Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 3, 1897, Page 6

———— ! 4 ARAL > + CHAPTER I. It is a scene of vast sublimity and deep solitude. It is midnight on mid- ocean. Above expands the eternal sky. Below the boundless sea. A single black speck breaks the infinite monot- ony of the luminous dark-blue waters. ‘Yet even as our earth rolls, a popu- fous sphere through the immensity of space. so that speck sails, a peopled Wor!|. over the lonliness of the mid- night sea. It is the emigrant ship Star of the West, and her first, second and third cabins are all crowded with pas gers. Here upon the same deck der the shelter of the same sails, steered by the same hand and for the 6a bourne, are ex- tremes of human chi eter and condi- tion. of wealth and poverty, of youth an of beauty and ugliness, of in- nocence and crime, of virtue and vice, of prosperity and adversity, of health and sickness, of enjoyment and suifer- ing and even of life and death, of yes, aven and hell! And the purposes and objects of the mixed crowd of hu- are as ious and op- eters and condi- tiens. Iut in the crowd of travelers, the deepest interest seems to gather around one y; for all the other emigrants are united in family groups, and this one boy is alone 1 the others are des- tined to certain “ts of country in the West, or to certain employments fn ihe East; but this boy has “all th werld before him where to choose,” the others are all known to each oth- er. but this boy is known to hone. Where he came from, why he is here, and where he is going, are as yet un- irent. yet there is no willing mystery the poor lad—everybody is as welcome to know all about him he knows about himself, which is, in- decd, little enough. It is now midu and the lights are all out and the sengers all re- tired to their berths ll except Gne or two whom excitement keeps up. One of these is the solitary boy of the ste p passa He has walked about in the confined quarters of the lower deck, unable to look far out at sea except 4 gment of the dark and he ary of his portion of : to him is a moving on, and he longs with a boyish longing to get upon the grand upper deck, with noth- ing but the nidnight sea and air him. ‘True, he has seen pla- ll over the ship to these effects: passengel not allowed “Steerage passengers not allowed ¢ k.” “Steerage agers not allowed on the upper And he had wondered wheth- er, in the case of total shipwreck, the stecrage passengers would be allowed to drown in the same sea with their honors, the aristocracy above, or whether they would not be allowed to swim off some miles to leeward, and die of exhaustion at a respectful dis- tance. Three weeks of close confinement in the steerage passengers’ quarters of the lower deck had made the boy des- perate, and this night, notwithstand- ing all placards, he resolved to tres- pass on forbidden ground, and go on deck to see the open sea and sky, and the the fresh air, let the after pen- be what it might. It was very dark, still and lenely. He p: i out challenge up the starl rd siair- ease to the main deck, upon which the saloons of the first and second cabin stood. He passed these and went up! a second flight of st: and reached the upper deck, which extended the whole length of the ship from stem to siern. And oh! the ineffable relief of inhaling the pure, fresh air into hot, dry lungs! It like cold water to the thirsty stomach. The brisk breeze met him and wel- comed him on deck with a sort of con- scious, intentional benevolence. It took bold of him and turned him around, and shook his clothes and fanned his face, and lifted the heavy masses of his black hair, threading their t with light finge: and cooling his wered head, like a mother’s hand, the poor boy thought—an imaginary moth- er’s, for he had never known a real one, though his favorite hidden enthu- siasm was his ideal mother. But this breeze! how strange that it should ever be thought to change its mood, and become the furious and destroy: j 4mg hurricane! how wonderful that an should believe the same spirit to iive in the caressing breeze that brings us mew life, and the raging wind that threatens us with death! So thought the boy as he gave him- gelf up to the subdued delight of being loved by Nature—of being fondled and petted by her hands in the breeze. Aud thus far he was right; it was a mother’s hand that caressed the lone- Jy orphan boy, for Nature is the uni- wersal mother. The boundless ocean was around him, the infinite heavens above him; what if it was all dark? It was not ‘with the blackness of a closed room, ut with the luminous, lovely dark- mess of the open sea and sky. The deck was very lonely. In all its fength and breadth there were but three persons—the man at the wheel, the officer of the watch, and a passen- ger leaning over the bulwarks for- ward, and gazing out into the night | twestward. The boy also walked for- avard, and stood looking toward that vanseer land