Cover
WITH IT FELL CONAL! Page 162
Courage, True Hearts
Sailing in Search of Fortune
BY
GORDON STABLES
Author of "The Naval Cadet" "For Life and Liberty"
"To Greenland and the Pole" &c.
"I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through many a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The love of life's young day."
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
The Peak Library
Books in this Series
Overdue. Harry Collingwood.
The Dampier Boys. E. M. Green.
The King's Knight. G. I. Whitham.
Their London Cousins. Lady Middleton.
The White Witch of Rosel. E. E. Cowper.
Freda's Great Adventure. Alice Massie.
Courage, True Hearts! Gordon Stables.
Stephen goes to Sea. A. O. Cooke.
Under the Chilian Flag. Harry Collingwood.
The Islanders. Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Margery finds Herself. Doris A. Pocock.
Cousins in Camp. Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Far the sake of his Chum. Walter C. Rhoades.
An Ocean Outlaw. Hugh St. Leger.
Boys of the Priory School. F. Coombe.
Jane in Command. E. E. Cowper.
Adventures of Two. May Wynne.
The Secret of the Old House. E. Everett Green.
Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS.
CHAP.
- [Hope told a Flattering Tale]
- [Hurrah for "Merrie England"!]
- [The Boys' Life in London]
- [Wild Sports on Moorland and Ice]
- [A Highland Blizzard--The Lost Sheep and Shepherd]
- ["The breath of God was over all the land"]
- [The Parting comes at last]
BOOK II.
THE CRUISE OF THE FLORA M'VAYNE.
- [The Terrors of the Ocean]
- [A Fearful Experience]
- [Bound for Southern Seas of Ice]
- [On the Wings of the Wind]
- [Johnnie Shingles and Old Mr. Pen]
- ["Back water all! For life, boys, for life!"]
- ["Here's to the loved ones at home"]
- [Captain Talbot spins a Yarn]
- [Tongues of Lurid Fire--Blue, Green, and Deepest Crimson]
- [So poor Conal must Perish!]
- [Thus Hand in Hand the Brothers Sleep]
- [Winter Life in an Antarctic Pack]
- [A Chaos of Rolling and Dashing Ice]
- ["Heave, and she goes! Hurrah!"]
- [The Isles of Desolation]
BOOK III.
IN THE LAND OF THE NUGGET AND DIAMOND.
- [Shipwreck on a Lonely Isle]
- [A Weary Time]
- [Children of the Sky]
- [Treasure-hunters. The Forest]
- [Fighting the Gorillas]
- [An Invading Army--Victory!]
- [The Mysterious Stone]
- [The Battle at the Ford]
- [The very Identical Bird]
- [The Welcome Home]
BOOK I
IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS
CHAPTER I--HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE
Had you been in the beautiful and wild forest of Glenvoie on that bright and blue-skied September morning--on one of its hills, let us say--and heard the music of those two boys' voices swelling up towards you, nothing that I know of could have prevented you from joining in. So joyous, so full of hope were they withal, that the very tune itself, to say nothing of the words, would have sent sorrow right straight away from your heart, if there had been any to send.
"Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way;
Hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the dangers of to-day."
There was a pause just here, and from your elevated situation on that rocky pap, looking down, you would have rested your eyes on one of the prettiest rolling woodland scenes in all broad Scotland.
It was a great waving ocean of foliage, and the sunset of autumn was over it all, lying here and there in patches of crimson, brown, and yellow, which the solemn black of pine-trees, and the funereal green of dark spruces only served to intensify.
Flap-flap-flap! huge wood-pigeons arise in the air and go sailing over the woods. They are frightened, as well they may be, for a moment afterwards two guns ring out almost simultaneously, and so still is the air that you can hear the dull thud of fallen game.
"Hurrah, Conal! Why, that was a splendid shot! I saw you take aim."
"No, Duncan, no; the bird is yours. You fired first."
"Only at random, brother. But come, let us look at him. What a splendid creature! Do you know, Conal, I could almost cry for having killed him."
"Oh! so could I, Duncan, for that matter, but the capercailzie[1] is game, mind, and won't father be pleased. Why do they call it a wild turkey?"
