jim Slagg determined to go with them, and so did Stumps, though a slight feeling of coldness had begun to manifest itself in that worthy’s manner ever since the episode of the division of jewels. John Johnson, however, made up his mind to take service with the Rajah, and help to exterminate the nests of pirates with which those seas were infested.

“Depend upon it, sir,” said Johnson to Robin at parting, “that you’ll turn out somethin’ or other afore long. As I said to our stooard on the night that you was born, ‘Stooard,’ says I, ‘take my word for it, that there babby what has just been launched ain’t agoin’ under hatches without makin’ his mark somehow an’ somewheres,’ an’ you’ve begun to make it, sir, a’ready, an’ you’ll go on to make it, as sure as my name’s John Johnson.”

“I’m gratified by your good opinion,” replied Robin, with a laugh. “All I can say is, that whatever mark I make, I hope may be a good one.”

Poor Robin had little ambition at that time to make any kind of mark for himself on the world. His one desire—which had grown into a sort of passion—was to find Letta’s mother. Nearly all his thoughts were concentrated on that point, and so great was his personal influence on his comrades, that Sam and Slagg had become almost as enthusiastic about it as himself, though Stumps remained comparatively indifferent.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Bombay—Where Stumps comes to Grief.

Once again we must beg the patient reader to skip with us over time and space, until we find ourselves in the great city of Bombay.

It is a great day for Bombay. Natives and Europeans alike are unusually excited. Something of an unwonted nature is evidently astir. Down at the sea the cause of the excitement is explained, for the Great Eastern steam-ship has just arrived, laden with the telegraph cable which is to connect England with her possessions in the East. The streets and quays are crowded with the men of many nations and various creeds, to say nothing of varied costume. Turbans and chimney-pots salaam to each other, and fezzes nod to straw hats and wide-awakes. Every one is more than usually sympathetic, for all have their minds, eyes, and hopes, more or less, centred on the “big ship,” with her unique and precious cargo.

But it is with neither the Great Eastern nor the people—not even with the cable—that we have to do just now. Removing our eyes from such, we fix them and our attention on a very small steamer which lies alongside one of the wharves, and shows evidence of having been severely handled by winds and waves.

At the time we direct attention to her, a few passengers were landing from this vessel, and among them were our friends, Sam Shipton, Robin Wright, Jim Slagg, John Shanks, alias Stumps, and Letta Langley. Most of the passengers had luggage of some sort, but our friends possessed only a small bag each, slung over their shoulders. A letter from the authorities of Sarawak certified that they were honest men.

“Now, Robin,” said Sam, as they pushed through the crowds, “there seems to me something auspicious in our arriving about the same time with the Great Eastern, and I hope something may come of it, but our first business is to make inquiries for Mrs Langley. We will therefore go and find the hotel to which we have been recommended, and make that our head-quarters while we are engaged in our search.”

“Can I lend you a hand, Mr Shipton?” asked Slagg, who had become, as it were, irresistibly more respectful to Robin and Sam since coming among civilised people.

“No, Slagg; our mission is too delicate to admit of numbers. If we require your services we’ll let you know.”

“Ah! I see—too many cooks apt to spoil the broth. Well, my mission will be to loaf about and see Bombay. You and I will pull together, Stumps.”

“No,” said Stumps, to the surprise of his companions, “I’ve got a private mission of my own—at least for this evening.”

“Well, please yourself, Stumpy,” said Slagg with a good-humoured laugh, “you never was the best o’ company, so I won’t break my heart.”

At the hotel to which they had been recommended two rooms were engaged,—a small single room for Letta, and one with two beds and a sofa for themselves.

Having breakfasted and commended Letta to the landlady’s care, Sam and Robin sallied forth together, while Slagg and Stumps went their separate ways, having appointed to meet again in the evening for supper.

We will follow the fortunes of Mr John Shanks. That rather vacant and somewhat degenerate youth, having his precious bag slung from his shoulders, and his left arm round it for further security, sauntered forth, and began to view the town. His viewing it consisted chiefly in looking long and steadily at the shop windows of the principal streets. There was a slight touch of cunning, however, in his expression, for he had rid himself, cleverly as he imagined, of his comrades, and meant to dispose of some of the contents of his bag to the best advantage, without letting them know the result.

In the prosecution of his deep-laid plans, Stumps attracted the attention of a gentleman with exceedingly black eyes and hair, a hook nose, and rather seedy garments. This gentleman followed Stumps with great care for a considerable time, watched him attentively, seemed to make up his mind about him, and finally ran violently against him.