of promise in which he twas about to seek his fortune. “Well, my lad,” said the gentleman passenger, approaching the new com- er, as if desirous of whiling away a few moments in conversation, “we are approaching our bourne. We are with- 4n three days’ sail of New Yor “I am very glad to hear it. sir. “Oh!” said the gentleman, apparent- ¥y startled by the unknown voice, “you are a stranger.” “Sir, my bame is Welby Dunbar.” “{ think I have not seen you before, Master Dunbar. Have you been sea- ees, ome, mat CONDEMNED his WEALTH. ! monger in Billingsgate. CARDED td 4 sick during the whole passage, and is this your first appearance on deck?” “I have not been sick, sir, though this is the first time I have ventured up on deck. For the truth is, sir, that I am a steerage passenger, and have no right to be here at all; but I was so stifled for want of fresh air, and I thought there would be no one up here to take offense at my presence.” “A steerage passenger!” exclaimed the gentleman, recoiling. “You are very crowded down there! Have you any cases of fever?” “Not a case of sickness of any sort, sir, thanks to the frosty weather.” “You are one of the band of emi- grants sent out by the com tle a tract of country in Nebr aska?” of them. I am quite alone.” “What! a boy of twelve years of age, and you cannot be more, going out to America quite alone! What could your parents or guardians be thinking exclaimed the gentleman, in sur- I ever had either. “Never had parents or Why. where did you spring trom?” “From Westminster, London.” As bad a place as St. Gil for all its magnificent abbey! But had you no friends in Westminster, that | you must come to seck your fortune in America?” inquired the gentleman, becoming rather interested in the for- lorn condition of the poor boy. “None who were either able or will- to prevent me,” replied the lad, who seemed to feel it a great privilege to tell his little story of negations to any sympathizing listener. “IT have never before heard of such a | e! Pray, who brought you up?” ‘Again, nobody, sir. Who brings up the lost puppies and stray kitten As far ba as I can remember anything about myself, I was a_ stray child, sometimes in the arms of one beggar- woman and sometimes in the hands of another. Whoever might get hold of me first in the morning to take me out with her to beg. was my mother for that day.” “I thought begging was not allowed in London?” No more it isn’t. hat is. down- barefaced begging is ; but you x, there are more Vy of kill- ing a dog besides choking him with plum-pudding; and my mé¢thers knew all the dodg One of them had a dodge of holding me out in her arms | and looking piteously in the faces of the ladies; and another used to lead me by the hand, end carry a little bas- ket of wild violets, and pray the ladies to buy bunch for a penny, for the poor child’s sake. . “And how old were you then?” “T don’t know, s been as much as three years old, since I remember it so well.” “You talk uncommonly well for one raised. as you pretend to have been, How is that?” “I went to the ragged school when it s first opened in our neighborhood, when I was five years old. it regularly up to the time of my le ing Ergland—and that was for years.” “My lad, it seems a little queer to me that your long and regular attend: ance at that school, and your very ¢ dent intelligence. had not much apprebation from the teachers and directors as to induce some of them to put you to some business.” “It did, sir; and they made up a lit- ule suin and apprenticed me to a fish- who kept me all night cleaning fish, and all day long crying them through the streets. I did not mind the hard work, heaven knows, but he would not allow me time to read the books old Moses used to lend me from his second-haud book and oh, T tell you what. hun- ‘or books is just as bad as hunger bread. So one day L just run for away. and tramped down to Liverpool and got aboard this ship; and I am working my “Tt was a bi run away from your master.” “Yes. sir; I know it w but 1 did it to seek my own fortune—to seek some employment that would give me food sage over, ’ and clothing, and leave me time to, t¢ read, also.” f your master would not allow you this. you should have complained to } the kind friends that paid your ap- prentice fee and placed you with bin “Ah, sir. if my master had starved iy, and [ had made complaint, I iS do my mind, my complaint would have been dismissed as imperti- nent; for you see it was thought that I had got all my dues of learning at the ragged school.” “But it seems that the little knowl- edge you acquired there only created | in you an appetite for more.” “Just so, sir, and not a ‘morsel was | given me to satisfy my hunger.” “You thought there was nothing for it but to run away, then?” “Yes. sir; some, you see, are tempted by more; be led to commit a sin, it would be to get knowledge.” “The first temptation that ruined mankind! The original sin that