[1] The letter "z" not pronounced in Scotch.
"Because it isn't a turkey. That is quite sufficient reason for a gamekeeper. The capercailzie is the biggest grouse there is, you know, and sometimes weighs very many pounds."
"And didn't we find the nest of one in a spruce tree last spring."
"Ay, and six eggs that we didn't touch; and I've never put any faith again in that ignoramus of a book, that would have us believe the birds always build on the bare ground."
"Written by an Englishman, no doubt, Duncan, who had never placed a foot on our native heath. But now let us get back to breakfast. I wonder where our little sister Flora is."
"I heard her gun about ten minutes ago; she can't be far off. Besides Viking is with her, so she is safe enough. Give the curlew's scream and she'll soon appear."
"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."
Duncan threw down his gun beside the dead game, and, placing his fingers in his mouth, gave a perfect imitation of this strange bird's cry:
"Who-o-o-eet, who-o-o-eet (these in long-drawn notes, then quicker and quicker), who-eet, who-eet, wheet, wheet, wheet, wheet, who-ee!"
The boys did not have long to wait for an answer. For Duncan, the elder, who was about sixteen, with a stalwart well-knit frame, and even a budding moustachelet, had hardly finished, when far down in a dark spruce thicket sounded the barking of a dog, which could only belong to one of a very large breed.
He entered the glade in which the brothers stood not many seconds after. He entered with a joyous bound and bark, his great shaggy coat, black as the raven's wing, afloat on his shoulders and back; his white teeth flashing; and a yard or two, more or less, of a red ribbon of a tongue hanging out of his mouth.
Need I say he was a noble Newfoundland.
He stopped short and looked at the 'cailzie, then snuffed at it, and immediately after licked his master's cheek. To do so he had to put a paw on each of Duncan's shoulders, and his weight nearly bore him to the ground.
But see, here comes little Flora herself--she is only twelve; her brothers are both dressed in the kilt of hill tartan, and Flora's frock is but a short one, showing to advantage a pair of batten legs encased in galligaskins; fair hair, streaming like a shower of gold over her shoulders; blue eyes, and a lively very pretty face. But across that independent wee nose of hers is quite a bridge of freckles, which extends half-way across her cheeks.
Now a child of her tender years would, in many parts of England, be treated quite as a child. It was quite the reverse at Glenvoie. Flora was in reality a little model of wisdom, and many a bit of good advice she gave her brothers--not that they bothered taking it, though both loved her dearly.
Flora carried a little gun--a present from her father, who was very proud of her exploits and worldly wisdom, and across her shoulders was slung a bag, which appeared to be well filled.
"Hillo, Siss!" cried Duncan. "Any cheer?"
"Oh, yes, three wild pigeons! But what a lovely great wild turkey! I'm sure, Duncan, it was a pity to kill him!"
"Sport, Sissie, sport!" said Duncan.
Yet as he looked at the splendidly plumaged bird which his gun had laid low in death, he smothered a sigh. He half repented now having killed the 'cailzie.
Homeward next, for all were hungry, and in the old-fashioned hall of the house of Glenvoie breakfast would be waiting for them. Through the forest dark and deep, across a wide and clear brown stream by stepping-stones, a stream that in England would be called a river, then on to a broad heathy moorland, with here and there a cottage and little croft.
Poor enough these were in all conscience, but they afforded meal and milk to the owners and their children. Chubby-cheeked hardy little chaps these were. They ran to gate or doorway to greet our young heroes with cheers shrill and many, and Flora smiled her sweetest on them. Neither stockings nor shoes nor caps had they, winter or summer, and when they grew up many of them would join the army, and be first in every bayonet charge where tartans would wave and bonnets nod.
Laird M'Vayne himself came to the porch to meet his children. These were all he had, and their mother was an invalid.
An excellent specimen of the Highland laird was this Chief M'Vayne. As sturdy and strong in limb as a Hercules, broad in shoulder, and though sixty years and over, as straight as an arrow. His was a fearless face, but handsome withal, and he never looked better than when he smiled. Smiling was natural to him, and came straight from the heart, lighting up his whole face as morning sunshine lights the sea.
