"Seems to me to get hotter and hotter," growled his father, as he wiped the perspiration from his face with the tail of his coat—having lost the solitary handkerchief with which he had landed.

"I'm glad the thaw is so complete," said Hendrick, "for it may perhaps clear away the snow altogether. It is too early for winter to begin in earnest. I would suggest now that we encamp again for a few days, to see whether the weather is really going to change; hunt a little, and rest a while. What say you?"

With a sigh of contentment the captain answered, "Amen!" Paul said, "Agreed!" and Oliver cried, "Hurrah!" at the same time throwing his cap in the air.

Two days after that they were enabled to continue the journey on snowless ground, with the unwieldy shoes slung at their backs.

The change, although decidedly an improvement was not perfect, for the ground had been made soft, the rivers and rills had been swollen, and the conditions altogether were rendered much less agreeable than they had been on the outward journey. The travellers enjoyed themselves greatly, notwithstanding, and the captain added many important jottings in what he styled the log-book of his memory as to bearings of salient points, distances, etcetera, while Paul took notes of the fauna and flora, soils, products, and geological features of the country, on the same convenient tablets.

"There can be no doubt about it," said the latter one morning, as he surveyed the country around him.

"No doubt about what?" asked the captain.

"About the suitableness of this great island for the abode of man," answered Paul; and then, continuing to speak with enthusiasm, "the indication of minerals is undoubted. See you that serpentine deposit mingled with a variety of other rocks, varying in colour from darkest green to yellow, and from the translucent to the almost transparent? Wherever that is seen, there we have good reason to believe that copper ore will be found."

"If so," observed Hendrick, "much copper ore will be found on the sea-coast, on the north side of the island, for I have seen the same rocks in many places there."

"But there are indications of other metals," continued Paul, "which I perceive; though my acquaintance with geological science is unfortunately not sufficient to make me certain, still, I think I can see that, besides copper, nickel, lead, and iron may be dug from the mines of Newfoundland; indeed, I should not wonder if silver and gold were also to be found. Of the existence of coal-beds there can be no doubt, though what their extent may be I cannot guess; but of this I am certain, that the day cannot be far distant when the mineral and forest wealth of this land shall be developed by a large and thriving population."

"It may be as you say, Paul," remarked Captain Trench, with a dubious shake of the head; "but if you had lived as long as I have, and seen as much of the world and its ways, you wouldn't be quite so sanguine about the thriving population or the speedy development. You see, hitches are apt to occur in the affairs of men which cause wonderful delays, and tanglements come about that take years to unravel."

If Captain Trench had been a professional prophet he could hardly have hit the nail more fairly on the head, for he indicated exactly what bad government has actually done for Newfoundland—only he might have said centuries instead of years—for its internal resources, even at the present time, remain to a very great extent undeveloped. However, not being a professional prophet, but merely an ancient mariner, the captain wound up his remark with a recommendation to hoist all sail and lay their course, as there was no saying how long the mild weather would last.

For several days after this they plodded steadily onward, sometimes over the mountains or across the grassy plains, where migrating reindeer supplied them with abundant venison; at other times among lakelets and streams, whose excellent fish and innumerable wildfowl provided them with variety for the table and music for the ear. Now and then they saw the great moose-deer, which rivals the horse in size, and once Hendrick shot one, at a time when they chanced to have consumed their last caribou steak, and happened to enter a great forest without anything for supper in their wallets. For, occasionally, circumstances may render men supperless even when surrounded by plenty.

At last they reached the great lake, with its beautiful islands, where Hendrick had set up his home.

The hunter became very silent as they drew near to its shores.

"You seem anxious," remarked Paul, as they approached the lake. "Have you reason to fear aught?"

"None—none," replied his friend quickly; "but I never return after a long absence without feeling anxious."

A loud halloo soon brought the echoing answer in the shrill voice of little Oscar, whose canoe quickly shot out from the creek. It was speedily followed by the deerskin boat, and, when near enough to be heard, the reply to Hendrick's anxious inquiry was the gratifying assurance—"All's well!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

GRUMMIDGE ASSERTS HIMSELF—GREAT DISCOVERIES ARE MADE AND THE CREW FLITS.

We must turn aside now for a time to inquire into the doings of the crew of the Water Wagtail, whom we left on the little island off the eastern seaboard of Newfoundland. At first, when the discovery was made that the captain, Paul, and Oliver had been put ashore and left to take care of themselves without weapons or supplies, there was a disposition on the part of the better men of the crew to apply what we now style Lynch law to Big Swinton, David Garnet, and Fred Taylor. "Let's hang 'em," suggested Grummidge, at a meeting of the men when the culprits were not present. "Sure an' I'll howld the rope wid pleasure," said Squill. "An' I'll help ye," cried Little Stubbs.

But Jim Heron shook his head, and did not quite see his way to that, while George Blazer protested against such violent proceedings altogether. As he was backed up by the majority of the crew, the proposal was negatived.

"But what are we to do, boys?" cried Grummidge vehemently. "Are we goin' to be domineered over by Swinton? Why, every man he takes a dislike to, he'll sneak into his tent when he's asleep, make him fast, heave him into the boat, pull to the big island, land him there, and bid him good-bye. There won't be one of us safe while he prowls about an' gits help from three or four rascals as bad as himself."

"Ay, that's it, boys," said Little Stubbs; "it won't be safe to trust him. Hang him, say I."

Stubbs was a very emphatic little man, but his emphasis only roused the idea of drollery in the minds of those whom he addressed, and rather influenced them towards leniency.

"No, no," cried the first mate of the Water Wagtail who, since the wreck, had seldom ventured to raise his voice in council; "I would advise rather that we should give him a thrashing, and teach him that we refuse to obey or recognise a self-constituted commander."

"Ah, sure now, that's a raisonable plan," said Squill with something of sarcasm in his tone; "an' if I might make so bowld I'd suggist that yoursilf, sor, shud give him the thrashin'."

"Nay, I am far from being the strongest man of the crew. The one that is best able should do the job."

The mate looked pointedly at Grummidge as he spoke; but Grummidge, being a modest man, pretended not to see him.

"Yes, yes, you're right, sir, Grummidge is the very man," cried Stubbs.

"Hear, hear," chorused several of the others. "Come, old boy, you'll do it, won't you? and we'll all promise to back you up."

"Well, look 'ee here, lads," said Grummidge, who seemed to have suddenly made up his mind, "this man has bin quarrellin' wi' me, off an' on, since the beginning of the voyage, whether I would or not, so it may be as well to settle the matter now as at another time. I'll do the job on one consideration."

"What's that?" cried several men.

"That you promises, on your honour (though none o' you's got much o' that), that when I've done the job you agree to make me captain of the crew. It's a moral impossibility, d'ee see, for people to git along without a leader, so if I agree to lead you in this, you must agree to follow me in everything—is it so?"

"Agreed, agreed!" chorused his friends, only too glad that one of the physically strongest among them—also one of the best-humoured—should stand up to stem the tide of anarchy which they all clearly saw was rising among them.

"Well, then," resumed Grummidge, "I see Swinton with his three friends a-comin'. I'll expect you to stand by an' see fair play, for he's rather too ready wi' his knife."

While he spoke the comrade in question was seen approaching, with Fred Taylor and David Garnet, carrying a quantity of cod-fish that had just been caught.

"You've been holding a meeting, comrades, I think," said Swinton, looking somewhat suspiciously at the group of men, as he came up and flung down his load.

"Yes, we have," said Grummidge, advancing, hands in pockets, and with a peculiar nautical roll which distinguished him. "You're right, Big Swinton, we have bin havin' a meetin', a sort of trial, so to speak, an' as you are the man what's bin tried, it may interest you to know what sentence has bin passed upon you."

"Oh indeed!" returned Swinton, with a look of cool insolence which he knew well how to assume, no matter what he felt. "Well, yes, it would interest me greatly to hear the sentence of the learned judge—whoever he is."

The fingers of the man fumbled as he spoke at his waist-belt, near the handle of his knife. Observing this, Grummidge kept a watchful eye on him, but did not abate his nonchalant free-and-easy air, as he stepped close up to him.

"The sentence is," he said firmly but quietly, "that you no longer presume to give orders as if you was the captain o' this here crew; that from this hour you fall to the rear and undertake second fiddle—or fourth fiddle, for the matter o' that; and that you head a party to guide them in a sarch which is just a-goin' to begin for the two men and the boy you have so sneakingly betrayed and put on shore—an' all this you'll have to do with a ready goodwill, on pain o' havin' your brains knocked out if you don't. Moreover, you may be thankful that the sentence is so light, for some o' your comrades would have had you hanged right off, if others hadn't seen fit to be marciful."