brought | death into the world! Take care, my boy: you began by committing a fault, mind that you do not end by perpetrat- ing a crime.” “I shall take care, sir.” “What do you expect to do in New York; you are a friendless boy, cast penniless upon a foreign shore?” “What other poor boys like me have done, sir—work myself up.” “Like you! yes, you have evidently strong will, intelligence and enter- prise, and lads like you have worked themselves up, as you call it—some to fortune and some to the gallows, boy! So be careful!” “I shall, sir. I have heard of Girard, your great banker, who was a poor, ny to set- | No, sir; I am connected with none | but I must have T attended | even Won so | 1 beginning, my boy, to | ve had redress; but as he | and some by one thing, and | some by another. Now, if ever I should | se: orphan lad like myself thrown friend- less upon your shores, and how he worked himself up to fortune, and founded banks and city squares, and, above all. a college for the education of poor boys. If I could get into that college now—” said the lad, with an appealing gaze up into the gentleman’s face, which was, however, quite lost in the darkness. “Your fortune would be made. I have no influence, however, to get you in there, even if you were a candidate, my boy, which you could not become, because. you see, the Girard college was founded for the benefit of Phila- delphia boys only. New York has even- | ing free schools for the benefit of poor boys who have to work all day and | wish to improve themselves in the evening. If you are honest and indus- | trious. and very much in earnest. you will attain your object, I hope—that is, if I clearly comprehend what your ob- ject really is.’’ “It is what I have told your honor— only to earn money in order to get knowledge.” “And knowledge is the road to pow- er. You are ambitious, my lad! We shall hear of you in the world, some day; but whether as a great financier or a great felon, which is often the | same thing, depends upon——” “Myself.” interrapted the boy. Your fate,’ solemnly continued the man; “but, after all, those two, also, may be one—yourself may be your fate! But it is going on towards two | bells. I advise you to follow my ex- ample—go below and turn in. Good- night, my lad.” And without another word, stranger turned and left the deck. And the adventurous boy—if he had foolishly raised any air-castle upon the foundation of the stranger’s curiosity, rather than interest in him, was des- tined to see it sink, for the gentleman went below, and merely saying to himself: “What a very forward boy for his age; but I suppose there are hundreds like him where he came from.” dismissed the subject from his mind forever. The boy, left on deck, paced up and down for hours longer, unwilling to leave the fresh, brisk. vitalizing air. nnd the pure, clear, blue darkness of the open sea and sky. At length, with weary limbs and brain, though still reluctant ‘ he, too, left the deck and went below, to seek his berth in the crowd- ed cabin of the steerage passengers, uround which human beings were packed away like bales of goods on tiers of shelves, or lay extended on mattresses over the floor. ‘rhe bey paused beside one mattress rnpon which a little girl was sleeping beside a coarse woman and a rough man. The man gnd woman were both massive, rugged-looking Hiberni- long past middle life; dark, rthy and forbidding in features, ion and attitude. The child, might have been their grand- daughter, was a pale, thin, fair-haired little creature of perhaps three or four years of age. Her eyelashes were still wet with the tears with which she had wept herself to sleep. “Poor, dear little Daney, how I wish I might have taken you up on deck to get a breath of fresh air, too! I no more believe that you belong to this ‘outh couple than I belonged to my dozen mothers of begging mem- ory aid the boy, as he gazed pity- ingly upon the little sleeper, before climbing up to his own shelf, that was placed quite near the ceiling of the | eabin, and fell leep to dream of ck the Giant-Killer, Whittington, ; Lord Mayor of London, and other fab- nlous and historical heroes who had begun life by running away to seek their fortunes, as he was doing. the j CHAPTER It. Westward ho! The good ship went on her way, and in due course of time and tide anchored in New York har- bor, ‘The custom house officers came on board. but their dreaded visit was but 2 small inconvenience to our boy who, having at the word of command, un- tied the blue cotton handkerchief that contained all his worldly goods—name- ly, a second shirt and a dog-eared Bi- ble—was suffered to land in peace. He looked around for little Daney and her father and mother, but they were hopelessly lost in that bewilder- ing crowd that always attends the ar- rival of one of the ocean steamers. It was dark night, also, which rendered further search quite hopeless. So he stepped upon the pier and | turned