"Better late than never, boys. What ho! a capercailzie!"
Then he placed his hand so kindly on Duncan's shoulder.
"It was a good shot, I can see," he said, "and now we won't kill any more of these splendid birds. I want the woods to swarm with them."
"No, father," said Duncan, "this is the last, and I shall send to Glasgow for eyes, and stuff and set him up myself."
Then the Laird hoisted Flora, gun, game-bag and all, right on top of his broad left shoulder and carried her inside, while Viking, enjoying the fun, made house and "hallan" ring with his gladsome barking.
Ever see or partake of a real Highland breakfast, reader? A pleasure you have before you, I trust. And had you been at Glenvoie House on this particular morning, the very sight of that meal would have given you an appetite, while partaking of it would have made you feel a man.
That was real porridge to begin with, a little lake of butter in the centre of each plate and creamy milk to flank it. Different indeed from the clammy, saltless saucers of poultice Englishmen shiver over of a morning at hotels, making themselves believe they are partaking of Scotia's own own dish.
All did justice to the porridge, and Viking had a double allowance. There was beautiful mountain trout to follow, cold game, and fresh herrings with potatoes. Marmalade and honey with real oat-cakes finished the banquet.
About this time, gazing across the lawn from the great window, Duncan could see the runner bringing the post-bag. Runner he might well be called. He had come twenty miles that morning with the mails, trotting all the way.
Duncan threw open the window, and with a smile and order for postie to go round to the kitchen for a "piece" and a "drink", he received the bag.
The arrival of the runner was always one of the chief events of the day, for the Laird "let" his shootings every season, and had friends in every part of the kingdom.
So had the boys.
"Ah!" said their father, opening a letter which he had reserved to the last. "Here is one from our distant relative, Colonel Trelawney."
"Oh! do read it out," cried Flora impulsively.
Her father obeyed, as all dutiful fathers do when they receive a command from juvenile daughters.
"Maida Vale, London.
"My dear 42nd cousin,--I think that is about our relationship. Well, I was never good at counting kin, so we must let it stand at that. Heigho! That is my 42nd sigh since breakfast time, and it isn't the luncheon hour yet. But I couldn't quite tell you what I am sighing for; I think it must be for the Highland moors around you, on which I enjoyed so glorious a time in August. Heigho! (43rd). Your hills must still be clad in the crimson and purple glory of heath and heather whence scattered coveys or whirring wings spring skywards (Poetry!).
"Well now, I've got something to propose. Since his poor mother died, my boy Frank--fifteen next birthday, you know--has not seemed to thrive well. He is a capital scholar, and is of a very inventive turn of mind. He delights in the country, and when he and I bike away down into the greenery of fields and woods he always looks better and happier. But at home he has nothing to look at that is natural--a few misshapen trees only, a shaven lawn, evergreens, and twittering sparrows.
"He is lively enough, and plays the fiddle charmingly. He is only a London lad after all, and his pale face bears witness to the fact.
"Well, cousin, fair exchange is no robbery. Send me your two boys up here to spend the winter, and then I'll send the whole three down to you to put in the spring and summer. Expected results? Is that what you ask, cousin mine? Well, they are these. A little insight into London life will assist in toning down the fiery Highland exuberance of your brave lads, and will help to make them young men of the world. While a spell among your Highland hills shall put more life-blood into my boy, and make him stronger, braver, and heartier."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duncan. "He is going to civilize us, is he, daddy dear? We'll have to wear frock-coats, long hats and long faces, and carry umbrellas. What do you think of that, Conal?"
"Why," said Conal disdainfully, "umbrellas are only for old wives and Sassenachs. The plaid for me."
"And me!"
"Well, but listen," said the Laird laughing.
"Your boys," says the colonel, "must come to us dressed in their hill-tartan kilts, and have dress tartans to wear at evening parties. The English are fond of chaffing the Scot, but, mind you, they love him all the same, and can quite appreciate all the deeds of derring-do he accomplishes on the field of battle, as well as his long-business-headedness on the Stock Exchange. Heigho! (sigh the 44th), had I been a Scot I'd have been a richer man to-day instead of having to maintain a constant fight to keep the wolf from the door. But you, dear cousin, must be fairly wealthy."