“Oh! I do beg your pardon, sir. I am so sorry,” he said in a slightly foreign accent, with an expression of earnest distress on his not over-clean countenance, “so very, very, sorry; it was a piece of orange peel. I almost fell; but for your kind assistance I should have been down and, perhaps, broke my legs. Thank you, sir; I do hope I have not hurt you against the wall. Allow me to dust your sleeve.”

“Oh! you’ve done me no damage, old gen’l’man,” said Stumps, rather flattered by the man’s attention and urbanity. “I’m all right; I ain’t so easy hurt. You needn’t take on so.”

“But I cannot help take on so,” returned the seedy man, with an irresistibly bland smile, “it is so good of you to make light of it, yet I might almost say you saved my life, for a fall to an elderly man is always very dangerous. Will you not allow me to give my benefactor a drink? See, here is a shop.”

Stumps chanced to be very hot and thirsty at the time; indeed he had been meditating some such indulgence, and fell into the trap at once. Accepting the offer with a “well, I don’t mind if I do,” he entered the drinking saloon and sat down, while his new friend called for brandy and water.

“You have come from a long voyage, I see,” said the seedy man, pulling out a small case and offering Stumps a cigar.

“How d’ee know that?” asked Stumps bluntly.

“Because I see it in your bronzed face, and, excuse me, somewhat threadbare garments.”

“Oh! as to that, old man, I’ve got tin enough to buy a noo rig out, but I’m in no hurry.”

He glanced unintentionally at his bag as he spoke, and the seedy man glanced at it too—intentionally. Of course Stumps’s glance let the cat out of the bag!

“Come,” said the stranger, when the brandy was put before them, “drink—drink to—to the girls we left behind us.”

“I left no girl behind me,” said Stumps.

“Well then,” cried the seedy man, with irresistible good humour, “let us drink success to absent friends and confusion to our foes.”

This seemed to meet the youth’s views, for, without a word of comment, he drained his glass nearly to the bottom.

“Ha! that’s good. Nothin’ like brandy and water on a hot day.”

“Except brandy and water on a cold day, my dear,” returned the Jew—for such he was; “there is not much to choose between them. Had you not better take off your bag? it incommodes you in so narrow a seat. Let me help—No?”

“You let alone my hag,” growled Stumps angrily, with a sudden clutch at it.

“Waiter! bring a light. My cigar is out,” said the Jew, affecting not to observe Stumps’s tone or manner. “It is strange,” he went on, “how, sometimes, you find a bad cigar—a very bad cigar—in the midst of good ones. Yours is going well, I think.”

“Well enough,” answered Stumps, taking another pull at the brandy and water.

The seedy man now launched out into a pleasant light discourse about Bombay and its ways, which highly interested his poor victim. He made no further allusion to the bag, Stumps’s behaviour having betrayed all he required to know, namely, that its contents were valuable.

Soon the brandy began to take effect on Stumps, and, as he was unaccustomed to such potent drink besides being unused to self-restraint, he would speedily have made himself a fit subject for the care of the police, which would not have suited his new friend at all. When, therefore, Stumps put out his hand to grasp his tumbler for another draught, his anxious friend inadvertently knocked it over, and then begged his pardon profusely. Before Stumps could decide whether to call for another glass at the risk of having to pay for it himself, the Jew pointed to a tall, sallow-faced man who sat in a corner smoking and reading a newspaper.

“Do you see him!” he asked, in a low mysterious whisper.

“Yes; who is he? what about him?” asked the youth in a similar whisper.

“He’s an opium-smoker.”

“Is he?” said Stumps with a vacant stare. “What’s that?”

Upon this text the seedy man delivered a discourse on the pleasures of opium-smoking, which quite roused the interest and curiosity of his hearer.

“But is it so very nice to smoke opium?” he asked, after listening for some time.

“Nice, my dear? I should think it is—very nice, but very wrong—oh! very wrong. Perhaps we ought not even to speak about it.”

“Nonsense!” said the now half-tipsy lad with an air of determination. “I should like to try it. Come, you know where I could have a pipe. Let’s go.”

“Not for worlds,” said the man with a look of remonstrance.

“Oh, yes you will,” returned Stumps, rising.

“Well, you are a wilful man, and if you will I suppose you must,” said the Jew.