at a venture up the first street that ‘offered, for one was as good for him as another. This one was lighted with gas and lined with shops, and crowded with people. It was a busy, exhilarating scene, at least to who were at home in it. To our boy it was depressing in the extreme. For in all that endless stream of ani- mated faces there was not one that smiled upon him, or even knew him. He was a stranger in a strange land! Oh! what would he not have given then, if in that large and crowded city some little home had been waiting to welcome him—some kind old aunty or | grandmother had been making tea or | smoothing a bed for him. But, no—no ; such comfort awaited him. He had seen so many of his fellow passengers welcomed with joyous ar- dor by expectant friends, and hurried away to happy homes; but there was none to look for him, none to take him | by the hand, none to bid him welcome. Oh! desolation of desolations; why | had he not thought of all this before? | Here he was at the goal of his desires; this was the new world; this was New York; but the excitement that had sus- ‘tained him during the voyage failed him row, through a very natural re- ‘action of the animal spirits, and in- stead of feeling happy. confident and elated, he felt lonely, frightened and | despairing. He wished himself back at the ragged school, or with his hard | taskmaster, the fish monger, or with | his old companions of the New Cut; and | then he remembered that three thou- | sand miles of the “salt sea waves” rolled between him and them, and— the hero of twelve years old, who had come to carve out such a magnificent fortune for himself, sat down under a gas lamp and wept from homesickness und solitude. A .policeman—that modern _provi- dence of the streets—came and asked him what was the matter. | “I have just landed from an emi- | grant ship, and I have got no friends and don’t know where to go. I wish I was back in Westminster—boo-hoo- woo!” “Have you got any money?” “Yes. sir—a shilling.” “That’s a fortune to commence busi- ness with in New York! You see that house at the corner there?’ said the policeman, pointing to a tall, old, red, brick building, the ground floor of which seemed to be occupied as a shop. “Yes, sir,” answered the boy, drying his eyes. and feeling a strong impulse to embrace his new acquaintance and swear eternal friendship with him, but the officer had walked off toward the ether extremity of his beat. The boy picked up his light bundle and crossed the street to the house pointed out to him, and when he reached it, found that the lower shop was occupied by a fish and oyster vender. And so quick- ly does the mood of childhood change. he laughed aloud at the thought that passed throught his mind as he en- tered. “I ran away from a fish monger in London and eailed three thousand miles, to fetch up at last with a fish monger in New York!” “What do you want, boy?’ inquired a short, stout, black-haired man, in a white apron, who stood behind a barrel | of oysters, engaged in opening a speci- men one for a customer. “Can I lodge here?” The man jerked his oyster knife over his right shoulder, thereby indi- cating a flight of steps ascending from tLe back of the shop to the unknown regions above. The boy followed the index, and found himself in a large upper room, furnished with benches around the walls, and half-filled with those street-ministers of the head and feet. the newsboys and _ bootblacks. They were a free, merry, noisy set— some engaged in drinking coffee, which was dispensed from behind a larg2 table in the corner by a fat motherly-loking wo nan—and some in reading the papers—and some in dis- cussing tice politics, literature and dra- ma of the day. Our boy went up to the counter and got a cup of coffee, a sausage and a roll, for which he paid sixpence, and then again put the inquiry whether he could have a lod saz. Th? woman. who might have been the twin sister of the man below, and Who was engaged in cutting bread, twitched her knife over her shoulder, idicating a sceond flight of stairs, leading from the back of the room higher. Oar boy followed this index, also, landed in an upper chamber, of a size and appearance corresponding with the room below, but laving the broad benches that ran around the walls coy- ered with mattresses and blankets. In the corner of the room there was an iron stove containing a good tire. An old cran, the sole occupant of the place, sat dozing in an arm-chair near it. Upon paying another sixpence to | this functionary, our adventurer was told that he might take his choice of the luxurious couches spread belore him, which he accordingly did. And, although his last penny was spent, and he had but this one night between himself and possible starva- tion. from cold, hunger and exposure on the morrow—though he was now lit- erally a homeless, friendless and penni- less stranger in a strange land, he felt so comforted by the transient