While this sentence was being pronounced, Swinton's expression underwent various changes, and his face became visibly paler under the steady gaze of Grummidge. At the last word he grasped his knife and drew it, but his foe was prepared. Like a flash of light he planted his hard knuckles between Swinton's eyes, and followed up the blow with another on the chest, which felled him to the ground.

There was no need for more. The big bully was rendered insensible, besides being effectually subdued, and from that time forward he quietly consented to play any fiddle—chiefly, however, the bass one. But he harboured in his heart a bitter hatred of Grummidge, and resolved secretly to take a fearful revenge at the first favourable opportunity.

Soon after that the boat was manned by as many of the crew as it could contain, and an exploring party went to the spot where Captain Trench and his companions had been landed, guided thereto by Swinton, and led by his foe Grummidge, whose bearing indicated, without swagger or threat, that the braining part of the sentence would be carried out on the slightest symptom of insubordination on the part of the former. While this party was away; those who remained on the islet continued to fish, and to preserve the fish for winter use by drying them in the sun.

We need scarcely add that the exploring party did not discover those for whom they sought, but they discovered the true nature of the main island, which, up to that time, they had supposed to be a group of isles. When the search was finally given up as hopeless, an examination of the coast was made, with a view to a change of abode.

"You see, lads," observed Grummidge, when discussing this subject, "it's quite plain that we shall have to spend the winter here, an' as I was a short bit to the south of these seas in the late autumn one voyage, I have reason to believe that we had better house ourselves, an' lay in a stock o' provisions if we would escape bein' froze an' starved."

"Troth, it's well to escape that, boys," remarked Squills, "for it's froze I was mesilf wance—all but—on a voyage to the Baltic, an' it's starved to death was me owld grandmother—almost—so I can spake from experience."

"An' we couldn't find a better place for winter-quarters than what we see before us," said Garnet. "It looks like a sort o' paradise."

We cannot say what sort of idea Garnet meant to convey by this comparison, but there could be no question that the scene before them was exceedingly beautiful. The party had held their consultation on the crest of a bluff, and just beyond it lay a magnificent bay, the shores of which were clothed with luxuriant forests, and the waters studded with many islets. At the distant head of the bay the formation or dip of the land clearly indicated the mouth of a large river, while small streams and ponds were seen gleaming amid the foliage nearer at hand. At the time the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky, and those thick fogs which so frequently enshroud the coasts of Newfoundland had not yet descended from the icy north.

"I say, look yonder. What's Blazer about?" whispered Jim Heron, pointing to his comrade, who had separated from the party, and was seen with a large stone in each hand creeping cautiously round a rocky point below them.

Conjecture was useless and needless, for, while they watched him, Blazer rose up, made a wild rush forward, hurled the stones in advance, and disappeared round the point. A few moments later he reappeared, carrying a large bird in his arms.

The creature which he had thus killed with man's most primitive weapon was a specimen of the great auk—a bird which is now extinct. It was the size of a large goose, with a coal-black head and back, short wings, resembling the flippers of a seal, which assisted it wonderfully in the water, but were useless for flight, broad webbed feet, and legs set so far back that on land it sat erect like the penguins of the southern seas. At the time of which we write, the great auk was found in myriads on the low rocky islets on the eastern shores of Newfoundland. Now-a-days there is not a single bird to be found anywhere, and only a few specimens and skeletons remain in the museums of the world to tell that such creatures once existed. Their extermination was the result of man's reckless slaughter of them when the Newfoundland banks became the resort of the world's fishermen. Not only was the great auk slain in vast numbers, for the sake of fresh food, but it was salted by tons for future use and sale. The valuable feathers, or down, also proved a source of temptation, and as the birds could not fly to other breeding-places, they gradually diminished in numbers and finally disappeared.

"Why, Blazer," exclaimed Heron, "that's one o' the sodger-like birds we frightened away from our little island when we first landed."

"Ay, an' there's plenty more where this one came from," said Blazer, throwing the bird down; "an' they are so tame on the rocks round the point that I do believe we could knock 'em on the head with sticks, if we took 'em unawares. What d'ee say to try, lads?"

"Agreed—for I'm gettin' tired o' fish now," said Grummidge. "How should we set about it, think 'ee?"

"Cut cudgels for ourselves, then take to the boat creep round to one o' the little islands in the bay, and go at 'em!" answered Blazer.

This plan was carried out with as little delay as possible. An islet was boarded, as Squill said, and the clumsy, astonished creatures lost numbers of their companions before making their escape into the sea. A further treasure was found in a large supply of their eggs. Laden almost to the gunwale with fresh provisions, the search-party returned to their camp—some of them, indeed, distressed at having failed to find their banished friends, but most of them elated by their success with the great auks, and the prospect of soon going into pleasant winter-quarters.

So eager were they all to flit into this new region—this paradise of Garnet—that operations were commenced on the very next day at early morn. The boat was launched and manned, and as much of their property as it would hold was put on board.

"You call it paradise, Garnet," said Grummidge, as the two carried a bundle of dried cod slung on a pole between them, "but if you, and the like of ye, don't give up swearin', an' try to mend your manners, the place we pitch on will be more like hell than paradise, no matter how comfortable and pretty it may be."

Garnet was not in a humour either to discuss this point or to accept a rebuke, so he only replied to the remark with a surly "Humph!"

Landing on the main island to the northward of the large bay, so as to secure a southern exposure, the boat-party proceeded to pitch their camp on a lovely spot, where cliff and coppice formed a luxuriant background. Ramparts of rock protected them from the nor'-west gales, and purling rivulets hummed their lullaby. Here they pitched their tents, and in a short space of time ran up several log huts, the material for which was supplied in abundance by the surrounding forest.

When the little settlement was sufficiently established, and all the goods and stores were removed from what now was known as Wreck Island, they once more launched the boat, and turned their attention to fishing—not on the Great Bank, about which at the time they were ignorant, but on the smaller banks nearer shore, where cod-fish were found in incredible numbers. Some of the party, however, had more of the hunter's than the fisher's spirit in them, and prepared to make raids on the homes of the great auk, or to ramble in the forests.

Squill was among the latter. One day, while rambling on the sea-shore looking for shellfish, he discovered a creature which not only caused him to fire off all the exclamations of his rich Irish vocabulary, but induced him to run back to camp with heaving chest and distended eyes— almost bursting from excitement.

"What is it, boy?" chorused his comrades.

"Och! musha! I've found it at long last!—the great say—sur—no, not exactly that, but the—the great, sprawlin', long-legged—och! what shall I say? The great-grandfather of all the—the—words is wantin', boys. Come an' see for yourselves!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A GIANT DISCOVERED—NEW HOME AT WAGTAIL BAY—A STRANGE ADDITION TO THE SETTLEMENT.

The creature which had so powerfully affected the feelings of the Irishman was dead; but dead and harmless though it was, it drew forth from his comrades a shout of intense surprise when they saw it, for it was no less than a cuttlefish of proportions so gigantic that they felt themselves in the presence of one of those terrible monsters of the deep, about which fabulous tales have been told, and exaggerated descriptions given since the beginning of historical time.

"Av he's not the say-sarpint himself, boys," panted Squill, as he pointed to him with looks of unmitigated admiration, "sure he must be his first cousin."

And Squill was not far wrong, for it was found that the monstrous fish measured fifty-two feet between the extremities of its outspread arms. Its body was about eight feet long and four feet broad. Its great arms, of which it had ten radiating from its body, varied in length and thickness—the longest being about twenty-four feet, and the shortest about eight. The under sides of these arms were supplied with innumerable suckers, while from the body there projected a horny beak, like the beak of a parrot.

"It's wishin', I am, that I might see wan o' yer family alive," said Squill, as he turned over the dead arms; "but I'd rather not be embraced by ye. Och! what a hug ye could give—an' as to howldin' on—a thousand limpets would be nothin' to ye."

"A miser grippin' his gold would be more like it," suggested Grummidge.

"I don't expect ever to see one alive," said Little Stubbs, "an' yet there must surely be more where that came from."

The very next day Squill had his wish gratified, and Stubbs his unbelief rebuked, for, while they were out in the boat rowing towards one of the fishing-banks with several of their comrades, they discovered a living giant-cuttlefish.