He rose with apparent reluctance, paid the reckoning, and led his miserable victim into one of the numerous dens of iniquity which exist in the lowest parts of that city. There he furnished the lad with a pipe of opium, and, while he was in the state of semi-stupor resulting therefrom, removed his bag of treasure, which he found, to his delight, contained a far richer prize than he had anticipated, despite the quantity of trash with which it was partly filled.

Having secured this, he waited until Stumps had partially recovered, and then led him into one of the most crowded thoroughfares.

“Now, my boy,” he said affectionately, “I think you are much better. You can walk alone.”

“I should think I could,” he replied, indignantly shaking off the man’s grasp. “Wh–what d’ee take me for?”

He drew his hand across his eyes, as if to clear away the cloud that still oppressed him, and stared sternly before him, then he stared, less sternly, on either side, then he wheeled round and stared anxiously behind him. Then clapping his left hand quickly to his side, he became conscious that his bag was gone, and that his late friend had taken an abrupt departure without bidding him farewell.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Stumps in Despair—And Bombay in Raptures.

When Mr John Shanks realised the full extent of his loss, his first impulse was to seize hold of the nearest passer-by and strangle him; his next, to dash down a narrow street close beside him in pursuit of some one; his next, to howl “stop thief!” and “murder!” and his next, to stare into a shop window in blank dismay, and meditate.

Of these various impulses, he gave way only to the last. His meditations, however, were confused and unsatisfactory. Turning from them abruptly, he hurried along the street at a furious walk, muttering, “I’ll go an’ tell Slagg.” Then, pausing abruptly, “No, I won’t, I’ll go an’ inform the pleece.”

Under this new impulse he hurried forward again, jostling people as he went, and receiving a good deal of rough-handling in return. Presently he came to a dead halt, and with knitted brows and set teeth, hissed, “I’ll go and drown myself.”

Full of this intention he broke into a run, but, not being acquainted with the place, found it necessary to ask his way to the port. This somewhat sobered him, but did not quite change his mind, so that when he eventually reached the neighbourhood of the shipping, he was still going at a quick excited walk. He was stopped by a big and obviously eccentric sea-captain, or mate, who asked him if he happened to know of any active stout young fellow who wanted to ship in a tight little craft about to sail for old England.

“No, I don’t,” said Stumps, angrily.

“Come now, think again,” said the skipper, in no degree abashed, and putting on a nautical grin, which was meant for a winning smile. “I’m rather short-handed; give good wages; have an amiable temper, a good craft, and a splendid cook. You’re just the active spirited fellow that I want. You’ll ship now, eh?”

“No, I won’t,” said Stumps, sulkily, endeavouring to push past.

“Well, well, no offence. Keep an easy mind, and if you should chance to change it, just come and see me, Captain Bounce, of the Swordfish. There she lies, in all her beauty, quite a picture. Good-day.”

The eccentric skipper passed on, but Stumps did not move. He stood there with his eyes riveted on the pavement, and his lips tightly compressed. Evidently the drowning plan had been abandoned for something else—something that caused him to frown, then to smile, then to grow slightly pale, and then to laugh somewhat theatrically. While in this mood he was suddenly pushed to one side by some one who said—

“The track’s made for walkin’ on, not standin’, young—Hallo!”

It was Slagg who had thus roughly encountered his mate.

“Why, Stumps, what’s the matter with yon?”

“Nothing.”

“Where ’ave you bin to?”

“Nowhere.”

“Who’s bin a-frightenin’ of you!”

“Nobody.”

“Nothin’, nowhere, an’ nobody,” repeated his friend; “that’s what I calls a coorious combination for a man who’s as white as a sheet one moment, and as red as a turkey-cock the next.”

“Well, Slagg,” said Stumps, recovering himself a little, “the fact is, I’ve been taken in and robbed.”

Hereupon he related all the circumstances of his late adventure to his astonished and disgusted comrade, who asserted roundly that he was a big booby, quite unfit to take care of himself.

“Hows’ever, we must do the best we can for you,” he continued, “so come along to the police-office.”

Information of the robbery was given, and inquiries instituted without delay, but without avail. Indeed the chief officer held out little hope of ultimate success; nevertheless, Slagg endeavoured to buoy up his friend with assurances that they must surely get hold of the thief in the long-run.

“And if we don’t,” he said to Robin and Sam, during a private conversation on the subject that same night, “we must just give him each a portion of what we have, for the poor stoopid has shared our trials, and ought to share our luck.”