blessings of food, warmth and shelter that he lay down and slept the sound sleep of careless childhood, unmindful of the future. He was not even awakened by the coming in of his vagrant fel- low-lodgers. Morning dawned before he opened his eyes and remembered where he was, or that he had not even a penny to pay for the breakfast that his vig- orous young appetite already craved. His companions of the preceding night had already risen, breakfasted and de- parted. He, too, arose, washed his face at the water spout, and dried it with the roller towel that served all the inmates of the chamber. Then he went to the room below, where he found the fat woman still dispensing coffee, muffins and chops, as if she had never gone to bed at all. The smell of all this was very appetiz- ing. Our boy was excessively hungry. And what boy ever hesitated between a garment and a meal? A girl might do so; a boy, never! Marching up to the counter, he boldly offered the woman his bundle in pledge of future payment for his breakfast. She was too habituatea to treat with customers “hard up for the ready” to express the least surprise at this pro- posal. Coolly receiving the offered se- curity, she helped the boy to a cup of coffee, a muffin and a mutton chop. At another time she might not have cered to converse with a customer. But now she was especially idle, and there was, beside, something about this fine, tall, black-eyed and black-haired youth that was rather attractive. So while the hungry lad stood there dis- cussing his breakfast, she entered into conversation with him, and in the course of a few minutes had learned almost as much of his history as is known to the reader. “Oh, then, if you were ’prenticed to a London fishmonger. and understand erying fish or oysters and that, you needn't go any further to look for a place. My brother down stairs wants several more boys to take out fish early in the morning. and oysters in the evening.”” said the woman, when he had finished his :ccount of himself. The boy looked up at her. It was very provoking to have run away from a fishmonger in London, only to fell into the hands of another fishmon- ger in New York. But hunger and cold in midwinter are horrible tyrants, who will not permit their demands to be put off for a day. And so. with a smile of ludicrousness of the whole affair, and a wise reflection to the effect that no man (or boy) can escape his fate, our hero yielded to his des- tiny. And that day found him crying “Fine, fresh oysters!’ through the streets of the city. He rather liked his new master and mistress, and he decidedly took to the old man, their father, who had charge of the boys’ sleeping room. And he liked the newsboys who congregated there every night, with their intelli- gence, merriment and gossip; their in- dependence, self-esteem and confident criticisms of art, literature and poli- tics, and all the grand topics of the day. : ‘ And, all things considered, our hero might have been contented, only—to cry fish and oysters through the strects of the city had certainly rot been his object in coming to the new world. Since leaving the ship he had never once chanced to meet one of his fel- low passengers. They seemed all to have been scattered to the four winds of heaven for all that he ever saw or heard of them again. But in his se- cret heart he grieved for little Daney, his baby shipmate and only friend on the passage. And as he walked through the streets crying his oysters, he peered at every little child that bore the slightest resemblance to her, in the faint hope of finding her. One day he had been crying oysters all day long, and late in the afternoon turned into his own street to go home. when, at the low door of a tenement house on the same side of the way, he saw little Daney sitting on the step. With a quick, breathless, gasping ery of joy peculiar to herself, she sprang forward and toddled toward | him. Dropping his empty bucket, and | throwing up his hands, he ran forward | to meet her, caught her up in his arms anr covered her with kisses. There was something deeply affecting in the i poor, forlorn boy’s love for that little child. But the human heart must cling to something. He clung to the baby. He learned from her broken talk that | her father and mother lived in that | heuse. A little later he discovered that they went out only by night. lurking | iB the upper rooms of the house all! ay. | The fish boy was almost happy now, he had somet! to care for. He spent his leisure time and spare mon- ey, that should have been bestowed | upon books, according to the original | programme, all on Daney. He played | with her, romped with her, walked | with her. and fed her with oysters, clams, and all the best dainties of his | master’s shop. And there is no doubt in the world, that, if this had contin- | ued, all his ambitious prospects for the | acquisition of knowledge must have fallen through. And, as Mare Antony