"What's that, boys?" cried the Irishman, pointing to the object which was floating in the water not far ahead of them.

"Seaweed," growled Blazer.

Blazer always growled. His voice was naturally low and harsh—so was his spirit. Sometimes a grunt supplanted the growl, suggesting that he was porcine in nature—as not a few men are.

But it was not seaweed. The thing showed signs of life as the boat drew near.

"Starboard! starboard hard!" shouted Little Stubbs, starting up.

But the warning came too late. Next moment the boat ran with a thud into a monster cuttlefish. Grummidge seized a boat-hook, shouted, "Stern all!" and hit the creature with all his might, while Stubbs made a wild grasp at a hatchet which lay under one of the thwarts.

Instantly the horny parrot-like beak, the size of a man's fist, reared itself from among the folds of the body and struck the boat a violent blow, while a pair of saucer-like eyes, fully four inches in diameter, opened and glared ferociously. This was terrifying enough, but when, a moment later, two tremendous arms shot out from the body near the eyes, flung themselves around the boat and held on tight, a yell of fear escaped from several of the men, and with good reason, for if the innumerable suckers on those slimy arms once fairly attached themselves to the boat there seemed to be no chance of escape from the deadly embrace. In that moment of danger Little Stubbs proved himself equal to the occasion. With the hatchet he deftly severed the two limbs as they lay over the gunwale of the boat, and the monster, without cry or sign of pain, fell back into the sea, and moved off, ejecting such a quantity of inky fluid, as it went, that the water was darkened for two or three hundred yards around.

"Well done, Little Stubbs!" cried Grummidge, as he watched the creature disappearing. "You've often worried our lives in time past, but this time you've saved 'em. Coil away the limbs, boys. We'll measure 'em and enter 'em in the log when we go ashore."

It may interest the reader to know that the measurements were as follows:—

The longer and thinner arm was nineteen feet in length; about three and a half inches in circumference; of a pale pinkish colour, and exceedingly strong and tough. As all the men agreed that more than ten feet of the arm were left attached to the monster's body, the total length must have been little short of thirty feet. Towards the extremity it broadened out like an oar, and then tapered to a fine tongue-like point. This part was covered with about two hundred suckers, having horny-toothed edges, the largest of the suckers being more than an inch in diameter, the smallest about the size of a pea. The short arm was eleven feet long, and ten inches in circumference. It was covered on the under side throughout its entire length with a double row of suckers. Grummidge, who was prone to observe closely, counted them that night with minute care, and came to the conclusion that the creature must have possessed about eleven hundred suckers altogether. There was also a tail to the fish—which Squill called a "divil-fish"— shaped like a fin. It was two feet in width.

Lest any reader should imagine that we are romancing here, we turn aside to refer him to a volume entitled Newfoundland, the oldest British Colony, written by Joseph Hatton and the Reverend M. Harvey, in which (pages 238 to 242) he will find an account of a giant-cuttlefish, devil-fish, or squid, very similar to that which we have now described, and in which it is also stated that Mr Harvey, in 1873, obtained possession of one cuttlefish arm nineteen feet long, which he measured and photographed, and described in various newspapers and periodicals, and, finally, sent to the Geological Museum in St. John's, where it now lies. The same gentleman afterwards obtained an uninjured specimen of the fish, and it is well known that complete specimens, as well as fragments, of the giant cephalopod now exist in several other museums.

Can any one wonder that marvellous tales of the sea were told that night round the fires at supper-time? that Little Stubbs became eloquently fabulous, and that Squill, drawing on his imagination, described with graphic power a monster before whose bristling horrors the great sea-serpent himself would hide his diminished head, and went into particulars so minute and complex that his comrades set him down as "one o' the biggest liars" that ever lived, until he explained that the monster in question had only appeared to him "wance in wan of his owld grandmother's dreams!"

In fishing, and hunting with bows and arrows made by themselves, as well as with ingenious traps and weirs and snares of their own invention, the crew spent their time pleasantly, and the summer passed rapidly away. During this period the rude tents of spars and sailcloth were supplanted by ruder huts of round logs, caulked with hay and plastered with mud. Holes in the walls thereof did service as windows during the day, and bits of old sails or bundles of hay stuffed into them formed shutters at night. Sheds were also put up to guard provisions and stores from the weather, and stages were erected on which to dry the cod-fish after being split and cleaned; so that our shipwrecked crew, in their new home, which they named Wagtail Bay, had thus unwittingly begun that great industry for which Newfoundland has since become celebrated all the world over.

It is not to be supposed that among such men in such circumstances everything went harmoniously. At first, indeed, what with having plenty to do in fishing, hunting, building, splitting and drying fish, etcetera, all day, and being pretty well tired out at nights, the peace was kept pretty easily; all the more that Big Swinton had been quelled and apparently quite subdued. But as the stores became full of food and the days shortened, while the nights proportionately lengthened, time began to hang heavy on their hands, and gradually the camp became resolved into the two classes which are to be found everywhere—the energetically industrious and the lazily idle. Perhaps we should say that those two extreme phases of human nature began to show themselves, for between them there existed all shades and degrees, so that it was difficult to tell, in some cases, to which class the men belonged.

The proverbial mischief, of course, was soon found, for the latter class to do, and Grummidge began to discover that the ruling of his subjects, which sat lightly enough on his shoulders during the summer, became a matter of some trouble and anxiety in autumn. He also found, somewhat to his surprise, that legislation was by no means the easy—we might say free-and-easy—business which he had supposed it to be. In short, the camp presented the interesting spectacle of a human society undergoing the process of mushroom growth from a condition of chaotic irresponsibility to that of civilised order.

The chaotic condition had been growing worse and worse for some time before Grummidge was forced to take action, for Grummidge was a man of long-suffering patience. One night, however, he lost all patience, and, like most patient people when forced out of their natural groove, he exploded with surprising violence and vigour.

It happened thus:—

The crew had built for themselves a hut of specially large dimensions, in which they nightly assembled all together round the fires, of which there were two—one at either end. Some of the men told stories, some sang songs, others played at draughts of amateur construction, and a good many played the easy but essential part of audience.

The noise, of course, was tremendous, but they were used to that, and minded it not. When, however, two of the men began to quarrel over their game, with so much anger as to interrupt all the others, and draw general attention to themselves, the thing became unbearable, and when one called the other "a liar," and the other shouted with an oath, "You're another," the matter reached a climax.

"Come, come, Dick Swan and Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, in a stern voice; "you stop that. Two liars are too much in this here ship. One is one too many. If you can't keep civil tongues in your heads, we'll pitch you overboard."

"You mind your own business," gruffly replied Dick Swan, who was an irascible man and the aggressor.

"That's just what I'll do," returned Grummidge, striding up to Swan, seizing him by the collar, and hurling him to the other end of the room, where he lay still, under the impression, apparently, that he had had enough. "My business," said Grummidge, "is to keep order, and I mean to attend to it. Isn't that so, boys?"

"No—yes—no," replied several voices.

"Who said 'No'?" demanded Grummidge.

Every one expected to see Big Swinton step forward, but he did not. His revenge was not to be gratified by mere insubordination. The man who did at last step forward was an insignificant fellow, who had been nicknamed Spitfire, and whose chief characteristics were self-will and ill-nature. He did not lack courage, however, for he boldly faced the angry ruler and defied him. Every one expected to see Spitfire follow Dick Swan, and in similar fashion, but they were mistaken. They did not yet understand Grummidge.

"Well, Spitfire, what's your objection to my keeping order?" he said, in a voice so gentle that the other took heart.

"My objection," he said, "is that when you was appinted capting there was no vote taken. You was stuck up by your own friends, an' that ain't fair, an' I, for one, refuse to knuckle under to 'ee. You may knock me down if you like, for I ain't your match by a long way, but you'll not prove wrong to be right by doin' that."

"Well spoken, Master Spitfire!" exclaimed a voice from the midst of the crowd that encircled the speakers.

"Well spoken, indeed," echoed Grummidge, "and I thank you, Master Spitfire, for bringin' this here matter to a head. Now, lads," he added, turning to the crowd, "you have bin wrong an' informal, so to speak, in your proceedin's when you appinted me governor o' this here colony. There's a right and a wrong in everything, an' I do believe, from the bottom of my soul, that it's—that it's—that—well, I ain't much of a dab at preaching as you know, but what I would say is this— it's right to do right, an' it ain't right for to do wrong, so we'll krect this little mistake at once, for I have no wish to rule, bless you! Now then, all what's in favour o' my bein' gov'nor, walk to the end o' the room on my right hand, an' all who wants somebody else to be—Spitfire, for instance—walk over to where Dick Swan is a-sittin' enjo'in' of hisself."