While Stumps was being thus fleeced in the lower part of the city, Robin and Sam had gone to make inquiries about Mrs Langley, and at the Government House they discovered a clerk who had formerly been at Sarawak, and had heard of the fire, the abduction of the little girl, and of Mrs Langley having afterwards gone to Bombay; but he also told them, to their great regret, that she had left for England six months before their arrival, and he did not know her address, or even the part of England to which she had gone.

“But,” continued the clerk, who was a very friendly fellow, “I’ll make inquiries, and let you know the result, if you leave me your address. Meanwhile you can amuse yourself by paying a visit to that wonderful ship, the Great Eastern, which has come to lay a submarine telegraph cable between this and Aden. Of course you have heard of her arrival—perhaps seen her.”

“O yes,” replied Robin. “We intend to visit her at once. She is an old acquaintance of mine, as I was in her when she laid the Atlantic cable in 1865. Does Captain Anderson still command her?”

“No,” answered the clerk, who seemed much interested in what Robin said. “She is now commanded by Captain Halpin.”

That evening Robin tried to console poor Letta in her disappointment at not finding her mother, and Sam sought to comfort Stumps for the loss of his treasure. Neither comforter was very successful. Letta wept in spite of Robin, and Stumps absolutely refused to be comforted!

Next day, however, the tears were dried, and Letta became cheery again in the prospect of a visit to the Great Eastern.

But Stumps was no better. Indeed he seemed worse, and flatly refused to accompany them on their trip, although all the world of Bombay was expected to go.

“Stumps, Stumps, Down in the dumps! Down in the dumps so low—O!”

Sang Jim Slagg as he waved his hand in farewell on quitting the hotel. “Good-bye, my boy, and get your spirits up before we return, if you can.”

“I’ll try,” replied Stumps with a grim smile.

The event which stirred the city of Bombay to its centre at this time was indeed a memorable one. The connecting of India with England direct by a deep-sea cable was a matter of the greatest importance, because the land telegraph which existed at the time was wretchedly worked, passing, as it did, through several countries, which involved translation and re-translation, besides subjecting messages to needless delay on the part of unbusiness-like peoples. In addition to the brighter prospects which the proposed cable was opening up, the presence of the largest ship that had ever yet been constructed was a point of overwhelming attraction, and so great were the crowds that went on board to see the marine wonder, that it was found somewhat difficult to carry on the necessary work of coaling and making preparations for the voyage.

“Robin,” said Sam, an they walked along with Letta between them, “I’ve just discovered that the agent of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company is an old friend of mine. He has been busy erecting a cable landing-house on the shores of Back Bay, so we’ll go there first and get him to accompany us to the big ship.”

“Good,” said Robin, “if it is not too far for Letta to walk.”

The landing-house, which they soon reached, stood near to the “green” where the Bombay and Baroda Railway tumbled out its stream of cotton until the region became a very sea of bales. It was a little edifice with a thatched roof and venetian blinds, commanding a fine view of the whole of Back Bay, with Malabar Point to the right and the governor’s house imbedded in trees. Long lines of surf marked the position of ugly rocks which were visible at low water, but among these there was a pathway of soft sand marked off by stakes, along which the shore-end of the cable was to lie.

For the reception of the extreme end of the cable there was provided, in the cable-house, a testing table of solid masonry, with a wooden top on which the testing instruments were to stand; the great delicacy of these instruments rendering a fixed table indispensable.

When our friends reached the cable-house, native labourers, in picturesque Oriental costume, were busy thatching its roof or painting it blue, while some were screwing its parts together; for the house, with a view to future telegraphic requirements, was built so as to come to pieces for shipment to still more distant quarters of the globe.

Sam’s friend could not go with him, he said, but he would introduce him to a young acquaintance among the working engineers who was going on with a party in half an hour or so. Accordingly, in a short time they were gliding over the bay, and ere long stood on the deck of the big ship.

“Oh, Letta!” said Robin, with a glitter of enthusiasm in his eyes, as he gazed round on the well-remembered deck, “it feels like meeting an old friend after a long separation.”

“How nice!” said Letta.

This “how nice” of the child was, so to speak, a point of great attraction to our hero. She always accompanied it with a smile so full of sympathy, interest, and urbanity, that it became doubly significant on her lips. Letta was precocious. She had grown so rapidly in sympathetic capacity and intelligence, since becoming acquainted with her new friends, that Robin had gradually come to speak to her about his thoughts and feelings very much as he used to speak to cousin Madge when he was a boy.