It was Laird M'Vayne's turn to sigh now, for alas! he was far indeed from rich, and, young as they were, both his boys knew it. And between you and me and the binnacle, reader, the lads used to pray every night, that Heaven might enable them when they came to man's estate, or even before, to do something for the parents who had been so good to them.
"Well," the letter ran on, "I sha'n't say any more, only you will let the laddies (that is Scotch, isn't it?) come, won't you, cousin? and if we can only find out the time of the boat's arrival, Frank and I shall be at the dock waiting for them."
"Hurrah!" cried Duncan,
"Hurrah!" cried Conal.
"And you won't be sorry to leave me and the old home, will you?" said M'Vayne.
"Oh, indeed, indeed we will, daddy," cried Duncan, "and we'll think about you all and pray for you too, every day and night. Won't we, Conal?"
"Of course we will."
Then the younger lad went and threw his arms round his father's neck, leaned his cheek against his breast, in truly Celtic fashion, and there were tears in his eyes.
"Besides," said Duncan, "the change will do us such a heap of good, and by all we read London must be the grandest place in the whole wide world."
"Streets paved with gold, eh? Houses tiled with sheets of solid silver that glitter daily in the noonday sun. No poverty, no vice, no crime in London. Is that your notion of London, my son?"
"Well," replied Duncan laughing, "it may not be quite so bright as all that, daddy, but I am sure of one thing."
"Yes?"
"If the streets are not paved with gold, nor the houses tiled with silver, there is money to be made in the city by any honest business Scot who cares to work and wants to win."
"Bravo, Duncan!
"In the lexicon of youth which fate reserves
For a bright manhood, there is no such word as Fail."
————
For the next two or three weeks, although the boys with their plucky little sister went every day either to the hill or woods to shoot, or to the burn to fish, there was very little talked about except the coming excursion to the great city of London.
Mrs. M'Vayne was at present confined to her room, and, being nervous, the thought of losing her boys even for a short four or five months made her heart feel sad indeed, and it took them all their time to reassure her.
"No, no, lads," she would cry almost petulantly; "I cannot be happy until I see you in the glen once more, safe and sound!"
Two weeks passed--oh, ever so quickly--away, and the last week was to be devoted wholly and solely to the packing of trunks, a very pleasurable and hopeful employment indeed.
Duncan was facile princeps at this work, and he kept a note-book always near, so that whenever he thought about anything he might need, he wrote it down--just as if it had not been possible to get every article he might require in great London, from a needle to an anchor.
Only, as he told his brother Conal, "It is far better to be sure than sorry."
Well, the last day--the last sad day--came round at last and farewells had to be said on both sides.
Mrs. M'Vayne kept up as well as she could, and so did the boys. Noblesse oblige, you know, for although their father was but a Highland laird, and poor at that, he was connected by blood with the chiefs of the best clans in Scotland.
Poor honest Viking had watched the packing with the very greatest of interest, and so sad did he appear that Duncan and Conal made up their minds to take him with them. And when they told him so, there really was not a much happier dog in all the British islands. For Viking was wise beyond compare, and there was very little, indeed, that he did not understand.
But Florie's grief at the loss of her brothers was beyond control, and she made no attempt to hide her tears.
Yes, the laird himself journeyed with his boys as far as Leith, and saw them safe on board.
When the good ship steamed away at last, he waved them a silent adieu, then turned and walked quickly away.
CHAPTER II.--HURRAH FOR "MERRIE ENGLAND"!
Neither Duncan nor Conal was a bad sailor, for, their father's estate being near the western sea, many a long summer's day they spent in open boats, and they sometimes went out with the herring-fishers and were heard of no more for clays.
But this was to be a voyage of more than ordinary rigours, for, as bad luck would have it, a gale of wind arose, with tremendous seas, soon after they passed Berwick.
The waves made a clean breach over the unfortunate ship, and at midnight, when the storm was at its worst, the boys were suddenly awakened by the strange rolling motion of the steamer, and they knew at once that some terrible accident had happened.