Immediately three-fourths of the crew stepped with alacrity to the right. The remainder went rather slowly to the left. "The Grummidges has won!" cried Squill, amid hearty laughter.

The ruler himself made no remark whatever, but, seating himself in a corner of the hut, resumed the game which had been interrupted, quite assured that the game of insubordination was finally finished.

The day following that on which the reign of King Grummidge was established, a new member of considerable interest was added to the colony. Blaze, Stubbs, and Squill chanced to be out that day along the shore. Squill, being in a meditative mood, had fallen behind his comrades. They had travelled further than usual, when the attention of the two in front was attracted by what seemed to them the melancholy howling of a wolf. Getting their bows ready, they advanced with caution, and soon came upon a sad sight—the dead body of a native, beside which crouched a large black dog. At first they thought the dog had killed the man, and were about to shoot it, when Stubbs exclaimed, "Hold on! don't you see he must have tumbled over the cliff?"

A brief examination satisfied them that the Indian, in passing along the top of the cliffs, had fallen over, and that the accident must have been recent, for the body was still fresh. The dog, which appeared to be starving, showed all its formidable teeth when they attempted to go near its dead master. Presently Squill came up.

"Ah, boys," he said, "ye don't onderstand the natur' o' the baste—see here."

Taking a piece of dried fish from his pocket, he went boldly forward and presented it. The dog snapped it greedily and gulped it down. Squill gave him another and another piece; as the fourth offering was presented he patted the animal quietly on its head. The victory was gained. The dog suffered them to bury its master, but for four days it refused to leave his grave. During that time Squill fed it regularly. Then he coaxed it to follow him, and at last it became, under the name of Blackboy, a general favourite, and a loving member of the community.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HAS REFERENCE TO FOOD AND A GREAT FIGHT.

There is always a certain amount of pleasure to be derived from the tracing of any subject of interest back to its origin. We have already seen how—like a noble river, which has its fountain-head in some mountain lakelet that would scarcely serve as a washing-basin for a Cyclops—the grand cod-fishing industry, which has enriched the world, and found employment for thousands of men for centuries, had its commencement in the crew of the Water Wagtail! we shall now show that another great industry, namely, the Newfoundland seal-fishery, had its origin in the same insignificant source.

King Grummidge was walking one morning along the shore of Wagtail Bay, with hands in pockets, hat on back of head, and that easy roll of gait so characteristic of nautical men and royalty. He was evidently troubled in mind, for a frown rested on his brow, and his lips were compressed. It might have been supposed that the cares of state were beginning to tell upon him, but such was not the case: food was the cause of his trouble.

"Fish, fish, fish," he growled, to Little Stubbs, who was his companion in the walk. "I'm sick tired o' fish. It's my opinion that if we go on eatin' fish like we've bin doin' since we was cast away here, we will turn into fish, or mermaids, if not somethin' worse. What are ye laughin' at?"

"At the notion o' you turnin' into a maid of any sort," replied Stubbs.

"That's got nothin' to do wi' the argiment," returned Grummidge sternly, for his anxieties were too serious to permit of his indulging in levity at the time. "What we've got to do is to find meat, for them auks are nigh as dry as the fish. Meat, lad, meat, wi' plenty o' fat, that's the question o' the hour."

"Yes, it's our question, no doubt," rejoined Stubbs.

He might as well have bestowed his bad pun on a rabbit, for Grummidge was essentially dense and sober-minded.

"But we've had a few rabbits of late, an' ducks an' partridges," he added.

"Rabbits! ducks! partridges!" repeated his companion, with contempt. "How many of them delicacies have we had? That's what I wants to know."

"Not many, I admit for there's none of us got much to boast of as shots."

"Shots!" echoed Grummidge. "You're right, Stubbs. Of all the blind bats and helpless boys with the bow, there's not I believe, in the whole world such a lot as the popilation of Wagtail Bay. Why, there's not two of ye who could hit the big shed at sixty paces, an' all the fresh meat as you've brought in yet has bin the result o' chance. Now look 'ee here, Stubbs, a notion has entered my head, an' when a notion does that, I usually grab that notion an' hold 'im a fast prisoner until I've made somethin' useful an' ship-shape of 'im. If it works properly we'll soon have somethin' better to eat than fish, an' more substantial than rabbits, ducks, partridges, or auks."

We may remark in passing that the animals which those wrecked sailors called rabbits were in reality hares. Moreover, the men took an easy, perhaps unscientific, method of classifying feathered game. Nearly everything with wings that dwelt chiefly on lake, river, or sea they called ducks, and all the feathered creatures of the forest they styled partridges. From this simple classification, however, were excepted swans, geese, eagles, and hawks.

"Well, Grummidge, what may be your notion?" asked Stubbs.

"My notion is—seals! For all our hard rowin' and wastin' of arrows we've failed to catch or kill a single seal, though there's such swarms of 'em all about. Now this is a great misfortin', for it's well known that seals make first-rate beef—leastwise to them as ain't partic'lar— so we'll set about catchin' of 'em at once."

"But how?" asked Stubbs, becoming interested under the influence of his comrade's earnest enthusiasm.

"This is how. Look there, d'ye see that small island lyin' close to the shore with several seals' heads appearin' in the channel between?"

"Yes—what then?"

"Well, then, what I mean to do is to have nets made with big meshes, an' set 'em between that island an' the shore, and see what comes of it."

"But where's the twine to come from?" objected Stubbs.

"Twine! Ain't there no end o' cordage swashin' about the Water Wagtail ever since she went ashore? An' haven't we got fingers? Can't we undo the strands an' make small cord? Surely some of ye have picked oakum enough to understand what that means!"

Stubbs was convinced. Moreover, the rest of the men were so convinced that the plan promised well, when it was explained to them, that they set to work with alacrity, and, in a brief space of time, made a strong net several fathoms in length, and with meshes large enough to permit of a seal's head squeezing through.

No sooner was it ready than the whole community went down to see it set. Then, with difficulty, they were prevented from waiting on the shore to watch the result. In the afternoon, when Grummidge gave permission, they ran down again with all the eagerness of children, and were rewarded by finding six fat seals entangled in the net and inflated almost to bursting with the water that had drowned them.

Thus they were supplied with "beef," and, what was of almost equal importance, with oil, which enabled them to fry the leanest food, besides affording them the means of making a steadier and stronger light than that of the log fires to which they had hitherto been accustomed.

It may be here remarked by captious readers, if such there be, that this cannot appropriately be styled the beginning of that grand sealing, or, as it is now styled, "swile huntin'," industry, which calls into action every year hundreds of steam and other vessels, and thousands of men, who slaughter hundreds of thousands of seals; which produces mints of money, and in the prosecutions of which men dare the terrible dangers of ice-drift and pack, in order that they may bludgeon the young seals upon the floes.

As well might it be objected that a tiny rivulet on the mountain-top is not the fountain-head of a mighty river, because its course is not marked by broad expanses and thundering cataracts. Grummidge's net was undoubtedly the beginning, the tiny rill, of the Newfoundland seal-fishery, and even the bludgeoning was initiated by one of his party. It happened thus:—

Big Swinton went out one morning to try his fortune with the bow and arrow in the neighbourhood of a range of cliffs that extended far away to the northward. Swinton usually chose to hunt in solitude. Having few sympathies with the crew he shut up his feelings within his own breast and brooded in silence on the revenge he was still resolved to take when a safe opportunity offered, for the man's nature was singularly resolute and, at the same time, unforgiving.

Now it chanced that Grummidge, in utter ignorance of where his foe had gone, took the same direction that morning, but started some time later, intending to explore the neighbourhood of the cliffs in search of sea-fowls' eggs.

On reaching the locality, Swinton found that a large ice-floe had come down from the Arctic regions, and stranded on the shore of the island. On the ice lay a black object which he rightly judged to be a seal. At first, he supposed it to be a dead one, but just as he was about to advance to examine it the animal raised its head and moved its tail. Love of the chase was powerful in Swinton's breast. He instantly crouched behind a boulder, and waited patiently till the seal again laid its head on the ice as if to continue its nap.

While the seaman crouched there, perfectly motionless, his brain was active. Arrows, he feared, would be of little use, even if he were capable of shooting well, which he was not. Other weapon he had none, with the exception of a clasp-knife. What was he to do? The only answer to that question was—try a club. But how was he to get at the seal with a club?