“Yes,” he continued, “I had forgotten how big she was, and she seems to me actually to have grown bigger. There never was a ship like her in the world. Such huge proportions, such a vast sweep of graceful lines. The chief difference that I observe is the coat of white paint they have given her. She seems to have been whitewashed from stem to stern. It was for the heat, I fancy.”

“Yes, sir, it wor,” said a bluff cable-man who chanced to overhear the remark, “an’ if you wor in the tanks, you’d ’ave blessed Capt’n Halpin for wot he done. W’y, sir, that coat o’ whitewash made a difference o’ no less than eight degrees in the cable-tanks the moment it was putt on. Before that we was nigh stooed alive. Arter that we’ve on’y bin baked.”

“Indeed?” said Robin, but before he could say more the bluff cable-man had returned to his bakery.

“Just look here,” he continued, turning again to Letta; “the great ships around us seem like little ones, by contrast, and the little ones like boats,—don’t they?”

“Yes, and the boats like toys,” said Letta, “and the people in them like dolls.”

“True, little one, and yonder comes a toy steamer,” said Sam, who had been contemplating the paying-out gear in silent admiration, “with some rather curious dolls on it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Letta, with great surprise, “look, Robin, look at the horses—just as if we were on shore!”

Among the many surprising things on board of the big ship, few were more striking for incongruity than the pair of grey carriage-horses, to which Letta referred, taking their morning exercise composedly up and down one side of the deck, with a groom at their heads.

The steamer referred to by Sam was one which contained a large party of Hindu and Parsee ladies and children who had come off to see the ship. These streamed into her in a bright procession, and were soon scattered about, making the decks and saloons like Eastern flower-beds with their many-coloured costumes—of red, pink, white, and yellow silks and embroideries, and bracelets, brooches, nose-rings, anklets, and other gold and silver ornaments.

The interest taken by the natives in the Great Eastern was naturally great, and was unexpectedly illustrated in the following manner. Captain Halpin, anticipating difficulties in the matter of coaling and otherwise carrying on the work of the expedition, had resolved to specify particular days for sight-seers, and to admit them by ticket, on which a small fee was charged—the sum thus raised to be distributed among the crew at the end of the voyage. In order to meet the convenience of the “upper ten” of English at Bombay, the charge at first was two rupees (about 4 shillings), and it was advertised that the ship would afterwards be thrown open at lower rates, but to the surprise of all, from an early hour on the two-rupee day the ship was beset by Parsees, Hindus, and Mohammedans, so that eventually, on all sides—on the decks, the bridge, the paddle-boxes, down in the saloon, outside the cable-tanks, mixed up with the machinery, clustering round the huge red buoys, and at the door of the testing-room—the snowy robes, and strange head-dresses, bright costumes, brighter eyes, brown faces, and turbans far outnumbered the stiff and sombre Europeans. These people evidently regarded the Great Eastern as one of the wonders of the world. “The largest vessel ever seen in Bombay,” said an enthusiastic Parsee, “used to be the Bates Family, of Liverpool, and now there she lies alongside of us looking like a mere jolly-boat.”

While Sam and his friends were thus standing absorbed by the contemplation of the curious sights and sounds around them, one of the engineer staff, who had served on board during the laying of the 1866 Atlantic cable, chanced to pass, and, recognising Robin as an old friend, grasped and shook his hand warmly. Robin was not slow to return the greeting.

“Frank Hedley,” he exclaimed, “why, I thought you had gone to California!”

“Robin Wright,” replied the young engineer, “I thought you were dead!”

“Not yet,” returned Robin; “I’m thankful to report myself alive and well.”

“But you ought to be dead,” persisted Frank, “for you’ve been mourned as such for nigh a couple of years. At least the vessel in which you sailed has never been heard of, and the last time I saw your family, not four months since, they had all gone into mourning for you.”

“Poor mother!” murmured Robin, his eyes filling with tears, “but, please God, we shall meet again before long.”

“Come—come down with me to the engine-room and have a talk about it,” said Frank, “and let your friends come too.”

Just as he spoke, one of the little brown-faced Mohammedan boys fixed his glittering eyes on an opening in the bulwarks of the ship, through which the water could be seen glancing brightly. That innate spirit of curiosity peculiar to small boys all the world over, induced him to creep partly through the opening and glance down at the sparkling fluid. That imperfect notion of balance, not infrequent in small boys, caused him to tip over and cleave the water with his head. His Mohammedan relatives greeted the incident with shrieks of alarm. Robin, who had seen him tip over, being a good swimmer, and prompt to act, went through the same hole like a fish-torpedo, and caught the brown boy by the hair, as he rose to the surface with staring eyes, outspread fingers, and a bursting cry.