The engines had stopped, for the shaft was broken; and high over the roaring of the terrible wind they could hear the captain shouting:
"All hands on deck!"
"Hands make sail!"
It was but little sail she could carry, indeed, and that only fore-and-afters, jib and stay-sails.
The boys had a cabin all to themselves, and the companionship of honest Viking, the Newfoundland. The poor dog did not know what to make of his situation. If he thought at all, and no doubt dogs do think, he must have wondered why his masters should have forsaken their beautiful home, their wanderings over the hills still clad in crimson heather, or through the forests deep and dark, for a life like this; but to the lower animals the ways of mankind are inscrutable, just as those of a higher power are to us. We are gods to the pets we cherish, and they are content to believe in and trust us, never doubting that all is for the best. Alas! we ourselves hardly put the same trust in the good God who made us, and cares for us, as our innocent dogs do in those who own them.
"Well, Conal," said Duncan, "this is, indeed, a wild night. I wonder if we are going to Davie Jones's locker, as sailors call it?"
"I don't think so. The captain is a long-headed fellow. I guess he knows what he is up to."
"I shall light the candles anyhow. I don't like to lie awake in the dark. Do you?"
"Not much. If I was to be drowned I think I would like it to come off in good daylight."
After a scramble, during which he was pitched three times on the deck, once right on top of the dog, Duncan succeeded in lighting the candles.
These were hung in gimbals, so that the motion of the ship did not affect them.
It was more cheerful now; so, having little desire to go to sleep, knowing that the ship must really be in danger, they lay and talked to each other. Talked of home, of course, but more about the great and wondrous city of London, which, if God spared the ship, they soon should see.
Presently a bigger wave than any that had come before it struck the ship, and seemed to heel her over right on her beam-ends, so that Duncan almost tumbled out of his berth.
A deep silence followed, broken only by the rush of water into the boys' cabin.
Viking sprang right into Conal's berth, and crouched, shaking and quivering in terror, at his feet.
There was half a foot of water on the cabin deck.
The worst seemed to be over, however, for presently sail was got on her, and though the wind continued to rave and howl through the rigging, she was on a more even keel and much steadier.
Presently the captain himself had a peep into the lads' state-room.
He had a bronzed but cheerful face, and was clad in oil-skins from his sou'-wester hat to his boots.
"Not afraid, are you, boys? No? Well, that's right. We have broken down, and it will be many days before we get into London; but we'll manage all right, and I think the wind is just a little easier already."
"So we won't go to Davie Jones's to-night, will we, captain?"
"Not if I know it, lad. Now, my advice is this: go to sleep, and--er--well, there can be no harm if you say your prayers before you do drop off."
The boys took his advice, and were soon fast in the arms of Morpheus. So, too, was honest Viking. He was one of those dogs who know when they are well off, so he preferred remaining in Conal's bunk to descending to the wet deck again. To show his sympathy, he gave the boy one of his huge paws to hold, and so hand-in-hand they fell asleep.
The wind was still blowing when they sat down to breakfast with the captain and first mate, for there was not another passenger on board save themselves. The old saying, "The more the merrier", does not apply to coasting steamers in early winter. The fewer the easier--that is more truthful.
The gale was a gale no longer, but a steady breeze. The ship was given a good offing, for the wind blew from the north-east, and to be too close to a lee shore is at all times dangerous.
But how very snug and cosy the saloon looked, when they were all gathered around the brightly-burning stove that night.
The skipper could tell many a good story, and the first mate also could spin a yarn or two, for they had both been far away at sea in distant climes, and both hoped to get ocean-going ships again.
So there they sat and chatted--ship-master and man, with their tumblers of hot grog on the top of the stove--till six bells in the middle watch.
Then the boys and Viking retired.
"I say, Conal," said Duncan that evening, just before turning in, "I think I should like to be a sailor."
"Well," replied Conal, "I should like to visit far-away countries, where hardly anybody had ever been before, and try to make some money just to be able to help father in his difficulties."
"Poor father, yes. Well, young fellows have made money before now."