While pondering this question he observed that there was another seal on the same mass of ice, apparently sleeping, behind a hummock. He also noticed that both seals were separated from the water by a considerable breadth of ice—especially the one behind the hummock, and that there was a tongue of ice extending from the floe to the shore by which it seemed possible to reach the floe by patient stalking without disturbing the game. Instantly Swinton decided on a plan, and commenced by crawling into the bushes. There, with his clasp-knife, he carefully cut and peeled a club which even Hercules might have deigned to wield.

With this weapon he crawled on hands and knees slowly out to the floe, and soon discovered that the seals were much larger than he had at first supposed, and were probably a male and a female. Being ignorant of the nature of seals, and only acquainted with the fact that the tender nose of the animal is its most vulnerable part, he crept like a cat after a mouse towards the smaller seal, which he judged to be the female, until near enough to make a rush and cut off its retreat to the sea. He then closed with it, brought his great club down upon its snout, and laid it dead upon the ice. Turning quickly round, he observed, to his surprise, that the male seal instead of making for the water, as he had expected, was making towards himself in floundering and violent bounds!

It may be necessary here to state that there are several kinds of seals in the northern seas, and that the "hood seal"—or, as hunters call it the "dog-hood"—is among the largest and fiercest of them all. The male of this species is distinguished from the female by a singular hood, or fleshy bag, on his nose, which he has the power to inflate with air, so that it covers his eyes and face—thus forming a powerful protection to his sensitive nose, for, besides being elastic, the hood is uncommonly tough. It is said that this guard will even resist shot and that the only sure way of killing the dog-hood seal is to hit him on the neck at the base of the skull.

Besides possessing this safeguard, or natural buffer, the dog-hood is full of courage, which becomes absolute ferocity when he is defending the female. This is now so well known that hunters always try to kill the male first, if possible, when the female becomes an easy victim.

Swinton saw at a single glance that he had to deal with a gigantic and furious foe, for the creature had inflated its hood and dilated its nostrils into two huge bladders, as with glaring eyes it bounced rather than rushed at him in terrific rage. Feeling that his arrows would be useless, the man flung them and the bow down, resolving to depend entirely on his mighty club. Being possessed of a good share of brute courage, and feeling confident in his great physical strength, Swinton did not await the attack, but ran to meet his foe, swung his ponderous weapon on high, and brought it down with tremendous force on the seal's head, but the hood received it and caused it to rebound—as if from indiarubber—with such violence that it swung the man to one side. So far this was well, as it saved him from a blow of the dog-hood's flipper that would probably have stunned him. As it was, it grazed his shoulder, tore a great hole in his strong canvas jacket and wounded his arm.

Experience usually teaches caution. When the seal turned with increased fury to renew the assault Swinton stood on the defensive, and as soon as it came within reach brought his club down a second time on its head with, if possible, greater force than before; but again the blow was broken by the hood, though not again was the man struck by the flipper, for he was agile as a panther and evaded the expected blow. His foot slipped on the ice, however, and he fell so close to the seal that it tumbled over him and almost crushed him with its weight. At the same time the club flew from his hand.

Though much shaken by the fall, the seaman scrambled to his feet in time to escape another onslaught, but, do what he would, he could make no impression on the creature's head, because of that marvellous hood, and body blows were, of course, useless. Still Big Swinton was not the man to give in easily to a seal! Although he slipped on the ice and fell several times, he returned again and again to the encounter until he began to feel his strength going. As muscular power was his sole dependence, a sensation of fear now tended to make matters worse; at last he tripped over a piece of ice, and the seal fell upon him.

It was at this critical point that Grummidge came in sight of the combatants, and ran at full speed to the rescue. But he was still at a considerable distance, and had to cross the tongue of ice before he could reach the floe.

Meanwhile the seal opened its well-armed jaws to seize its victim by the throat. Swinton felt that death stared him in the face. Desperation sharpened his ingenuity. He thrust his left hand as far as possible down the throat of his adversary, and, seizing it with the other arm round the neck, held on in a tight though not loving embrace!

The struggle that ensued was brief. The seal shook off the man as if he had been but a child, and was on the point of renewing the attack when it caught sight of Grummidge, and reared itself to meet this new enemy.

Grummidge possessed a fair-sized clasp-knife. Armed with this, he rushed boldly in and made a powerful stab at the creature's heart.

Alas! for the poor man, even though his stabbing powers had been good instead of bad, for he would only have imbedded the short weapon in a mass of fat without touching the heart. But Grummidge was a bad stabber. He missed his aim so badly as to plunge his weapon into the hood! Nothing could have been more fortunate. The air escaped and the hood collapsed. At the same moment Grummidge received an ugly scratch on the cheek which sent him sprawling. As he rose quickly he observed Swinton's club, which he grasped and brought vigorously down on the seal's now unprotected nose, and felled it. Another effective blow terminated its career for ever, and then the victor turned to find that Big Swinton lay on the ice, quite conscious of what was going on though utterly unable to move hand or foot.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

TELLS OF DEATH AND DISASTER.

To bind up Swinton's wounds, some of which were ugly ones, was the first business of Grummidge, after he had hastily staunched the blood which was flowing copiously from his own cheek. The stout seaman was well able to play the part of amateur surgeon, being a handy fellow, and he usually carried about with him two or three odd pieces of spun-yarn for emergencies—also a lump of cotton-waste as a handkerchief, while the tail of his shirt served at all times as a convenient rag.

Having finished the job he looked earnestly at the pale face and closed eyes of his old enemy, and said—"You've bin pretty much banged about old chap—eh?"

As the wounded man made no reply, Grummidge rose quickly, intending to run to the settlement for help, knowing that no time should be lost. He was hastening away when Swinton stopped him.

"Hallo! hold on!" he shouted. Grummidge turned back.

"You—you're not goin' to leave me, are you?" demanded his enemy, somewhat sternly, "I—I shall die if you leave me here on the cold ice."

An involuntary shudder here bore testimony to the probability of his fear being well grounded.

"Swinton," replied Grummidge, going down on one knee, the more conveniently to grasp the unwounded hand of his foe, "you mistake my c'rackter entirely. Though I'm not much to boast on as a man, I ain't quite a devil. I was only goin' to run to Wagtail Bay to start some o' the boys with a stretcher to fetch ye—an' it's my belief that there's no time to be lost."

"Right you are, Grummidge," replied the poor man in a faint voice, "so little time that if you leave me here the boys will only find some human beef to carry back, an' that won't be worth the trouble."

"Don't say that, old chap," returned the other, in a low, gruff voice which was the result of tender feeling. "Keep up heart—bless you, I'll be back in no time."

"All right," said Swinton, with a resigned look, "go an' fetch the boys. But I say, Grummidge, shake hands before you go, I don't want to carry a grudge agin you into the next world if I can help it. Goodbye."

"No, no, mate, if that's to be the way of it I'll stick to 'ee. D'ye think you could manage to git on my back?"

"I'll try."

With much heaving, and many half-suppressed groans from the one, and "heave-ho's" from the other, Big Swinton was at last mounted on his comrade's broad shoulders, and the two started for home. It was a long and weary journey, for Grummidge found the road rough and the load heavy, but before night he deposited his old enemy in a bunk in the large room of the settlement and then himself sank fainting on the floor—not, we need scarcely add, from the effect of sentimental feeling, but because of prolonged severe exertion, coupled with loss of blood.

Two days later Grummidge sat by the side of Swinton's bunk. It was early forenoon, and they were alone—all the other men being out on various avocations.

Blackboy, the large dog, lay asleep on the floor beside them.

Suddenly the dog jumped up, ran to the door, and began to whine restlessly.

"Wolves about, I suppose," said Grummidge, rising and opening the door.

Blackboy bounded away in wild haste.

"H'm! he seems in a hurry. Perhaps it's a bear this time. Well, mate, how d'ye feel now?" he added, closing the door and returning to his seat.

"Grummidge," said the sick man, in a low voice, "I'll never git over this. That seal have done for me. There's injury somewheres inside o' me, I feel sure on it. But that's not what I was going to speak about. I want to make a clean breast of it afore I goes. I've been a bad man, Grummidge, there's no question about that in my own mind, whatever may be in the mind of others. I had even gone the length of making up my mind to murder you, the first safe chance I got, for which, and all else I've done and thought agin ye, I ax your pardon."

"You have it" said his friend earnestly. "Thank 'ee. That's just what I expected, Grummidge. Now what I want to know is, d'ye think God will forgive me?"