Rope-ends, life-buoys, and other things were flung over the side; oars were plunged; boats darted forward; fifty efforts at rescue were made in as many seconds, for there was wealth of aid at hand, and in a wonderfully brief space of time the brown boy was restored to his grateful friends, while Robin, enveloped in a suit of dry clothes much too large for him, was seated with his friend the engineer down among the great cranks, and wheels, and levers, of the regions below.

“It’s well the sharks weren’t on the outlook,” said Frank Hedley, as he brought forward a small bench for Letta, Sam, and Jim Slagg. “You won’t mind the oily smell, my dear,” he said to Letta.

“O no. I rather like it,” replied the accommodating child.

“It’s said to be fattening,” remarked Slagg, “even when taken through the nose.”

“Come now, let me hear all about my dear mother and the rest of them, Frank,” said Robin.

Frank began at once, and, for a considerable time, conversed about the sayings and doings of the Wright family, and of the world at large, and about the loss of the cable-ship; but gradually and slowly, yet surely, the minds and converse of the little party came round to the all-absorbing topic, like the needle to the pole.

“So, you’re actually going to begin to coal to-morrow?” said Sam.

“Yes, and we hope to be ready in a few days to lay the shore-end of the cable,” answered the young engineer.

“But have they not got land-lines of telegraph which work well enough?” asked Robin.

“Land-lines!” exclaimed Frank, with a look of contempt. “Yes, they have, and no doubt the lines are all right enough, but the people through whose countries they pass are all wrong. Why, the Government lines are so frequently out of order just now, that their daily condition is reported on as if they were noble invalids. Just listen to this,” (he caught up a very much soiled and oiled newspaper)—“‘Telegraph Line Reports, Kurrachee, 2nd February, 6 p.m.—Cable communication perfect to Fao; Turkish line is interrupted beyond Semawali; Persian line interrupted beyond Shiraz.’ And it is constantly like that—the telegraphic disease, though intermittent, is chronic. One can never be sure when the line may be unfit for duty. Sometimes from storms, sometimes from the assassination of the operators in wild districts through which the land wires pass, and sometimes from the destruction of lines out of pure mischief, the telegraph is often beaten by the mail.”

“There seems, indeed, much need for a cable direct,” said Sam, “which will make us independent of Turks, Persians, Arabs, and all the rest of them. By the way, how long is your cable?”

“The cable now in our tanks is 2375 nautical miles long, but our companion ships, the Hibernia, Chiltern, and Hawk, carry among them 1225 miles more, making a total of 3600 nautical miles, which is equal, as you know, to 4050 statute miles. This is to suffice for the communication between Bombay and Aden, and for the connecting of the Malta and Alexandria lines. They are now laying a cable between England, Gibraltar, and Malta, so that when all is completed there will be one line of direct submarine telegraph unbroken, except at Suez.”

“Magnificent!” exclaimed Robin, “why, it won’t be long before we shall be able to send a message to India and get a reply in the same day.”

“In the same day!” cried Sam, slapping his thigh; “mark my words, as uncle Rik used to say, you’ll be able to do that, my boy, within the same hour before long.”

“Come, Sam, don’t indulge in prophecy. It does not become you,” said Robin. “By the way, Frank, what about uncle Rik? You have scarcely mentioned him.”

“Oh! he’s the same hearty old self-opinionated fellow as ever. Poor fellow, he was terribly cut up about your supposed death. I really believe that he finds it hard even to smile now, much less to laugh. As for Madge, she won’t believe that you are lost—at least she won’t admit it, though it is easy to see that anxiety has told upon her.”

“I wonder how my poor old mother has took it,” said Slagg, pathetically. “But she’s tough, an’ can’t be got to believe things easy. She’ll hold out till I turn up, I dessay, and when I present myself she’ll say, ‘I know’d it!’”

“But to return to the cable,” said Sam, with an apologetic smile. “Is there any great difference between it and the old ones?”

“Not very much. We have found, however, that a little marine wretch called the teredo attacks hemp so greedily that we’ve had to invent a new compound wherewith to coat it, namely, ground flint or silica, pitch, and tar, which gives the teredo the toothache, I suppose, for it turns him off effectually. We have also got an intermediate piece of cable to affix between the heavy shore-end and the light deep-sea portion. There are, of course, several improvements in the details of construction, but essentially it is the same as the cables you have already seen, with its seven copper wires covered with gutta-percha, and other insulating and protecting substances.”