lost the world for a woman, Welby Dunbar must have lost it for a child. It is quite certain that the whole des- tiny of this boy was changed by the sudden disappearance of Daney. Poor Welby went to seek her one evening, | when he had done his work, and told by the other lodgers in the hou: ihat Drury and his wife, with little | had gone—no one could tell This was a great blow to the boy. All he loved in the world had vanished. | For a moment he reeled under the shock; but soon rallied with the thought of finding her again speedily. | And from that day, there more industrious oyster-ca himself; and why? because the more streets he traversed, the greater hope of finding Daney. But s and weeks passed, and still his little blossom was missing. One day, near evening, he was cry- | ing oysters in a street near Broadway, | when sudden! “There he is now!” exclaimed a re- spectable, middle-aged, clerical-looking gentleman, who was walking down the street with two elderly, professor-like men. “Oh! the young rascal, to have no more regard for his mother's feel- ings,”’ said the second man. “Thank heaven we have found him at last, however,” answered the thir “Here's you fine, fresh oysters!’ bawled the boy, without the remotest idea that the conversation of these fatherly old gentlemen referred to him “Stop that nonsense, sir! Are not ashamed of you If, pra: the clergyman, sternly, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. “T am only crying oysters, sir! I am doing no harm, sir!’ answered Welby, in surprise. “No harm, Mrster Greville! do you call it no harm to disgrace your friends in this shameless manner?” said the first professor, severe! | “What could have s h an extraordinary step?’ demand- ed the second professor. “You have nearly broken the heart of your motker!” said the clergyman. “Your friends have all been in the utmost distress about you!’ added the | first professor. | “Such conduct deserves the severest | chastisement,” said the second profess: or. or, aS we shall hereafter call him, for distinction sake, the schoolmaster. “But I was only crying oysters!” pleaded the bewildered boy. | “Only crying oysters, you irreclaim- able scamp! And is crying oysters @ | proper business for a young gentleman of your position? Shame on yon, sir!” The boy looked from one to the oth- | er in the utmost perple + They did | not look like lunatics, nor like men who were playing a joke—those three | stern old gentlemen. ‘The eldest was a. short, stout bald-headed man in a cler- | ical suit of jet-black. The other two, were tall, thin, gray-haired men, with | the unmistakable air of pedagogues. ' There was no doubt that the eldest | was a clergyman, and the others pro- | fessors in some school or college for young gentlemen. “Pray, why did you disgrace youself, your friends and our establishment, by | running away from us, Master Gre- | ville?’ severely demanded the clergy- | man. “T never ran eway from you, and | never saw either of you before in my | life; and my name is not Master Gre- ville. nor Master Anybody else! And I | think you are all crazy together, old gents, begging your pardon!” exclaimed ; the provoked boy. | “Oh, the shameless young reprobate! | he pretends not to know us! Do you think, sir, that your ragamuffin dis- | guise can hide you from us!” “I tell you what, my jolly govern- | cs, you have all been drinking,’ said the boy; and, picking up his bucket, he | walked on, singing: { “Here-ere’s your fine, fresh oysters!” | But he was overtaken and stopped in | a moment, and this time by a police- man, whom the clergyman had called, and to whom he said: “This is Master Fulke Greville, who ran away from my establishment last month. Call a carriage; we wish to take him immediately to the house of his step-mother, Mrs. Courtney Greville of Madison avenue.” | The policeman started on his errand. | Our hero struggled valiantly in the hands of his captors. The three old | gentlemen had enough to do to hold | him until the carriage came up. Meanwhile, a gaping crowd had gath- ered. f “Come, Master Greville, your frolic is quite over; you have had enough of | it, one would think! Get in and come home to your mamma,” said the cler- gyman, who, with his two companions, empted you to’ | Collegiate School for | dollar,” | ans | worse! 