The seaman was perplexed. Such a question had never been put to him before, and he knew not what to answer. After a few moments' consideration, he replied—

"What you say is true, Swinton. You've bin a bad lot ever since I've know'd ye. I won't go for to deny that. As to what the Almighty will do or won't do, how can I tell? I wish I knew more about such things myself, for I'd like to help you, but I can't."

Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind and he continued:—

"But it do seem to me, Swinton, that if a poor sinner like me is willin' to forgive ye, ain't the Almighty likely to be much more willin'?"

"There's somethin' in that, Grummidge—somethin' in that," said the sick man eagerly. Then the hopeful look disappeared as he added slowly, "but I fear, Grummidge, that what you say don't quite fit my case, for I've got a notion that the Almighty must have been willin' all my life to save me from myself, and that all my life I've bin refusin' to listen to Him."

"How d'ye make that out, boy?"

"This way. There's bin somethin' or other inside o' me, as far back as I can remember, that somehow didn't seem to be me, that has been always sayin' 'Don't' to me, whenever I was a-goin' to do a mean thing. Now, I can't help thinkin' that it must have bin God that spoke, for a man would never say 'Don't' to himself, an' then go right off an' do it, would he?"

"That's more than I can tell," answered Grummidge. "I remember hearin' Master Burns a-talkin' on that point wi' the cappen, an' he thought it was conscience or the voice of God."

"Well, conscience or no conscience, I've resisted it all my life," returned the sick man, "an' it do seem a mean, sneakin' sort o' thing to come to the Almighty at the very last moment, when I can't help myself, an' say, 'I'm sorry.'"

"It would be meaner to say 'I'm not sorry,' wouldn't it?" returned Grummidge. "But, now I think of it, Master Burns did read one or two things out o' that writin' that he's so fond of, which he says is the Word of God. If it's true what he says, he may well be fond of it, but I wonder how he has found that out. Anyway, I remember that one o' the things he read out of it was that the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world; an' he explained that Jesus is the Lamb of God, an' that he stands in our place—takes our punishment instead of us, an' fulfils the law instead of us."

The sick man listened attentively, even eagerly, but shook his head.

"How can any man stand in my place, or take my punishments?" he said, in a tone savouring almost of contempt. "As far as I can see, every man will have enough to do to answer for himself."

"That's just what come into my mind too, when I heard Master Burns speak," returned the other; "but he cleared that up by explainin' that Jesus is God as well as man—'God with us,' he said."

"That do seem strange," rejoined the sick man, "and if true," he added thoughtfully, "there's somethin' in it, Grummidge, somethin' in it to give a man comfort."

"Well, mate, I'm of your mind about that, for if God himself be for us, surely nobody can be agin us," said the seaman, unconsciously paraphrasing the word of Scripture itself. "Blow high or blow low, that seems to me an anchor that you an' me's safe to hang on to."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the sudden entrance of Jim Heron with an arrow sticking in the fleshy part of his back.

"Attacked by savages!" he gasped. "Here, Grummidge, lend a hand to haul out this—I can't well reach it. They came on us behind the big store, t'other side o' the settlement, and, after lettin' fly at us took to their heels. The lads are after them. I got separated from the boys, and was shot, as you see, so I came—hah! pull gently, Grummidge—came back here that you might haul it out, for it's hard to run an' fight with an arrow in your back."

"Stay here, Jim," said Grummidge, after hastily extracting the shaft. "You couldn't do much with a wound like that. I'll take your place and follow up the men, and you'll take mine here, as nurse to Swinton. We mustn't leave him alone, you know."

Eager though Jim Heron was at first for the fray, the loss of blood had reduced his ardour and made him willing to fall in with this proposal.

"Good-bye, Grummidge," cried Swinton, as the former, having snatched up his knife and bow, was hastening to the door.

"Good-bye—good-bye, mate," he responded, turning back and grasping the proffered hand. "You'll be all right soon, old chap—and Jim's a better nurse than I am."

"I like what you said about that anchor, mate, I'll not forget it" said Swinton, sinking back on his pillow as Grummidge sallied forth to join in the pursuit of the savages.

The stout seaman's movements were watched by some hundreds of glittering black eyes, the owners of which were concealed amid the brushwood of the adjoining forest.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the settlement, the greater number of the shipwrecked mariners were engaged in hot pursuit of the party of Indians who had attacked them. They were very indignant, several of their mates having been wounded, and a considerable quantity of their stores carried off.

It quickly became apparent, however, that the seamen were no match for savage, at a race through the woods, therefore Grummidge, who soon overtook his comrades, called a halt, and gathered as many of his men as possible around him.

"Now, lads," he said, "it's plain that some of you can't run much further. You ain't used to this sort o' work. Besides, we have left our settlement undefended. Most of you must therefore return, an' a few of the smartest among you will follow me, for we must give these rascals a fright by followin' 'em till we catch 'em—if we can—or by drivin' 'em back to their own place, wherever that may be."

Many of the men were more than willing to agree to this arrangement, while others were quite ready to follow their leader. The party, therefore, that finally continued in pursuit of the Indians was composed of Grummidge, George Blazer, Fred Taylor, Little Stubbs, Garnet Squill, and several others. Armed with bows, arrows, short spears, and clubs, these set off without delay into the forest, trusting to the sun and stars for guidance. The remainder of the men returned to the settlement, where they discovered that they had been the victims of a ruse on the part of the savages. The assault at the further end of the settlement proved to be a mere feint, made by a comparatively small party, for the purpose of drawing the seamen away, and leaving the main part of the settlement undefended, and open to pillage. While the small detachment of Indians, therefore, was doing its part, the main body descended swiftly but quietly on Wagtail Bay, and possessed themselves of all that was valuable there, and carried it off.

Of course, Swinton and Jim Heron were found there. Both had been beheaded, and their bodies stripped and left on the floor. Heron seemed to have offered a stout resistance, until overpowered by numbers and slain. Poor Swinton, who could not have had much more life remaining than enabled him to understand what was occurring, had been stabbed to death where he lay.

Fortunately, it was not possible for the Indians to carry off all the dried fish and other provisions, so that the men were not reduced to absolute starvation.

All ignorant of what was going on at the settlement, the avengers were pushing their way through the woods in pursuit of the smaller body of savages. Nothing could have been more satisfactory to these latter. From every eminence and knoll unseen eyes watched the movements of the white men, who remained under the delusion that they were striking terror into the hearts of a flying foe.

"Sure, we'll have to take a rest soon," said Squill, as they halted on the top of a mound, about sunset to breathe and wipe their heated brows.

"True, a short sleep we must have, but we'll have to take our rest without kindling a fire," said Grummidge.

"Ay, an' go supperless to bed, too," remarked Little Stubbs; "for we've brought nothing to eat with us."

This fact had not struck any of the party till that moment. They had been so eager in pursuit of the foe that all prudential considerations had been thrown to the winds. They now lay down, therefore, to the very brief rest that was absolutely needful, not only without supper, but with the prospect of starting again without breakfast. However, each man felt bound in honour not to damp his fellows by complaining.

"Now, boys," said Grummidge, "you lie down, an' I'll mount guard. Sleep as fast as you can, for I'll route ye out in an hour or so."

But Grummidge did not fulfil his promise. Seating himself with his back to a tree, his bows and arrows ready to hand, and actuated by a firm resolve to watch with intense care, he fell fast asleep, and the whole party snored in concert.

About fifty Indians, who had joined the original attacking party, had waited patiently for this state of affairs. When quite certain that the seamen were all sleeping soundly, they crept silently forward, and pounced upon them. The struggle was sharp, but short. Courage and strength are futile when opposed to overwhelming numbers. A few minutes later, and the white men were led, with hands bound behind them, into the depth of the unknown wilderness.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A NEW FRIEND WITH STARTLING NEWS.

Turn we now to the island in the great lake where Hendrick, the hunter, had set up his romantic home.

The premature touch of winter, which had put so sudden a stop to the work of our explorers, gave way to a burst of warmth and sunshine almost as sudden. It was that brief period of calm repose in which nature indulges in some parts of the world as if to brace herself for the rough work of approaching winter. There was a softness in the air which induced one to court its embrace. Absolute stillness characterised the inanimate world. Clouds floated in the heavenly blue in rotund masses, which seemed, to the careless glance, as unchangeable as the hills, and the glassy water reflected them with perfect fidelity. It also reflected gulls, ducks, plover, and other wildfowl, as they sailed, whirred, or waded about, absorbed in the activities of their domestic economy, or in the hilarious enjoyment of the sweet influences around them. Colours most resplendent dyed the forest trees; gentle sounds from bird and beast told of joyous life everywhere, and the blessed sun threw a golden haze over wood and lake and hill. It was as though Paradise had been restored to man, and our loving Creator had swept away every trace of evil and misery from the beautiful earth.