“It’s what I calls a tremendious undertakin’,” said Slagg.

“It is indeed,” assented Frank, heartily, for like all the rest of the crew, from the captain downwards, he was quite enthusiastic about the ship and her work. “Why, when you come to think of it, it’s unbelievable. I sometimes half expect to waken up and find it is all a dream. Just fancy. We left England with a freight of 21,000 tons. The day is not long past when I thought a ship of 1000 tons a big one; what a mite that is to our Leviathan, as she used to be called. We had 5512 tons of cable, 3824 tons of fuel, 6499 tons of coal and electric apparatus and appliances when we started; the whole concern, ship included, being valued at somewhere about two millions sterling. It may increase your idea of the size and needs of our little household when I tell you that the average quantity of coal burned on the voyage out has been 200 tons a day.”

“It’s a positive romance in facts and figures,” said Sam.

“A great reality, you should have said,” remarked Robin.

And so, romancing on this reality of facts and figures in many a matter-of-fact statement and figurative rejoinder, they sat there among the great cranks, and valves, and pistons, and levers, until the declining day warned them that it was time to go ashore.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows the Dreadful Depravity of Man, and the Amazing Effects of Electrical Treatment on Man and Beast.

Meanwhile Stumps went back to the hotel to brood over his misfortunes, and hatch out the plan which his rather unfertile brain had devised.

Seated on a chair, with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and his nails between his teeth, he stared at a corner of the room, nibbled and meditated. There was nothing peculiar about the corner of the room at which he stared, save that there stood in it a portmanteau which Sam had bought the day before, and in which were locked his and Robin’s bags of treasure.

“If I could only manage to get away by rail to—to—anywhere, I’d do it,” he muttered.

Almost simultaneously he leaped from his chair, reddened, and went to look-out at the window, for some one had tapped at the door.

“Come in,” he said with some hesitation.

“Gen’l’man wants you, sir,” said a waiter, ushering in the identical captain who had stopped Stumps on the street that day.

“Excuse me, young man,” he said, taking a chair without invitation, “I saw you enter this hotel, and followed you.”

“Well, and what business had you to follow me?” demanded Stumps, feeling uneasy.

“Oh, none—none at all, on’y I find I must sail this afternoon, an’ I’ve took a fancy to you, an’ hope you’ve made up your mind to ship with me.”

Stumps hesitated a moment.

“Well, yes, I have,” he said, with sudden resolution. “When must I be on board?”

“At four, sharp,” said the captain, rising. “I like promptitude. All right. Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” said Stumps, with emphasis.

When the captain was gone, Stumps went nervously to the door and peeped out. Nothing was visible, save the tail of a waiter’s retiring coat. Cautiously shutting and bolting the door, he took up a strong walking-cane, and, after some difficulty, forced the lock of the portmanteau therewith. Abstracting from it the two bags containing the treasures of his mates Robin and Sam, he wrapped them in a handkerchief, and put them into a canvas bag, which he had purchased for the reception of his own wardrobe. Taking this under his arm he went quietly out of the hotel into the street and disappeared.

He was closely followed by a waiter who had taken the liberty of peeping through the key-hole when he committed the robbery, and who never lost sight of him till he had seen him embark in a vessel in the harbour, named the Fairy Queen, and heard him give his name as James Gibson. Then he returned to the hotel, giving vent to his sentiments in the following soliloquy—“Of course it is no business of yours, John Ribbon, whether men choose to open their comrades’ portmantys with keys or walkin’-sticks, but it is well for you to note the facts that came under your observation, and to reveal them to them as they concern—for a consideration.”

But the waiter did not at that time obtain an opportunity to reveal his facts to those whom they concerned, for Sam, Robin, Slagg, and Letta did not return to the hotel, but sent a pencil note to Stumps instead, to the effect that they had received an invitation from a telegraph official to pay him a visit at his residence up country; that, as he was to carry them off in his boat to the other side of the bay, they would not have an opportunity of calling to bid him, Stumps, a temporary farewell; that he was to make himself as happy as he could in Bombay during their absence, keep on the rooms at the hotel, and settle the bills, and that all expenses would be paid by them on their return.

As the youth by whom this message was sent knew nothing about the senders or whither they had gone, and as Stumps did not again make his appearance, the landlord seized the few things that had been left by the supposed runaways.