4 sisted, saying: “I won't. I tell you! Leave me this minute! This a free country! I wish I was back in old England— “Master Greville—" “T’'m no Master Greville, I keep tell- ing you, nor Master Anybody else! “If you have no respect for yourself, think of your mother!” “I’ve no mother, I tel) Sit ay me » I ! I'll take the law of yo aris" cried the lad, violently resist- ing all endeavors to force him into the carriage. Here the gathering crow@ closed around the group. One voice, that ofa newsboy, arose, exclaiming: “Oh, I say, fellows! Heres a young gent on a lark, been and broke school, and been a play acting at carrying out of oysters for Old Carnes at Water- side. I seen him there! Hooray for him!” “Hooray for him! Go it governor! go it, oysterman!” echoed the crowd of boys, as the old clergyman and the lad struggled together—the one to gain his freedom, the other to force his captive into the carriage. Other policemen gathered to the scene of combat, for such it now really became. “Officers, my name is Dornton: I am the principal of the Bancroft Collegiate School for young gentlemen. This boy is one of my pupils, Master Fulke Gre- step-son of Mrs. Greville of Madison Square, of Whom you have all I He ran away from hool a few weeks ago, and has been since that time apparent as oys- ter carrier. I ¢ tance to restore him to h a clergyman, desisting in his control the athletic lad. “Come, young gentleman, you had better go quietly with your friends. What na young gent like you see in the oyster line of business, to f ce all else and follow it?’ said a j¢ policeman, taking hold of the boy arm and urging him toward the car- riage door. “Leave me be, I sa mad together, I believ: IT am no Mas- ter Greville! I've no mamma! I nev- er saw the Rey. Mr. Dornion in my life before! I never even heard of the oung gentlemen, nor Madison Square, either! I me be, or I'll black some of your ey cried the boy, fighting like a hero. “Go it, governor! Go it, youngster!” cried the amazed crowd. “TIL back the governor for half a said one. “And I the boy for the same sum,” »wered another. A ring was quickly formed around the group. But in the midst of it all the boy was overmastered and forced into the car riage, followed by the three elderly gentlemen. The policemen opened the crowd, and the order was given for the carriage to be driven to No. ——, Mad- v3 efforts to ! You are all | dson Square. “How could you have given us so much trouble, Master Greville?” in- quired the old clergyman, as soon as the door was fastened securely and the | wheels were in motion. But the boy did not answer. He sunk back in his seat, stuck out his upper lip, kicked his heels boards, and remained in sullen, fended silence. “IT ask you, sir, why is it that you have given us so much trouble?” again inquired his mentor. “What's the use of my answering of you anything? What’s the use of my talking to lunatics? for you are all Iuny together! And your petlice ain't worth a ha’penny! to let a harmless lad be tuk up and hauled off in this way, and all for nothink,”’ sulkily an- swered the boy. “You will see who is mad and who is sane presently, sir; nor can you hope to deceive us by your assumption of vulgar slang,” said Mr. Dornton. “Well, if you are not mad you are If you've tuk me up, Knowing of what you're a-doing of. so much the worse for you! It’s a ease of kidnap- ping, so it is! And you mean to blac my face, and crimp my hair a negro slave of me. perhaps, beca I am a poor, friendless lad. with no one to Iook after me! But I'm a free- born British subject, for all that! and I'll lay my case before the British con- sul. so I will! Mind! I've warned yout” ‘Lord bless my soul, how he keeps it up! A good actor has been lost to the world by this boy's being born to a for- tune. One would really think he he une! One would really think he be- lieved what he said!” observed the pro- fessor. “Oh, yes! he has genius! He was noted at school for being the best actor in the Thespian corps,” remarked the schoolmaster. “And the most highiy gifted boys are too often, alas! the most hopelessly reprobate!” commented the clergyman, with a sigh. The subject of this conversation looked from one to the other of the speakers in utter bewilderment. think- ing to himself: “My eye! if these old gents don’t talk as if they meant it! Well! either they are mad, or I be dreaming of the queerest dream I ever was!" but instead of speaking out these words he relapsed into sullen si- lence, until the carriage drew up be- fore one of the lofty mansions of Mad- ison Square. of- To Be Continued. An Interesting Conversation. Sir A. Sullivan went to see Rubem stein at his hotel in London. The Rus- sian composer asked him to step out on the balcony and smoke a cigarette. They sat down, twisted their cigar ettes and puffed the blue clouds into the air. After a long pause, Sir A. Sullivan observed: “You are a great admirer of Beeth- oven, I presume?” “Yes,” said Rubenstein. “And Wagner?” “No,” was the reply. Not another word was spoken. ‘Phey rocked themselves in their chairs and smoked away. After a very long time Sullivan said: “I think it’s time for me to be go- in; “Don't say so,” “Stay a bit longer. talk to you.” Sullivan stayed, and went on rock- ing himself into the small hours of the morning. when he got up and said: “I must go off now; I think we have chatted long enough.” Rubinstein drew out his wateh. “Half-past twe,” he said. “Strange how quick time flies in pleasant com- said Rubinstein. It is so nice to endeavored to force the fish boy Into | pany.”"—Answers. inst the .