But although the day is surely coming when, through Jesus Christ, "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," Paradise had certainly not returned to earth at the date we write of. Doubtless, however, something which seemed marvellously like it had reappeared round the hunter's home, for, while all nature was peaceful as well as beautiful, love was the grand motive power which actuated the hearts of those who dwelt there, and that love had been greatly intensified, as well as purified, since the advent of Paul Burns with the manuscript Gospel of John in his bosom, and the Spirit of God in his heart.

Besides being naturally sympathetic, Paul and Hendrick were thus drawn still more strongly together, as they communed with each other— sometimes while walking through the forest engaged in the chase; often beside the camp-fire after supper while others slept; and, not unfrequently, while paddling in their canoe over the sleeping lake.

One evening they were in the latter position—returning from a successful day's hunt in the canoe—when Hendrick became more communicative than usual about the Indian tribe to which his wife belonged, and in regard to which subject he had hitherto been reticent. The sun was setting; the island home was not far distant. The total absence of wind and consequent stillness of the lake rendered it unnecessary to do more than make an occasional dip of the paddles, with which the light craft was propelled—Paul using his in the bow, while Hendrick sat in the stern and steered. No one was with them—indeed the canoe was too small to carry more than two when loaded with the proceeds of the chase.

"I have often thought" said the hunter, dipping his paddle lazily, "that you must wonder why one whose position in the world warranted his looking forward to a bright and prosperous career should inflict on himself voluntary banishment, and wed an Indian woman."

"Hendrick," returned Paul, "I wonder at few things in this life, for I know something of the working of the human mind and heart and have ceased to judge other men's feelings by my own. Besides, I criticise not the actions of my friend. The motives of his acts are known only to himself and his God. The Gospel tells me to 'judge not according to the appearance.' Moreover, the longer I live with you, the more have I learned to know that there are qualities in Trueheart which would do honour to dames of the highest station."

A gleam of satisfaction lightened the hunter's face for a moment as he exclaimed, with unwonted energy, "You do her no more than justice, my friend. I have lived to learn that love, truth, and every virtue are to be found in every station—alike with the high-born and the lowly; also that the lack of these qualities is common to both, and, to say truth, I had rather mate with a gentle savage than with a civilised female tiger!"

"But Trueheart is not a gentle savage," returned Paul, scarcely able to repress a smile at the tone in which his friend uttered his sentiments; "she is a gentle woman."

"Of course, I know that" rejoined Hendrick; "moreover she is a half-caste! I only used the word to designate the class of humanity to which she belongs, and to contrast her with that other class which deems itself at the top of the civilised tree."

"But it seems to me, Master Hendrick, that you are inclined to be too severe on the high-born. There are those among them whose lives conform to the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus."

"Do I not know it?" replied the hunter abruptly. "Have I not told you that my murdered wife was high-born and endowed with every grace?"

"True, but what of this civilised female tiger whom you would scorn to wed. Did not Christ die for her? May she not be saved by the same Power that drags the tiger of the lower ranks—both male and female— from the pit?"

"I doubt it not," answered Hendrick thoughtfully, as he relapsed into his usual quiet manner, "and I am glad you appreciate Trueheart, for she is worthy of your regard. Her name was bestowed on her by her Indian relations. My children I have named after some of my kindred in the old country. The tribe to which my wife belongs are called Bethucks. They are well-disposed and kindly in disposition, and do not quarrel among themselves more than other human beings—indeed not so much as men in our own land; probably because they have not so much to quarrel about and have more elbow-room. They are good kinsmen, as I know; good hunters also, and inclined for peace, but the natives of Labrador render peace impossible, for they make frequent raids on our island, and of course we have to drive them away. If white men now come to Newfoundland, I fear that the poor Bethucks will be exterminated." [The Bethucks are now extinct.]

"I trust not," said Paul.

"So do I," returned Hendrick, "and if the Gospel you have brought here only takes good root in our own land all will be well, for if men acted on the command 'let us love one another,' war and robbery, murder and strife, would be at an end."

"Can we expect all men to act upon that precept?" asked Paul.

"Apparently not; but we might at least expect Christians to do so; those who accept the Gospel as their book of law. I had expected to escape from war and bloodshed when I left civilised lands and settled here, but I have been disappointed. The necessity for fighting still exists!"

"And will exist until the reign of Jesus extends to every human heart," returned Paul. "It seems to me that what we have some right and ground to expect is, not the stoppage of all war, but the abolition of war between nations calling themselves Christian."

It is a curious circumstance that, only a few days after the above conversation, an incident occurred which induced both Paul and Hendrick to buckle on their armour, and sally forth with a clear perception that it was their bounden duty to engage in war!

That incident was the arrival of an Indian hunter who was slightly known to Hendrick's wife.

He came in a canoe just as the family on the Island were about to sit down to supper.

It was dark when his tall figure was seen to stalk out of the surrounding gloom into the circle of firelight. Trueheart recognised him at once, and a word from her sufficed to inform her husband that the stranger was a friend. He was welcomed of course cordially, and made to sit down in the place of honour.

Every attention he accepted with the grave solemnity of an owl, and without any other recognition than a mild grunt, which was by no means meant as a surly return of thanks, but as a quiet mode of intimating that the attention was agreeable to his feelings.

It may, perhaps, be not unknown to the reader that grave reticence is one of the characteristics of the Red men of the west. They are never in a hurry to communicate their news, whether important or otherwise, but usually, on arriving at any hospitable abode, sit down with calm dignity and smoke a pipe, or make slight reference to unimportant matters before coming to the main point of their visit—if it have a main point at all. As it is with the Red men now, so was it with the Bethucks at the time we write of. True, the pernicious practice of smoking tobacco had not yet been introduced among them, so that the social pipe was neither offered, desired, nor missed! but the Indian accepted a birch-bark basket of soup with placid satisfaction, and consumed it with slow felicity. Then, being offered a formidable venison steak, he looked calmly at his host, blinked his thanks—or whatever he felt—and devoured it.

"Has he got nothing to say for himself?" asked Captain Trench, surprised at the man's silence.

"Plenty to say, I doubt not," answered Hendrick, who then explained to the Captain the Indian characteristic just referred to.

"What a power of suction he has got" said Olly, referring not to the Indian, but to the family baby which he had got on his knee, and was feeding with a dangerously large lump of bear's fat.

"What does he say?" asked Paul, referring to their visitor, who, having come to a temporary pause, with a sigh of contentment had said something in his native tongue to Hendrick.

"He asked me if the singing-birds will gladden his ears and cause his heart to thrill."

"What means he by that?"

"He only refers to a fact well known among the Indians," replied the hunter, with a quiet smile, "that Trueheart and Goodred have such sweet voices that they are known everywhere by the name of the singing-birds. Happening to have some knowledge of music, I have trained them to sing in parts one or two hymns taught to me by my mother, and composed, I believe, by a good monk of the olden time. Some things in the hymns puzzled me, I confess, until I had the good fortune to meet with you. I understand them better now. You shall hear one of them."

So saying, he turned and nodded to Trueheart who of course understood the conversation. With a slight inclination of the head denoting acquiescence she began to sing. At the same moment Goodred parted her pretty lips and joined her. The result was to fill the air with harmony so sweet that the captain and his comrade were struck dumb with delight and surprise, the Indian's jaw was arrested with an unchewed morsel in the mouth, and the family baby gazing upward in wonder, ceased the effort to choke itself on bear's fat.

It need scarcely be said that the grunt of the Indian was very emphatic when the sounds died away like fairy-music, and that the hunter's white guests entreated for more. Trueheart and her daughter were quite willing, and, for a considerable time, kept their audience enthralled.

At last, having washed down his meal with a final basketful of soup, the Indian began to unbosom himself of his news—a few words at a time. It was soon found, however, that he had no news of importance to tell. He was a hunter; he had been out with a party of his tribe, but having differed with them as to the best district to be visited, he had left them and continued the hunt alone. Being not far distant from the home of the white hunter who had mated with the Bethuck singing-bird, he had turned aside for no other purpose than to have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled!