The invitation that had thus suddenly been given and accepted, was received from a gentleman named Redpath, an official in the Indian telegraph service. They had been introduced to him on board of the Great Eastern by Sam’s friend, Frank Hedley, and he became so interested in their adventurous career that he begged them to visit his bungalow in a rather out-of-the-way part of the country, even if only for a few days.

“It won’t take us long to get there,” he said, “for the railway passes within thirty miles of it, and I’ll drive you over as pretty a piece of country as you could wish to see. I have a boat alongside, and must be off at once. Do come.”

“But there are so many of us,” objected Sam Shipton.

“Pooh! I could take a dozen more of you,” returned the hospitable electrician; “and my wife rejoices—absolutely rejoices—when I bring home unexpected company.”

“What a pattern she must be,” said Slagg; “but excuse me, sir, since you are so good as to invite us all, may I make so bold as to ax if you’ve got a servants’-’all?”

“Well, I’ve not got exactly that,” replied Redpath, with an amused look; “but I’ve got something of the same sort for my servants. Why do you ask?”

“Because, sir, I never did sail under false colours, and I ain’t agoin’ to begin now. I don’t set up for a gentleman, and though circumstances has throwed me along wi’ two of ’em, so that we’ve bin hail-feller-well-met for a time, I ain’t agoin’ to condescend to consort wi’ them always. If you’ve got a servants’-’all, I’ll come and thank ’ee; if not, I’ll go an’ keep company wi’ Stumps till Mr Shipton comes back.”

“Very well, my good fellow, then you shall come, and we’ll find you a berth in the servants’-hall,” said Redpath, laughing.

“But what about Stumps?” said Robin; “he will wonder what has come over us. Could we not return to the hotel first?”

“Impossible,” said the electrician; “I have not time to wait. My leave has expired. Besides, you can write him a note.”

So the note was written, as we have shown, and the party set out on their inland journey.

Before starting, however, Frank Hedley, the engineer, took Sam and Robin aside.

“Now, think over what I have mentioned,” he said, “and make up your minds. You see, I have some influence at head-quarters, and am quite sure I can get you both a berth on board to replace the men who have left us. I think I can even manage to find a corner for Slagg, if he is not particular.”

“We shall only be too happy to go if you can manage it,” replied Robin; “but Stumps, what about him? We can’t leave Stumps behind, you know.”

“Well. I’ll try to get Stumps smuggled aboard as a stoker or something, if possible, but to say truth, I don’t feel quite so sure about that matter,” replied Frank.

“But shall we have time for this trip if you should prove successful?” asked Sam.

“Plenty of time,” returned his friend; “coaling is a slow as well as a dirty process, and to ship thousands of tons is not a trifle. I daresay we shall be more than a week here before the shore-end is fixed and all ready to start.”

“Well then, Frank,” said Sam; “adieu, till we meet as shipmates.”

The railway soon conveyed our adventurers a considerable distance into the interior of the country.

At the station where Redpath and his guests got out, a vehicle was procured sufficiently large to hold them all, and the road over which they rapidly passed bore out the character which the electrician had given to it. Every species of beautiful scenery presented itself—from the low scrubby plain, with clumps of tropical plants here and there, to undulating uplands and hills.

“You must have some difficulties in your telegraph operations here,” said Robin to Redpath, “with which we have not to contend in Europe.”

“A few,” replied his friend, “especially in the wilder parts of the East. Would you believe it,” he added, addressing himself to Letta, “that wild animals frequently give us great trouble? Whenever a wild pig, a tiger, or a buffalo, takes it into his head to scratch himself, he uses one of our telegraph-posts if he finds it handy. Elephants sometimes butt them down with their thick heads, by way of pastime, I suppose, for they are not usually fond of posts and wire as food. Then bandicoots and porcupines burrow under them and bring them to the ground, while kites and crows sit on the wires and weigh them down. Monkeys, as usual, are most mischievous, for they lay hold of the wires with tails and paws, swinging from one to another, and thus form living conductors, which tend to mix and confuse the messages.”

“But does not the electricity hurt the monkeys?” asked Letta.

“O no! It does them no injury; and birds sitting on the wires are never killed by it, as many people suppose. The electricity passes them unharmed, and keeps faithfully to the wire. If a monkey, indeed, had a tail long enough to reach from the wire to the ground, and were to wet itself thoroughly, it might perhaps draw off some of the current, but fortunately the tails of monkeys are limited. We often find rows of birds lying dead below our telegraph lines, but these have been killed by flying against them, the wires being scarcely visible among trees.”