"We are happy," said Hendrick, "that our Bethuck brother should have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled, and we trust that the spirit of the wolf within him is subdued, now that his stomach is also filled."

A polite grunt was the reply.

"Will our Bethuck brother tell us more news?"

"There is no more," he answered, "Strongbow is now an empty vessel."

"Considering that Strongbow has just filled himself with venison, he can hardly call himself an empty vessel," responded the hunter, with intense gravity.

Strongbow turned his head quickly and gazed at the speaker. His solemnity deepened. Could his white brother be jesting? The white brother's gravity forbade the idea. In order to convey more strongly the fact that he had no news to give the Indian touched his forehead—"Strongbow is empty here."

"That may well be," remarked Hendrick quietly.

Again the Indian glared. Solemnity is but a feeble word after all! He said nothing, but was evidently puzzled.

"Has our Bethuck brother seen no enemies from the setting sun? Is all quiet and peaceful among his friends?" asked the hunter.

"All is peaceful—all is quiet. But we have news of a war party that left us many days past. They had gone, about the time that the deer begin to move, to punish some white men who were cast on shore by the sea where the sun rises."

"What say you?" cried Hendrick, starting. "Have the Red warriors been successful?"

"They have. Some of the white men have been killed, others caught and taken to our wigwams to be made slaves or to die."

The consternation of Paul and his friends, on this being translated to them, may be imagined. Past injuries were forgotten, and instant preparations were made to set off to the rescue at the earliest dawn of the following day.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE RESCUE PARTY—A RENCONTRE AND BAD NEWS.

Hot haste now marked the proceedings of the rescue party, for Paul and his friends felt that they had no time to lose. Fortunately the weather favoured them. That very night a sharp frost set in, hardening the moist and swampy grounds over which they had to pass. Strongbow, on being made acquainted with the state of matters, willingly agreed to lead the party to the place to which he thought it likely the captives had been taken, or where, at least, information about them might be obtained from members of his own tribe.

Little Oscar, at his own urgent request, was allowed to accompany them, and Trueheart, Goodred, and the family baby and nurse, were left in charge of an old Indian whose life had once been saved by Hendrick, and who, although too old to go on the war-path, was still well able to keep the family in provisions.

Although the party was small—numbering only six, two of whom were boys—it was nevertheless formidable, each man being more than usually powerful, as well as valiant, whilst the boys, although comparatively small, possessed so much of the unconquerable spirit of their sires as to render them quite equal to average men.

The frost, which seemed to have fairly set in, kept them cool during the day while walking, and rendered their bivouac-fires agreeable at nights. Little time, however, was allowed for rest or food. They pressed on each day with unflagging energy, and felt little disposition to waste time in conversation during the brief halts for needed rest and food.

Occasionally, however, some of the party felt less disposed than usual for sleep, and sought to drive away anxiety regarding their old shipmates by talking of things and scenes around them.

"Does Strongbow think that the frost will hold?" asked Hendrick, one evening after supper, as he reclined in front of the fire on a pile of brushwood.

"Strongbow cannot tell," returned the Indian. "It looks like thaw, but the Great Spirit sometimes changes his mind, and sends what we do not expect."

Having uttered this cautious reply with sententious gravity he continued his supper in silence.

"The Great Spirit never changes his mind," said Paul. "Perfection cannot change, because it need not."

"Waugh!" replied the Indian. It was evident that he did not agree with Paul, but was too polite to say so.

"I like this sort o' thing," remarked Captain Trench, looking up from the rib on which he was engaged, and gazing round at the magnificent sweep of hill and dale of which they had a bird's-eye view from their camp.

"So do I, daddy; with lots to eat an' a roarin' fire a fellow feels as happy as a king," said Oliver.

"Happier than most kings, I doubt not," returned Hendrick.

"But, Olly, you have mentioned only two of the things that go to produce felicity," said Paul. "Food and fire are certainly important elements, but these would be of little avail if we had not health, strength, and appetite."

"To say nothin' of the fresh air o' the mountains, and the excitement o' the wilderness, and the enthusiasm of youth," added the captain.

"Are you not as happy as me, daddy?" asked the boy, with a sudden glance of intelligence.

"Happier a great deal, I should say," replied the father, "for I'm not so much of a goose."

"Why then, daddy, if you are happier than we, what you call the enthusiasm of youth can have nothing to do with it, you know!"

"You young rascal, the enthusiasm of middle age is much more powerful than that of youth! You let your tongue wag too freely."

"D'ye hear that, Osky?" said Oliver to his little companion in an audible whisper. "There's comfort for you an' me. We'll be more enthusiastic and far happier when we come to middle age! What d'ye think o' that?"

Oscar—who, although much inclined to fun and humour, did not always understand the curious phases of them presented to him by his civilised friend—looked innocently in his face and said, "Me no tink about it at all!" Whereupon Olly burst into a short laugh, and expressed his belief that, on the whole, that state of mind was about the happiest he could come to.

"How long, think you, will it take us to reach the wigwams of your kindred from this point?" asked Hendrick of their guide, as he prepared to lie down for the night.

"Two days," answered the Indian.

"God grant that we may be in time," murmured Paul, "I fear a thaw, for it would delay us greatly."

That which was feared came upon them the next day. They were yet asleep when those balmy influences, which alone have power to disrupt and destroy the ice-king's reign, began to work, and when the travellers awoke, the surface of the land was moist. It was not soft, however, for time is required to draw frost out of the earth, so that progress was not much impeded. Still, the effect of the thaw depressed their spirits a good deal, for they were well aware that a continuance of it would render the low grounds, into which they had frequently to descend, almost impassable.

It was, therefore, with anxious forebodings that they lay down to rest that night, and Paul's prayer for strength and guidance was more fervent than usual.

About this period of the year changes of temperature are sometimes very abrupt, and their consequences curious. During the night frost had again set in with great intensity. Fatigue had compelled the party to sleep longer than usual, despite their anxiety to press forward, and when they awoke the rays of the rising sun were sweeping over the whole landscape, and revealing, as well as helping to create, a scene of beauty which is seldom, if ever, witnessed elsewhere.

When rain falls with a low thermometer near the earth it becomes frozen the moment it reaches the ground, and thus a regular deposit of pure glassy ice takes place on every branch and twig of the leafless shrubs and trees. The layer of ice goes on increasing, sometimes, till it attains the thickness of half an inch or more. Thus, in a few hours, a magical transformation is brought about. The trees seem to be hung with glittering jewels; the larger limbs are edged with dazzling ice-ropes; the minutest twigs with threads of gleaming crystal, and all this, with the sun shooting on and through it, presents a scene of splendour before which even our most vivid conceptions of fairy-land must sink into comparative insignificance.

Such, then, was the vision presented to the gaze of the rescue party on awaking that morning. To some of them it was a new revelation of the wonderful works of God. To Hendrick and the Indian it was familiar enough. The Newfoundlanders of modern times know it well by the name of a "silver thaw."

After the first gaze of surprise and admiration, our travellers made hasty preparation to resume the journey, and the frost told beneficially on them in more ways than one, for, while it hardened the ground, it rendered the atmosphere clear and exhilarating, thus raising their spirits and their hopes, which tended greatly to increase their power of action and endurance.

That night they encamped again on a commanding height, and prepared supper with the hopeful feelings of men who expect to gain the end of their journey on the morrow.

As if to cheer them still more, the aurora borealis played in the heavens that night with unwonted magnificence. It is said that the northern lights are grander in Newfoundland even than in the Arctic regions. At all events they were finer than anything of the kind that had ever before been seen by Paul Burns or Captain Trench and his son, insomuch that the sight filled them with feelings of awe.

The entire heavens seemed to be ablaze from horizon to zenith, not as with the lurid fires of a great conflagration, which might suggest only the idea of universal devastation, but with the tender sheen of varied half-tints, playfully shooting athwart and intermingling with brighter curtains of light of every conceivable hue.

The repose of the party was somewhat interfered with by the wonders that surrounded them that night, and more than once they were startled from slumber by the loud report of great limbs of trees, which, strong though they seemed to be, were torn off by the load of ice that had accumulated on them.

Daybreak found the party again passing swiftly over the land. It really seemed as if even the boys had received special strength for the occasion, for they neither lagged behind nor murmured, but kept well up during the whole forced march. No doubt that youthful enthusiasm to which Captain Trench had referred kept Olly up to the mark, while Osky— as his friend called him—had been inured to hard labour of every kind from infancy.

At last, about noon that day, their leader came to a sudden halt, and pointed to something on the ground before him.