"Ay," said Conal, who was wise beyond his years; "but, brother, they had a nest-egg to begin with. Now, we have nothing."
"Nonsense, Conal; we have clear heads, we have a good education, and we have a pair of willing hands each. That makes a good outfit, Conal, and many a one has conquered fate with far less."
The voyage to London was a long and tedious one, for they had to struggle for days against head-winds, and tack and half tack isn't the quickest way to a port.
But long before they reached the mouth of the Thames, and were taken in tow by a tug-boat, the boys had cemented quite a friendship with Captain Talbot and his mate Morgan. They promised to correspond, and the honest skipper told them that he had a great project on, and that if it came to a head, he would be willing to take them both to sea with him as apprentices, if their father would let them go. This was real good news for our young heroes, and they parted from Talbot happy and hopeful.
Morgan, the mate, put them up to the ropes as to getting to Colonel Trelawney's residence, and a good thing it was that he did so, else assuredly they would have lost themselves. A bargain was made with a cabman, and he agreed for a certain sum to drive them all the way.
It was a damp and miserable day, the streets were inches deep in slimy mud, the houses all gray and dismal.
No wonder that the hearts of these two boys, accustomed to the green grandeur of forests and crimson-clad Highland hills, sank within them, as they gazed from the windows of their cab.
Was this the beautiful London they had heard tell of and expected to see? Nothing but discomfort and misery met their eyes at first, and when the conveyance stopped now and then, blocked by carts and wagons, they found they could scarcely understand a word of the jargon that fell on their ears from every side.
"Moaning piper!" cried a ragged urchin, shoving a newspaper right under Duncan's nose.
Duncan bought this morning paper.
"Did you notice what he said, Conal?"
"Yes; he said 'Moaning piper'. There must be something about a battle in it, and a Scotch piper must have been wounded. No wonder he moaned if he was shot through the chest or legs--eh, Duncan?"
"No indeed, that would make anybody moan."
But much to the boys' disgust there was nothing about a battle in the paper, nor about pipers, nor even about soldiers at all. So the newspaper was thrown down, and they contented themselves by looking from the windows at the crowds of people that were hurrying along the pavement, everyone intent only on his own business, and taking not the slightest notice of his neighbour. They had now got into a better part of the town. There were fewer guttersnipes and badly-dressed men and women here, less apparent poverty, in fact, with the exception of the poor, white-faced, hungry-looking girls and women who were selling flowers. During a block one of these came to the window near which Duncan sat, and he made the lassie happy by buying two button-holes, and giving her sixpence for them.
The 'buses were objects of curiosity for our heroes.
The drivers were ideal in their own way, and of a class not to be met with anywhere out of London.
The boys criticised them unmercifully.
"Oh, Duncan, did ever you see such faces, or such slow-looking men!"
"Faces just like hams, Conal--and, why, they seem to be wearing about twenty coats! So solemn too--I wonder if ever those fellows smiled except over a pint of beer!"
"And look at those huge wooden umbrellas!"
"Yes, that is for fear a drop of rain should fall upon John Guttle, and he should catch cold."
"Shouldn't I like to see one of these John Guttles trudging over a moor!"
"He wouldn't trudge far, Conal; he would tumble down and gasp like an over-fed ox."
"I say, Duncan, I haven't seen anybody with a plaid yet."
"No, and you won't. Top-coats--nothing else--and tobacco-pipes. No wonder most of those male creatures on the tops of the 'buses are watery-nebbit or red-nosed."
Now, however, private carriages began to mingle with the traffic, and the boys had more to wonder at. But inside these they caught glimpses of fashionable ladies, some young, charmingly dressed, and of a cast of beauty truly English and refined. What astonished Duncan and his brother most was the coachman and flunkeys on the dickey, so severely and stupidly aristocratic did they look.
"Oh, Duncan," cried Conal laughing, "did ever you see such frights! and they've got on ladies' fur tippets!"
"Yes, that is to keep their poor shivery bodies warm, Conal."
"And they look just as if they owned all London, don't they?"
"Yes, that is one of the peculiarities of the flunkey tribe. What's the odds, Conal, so long as they are happy?"
The cab seemed to have reached the suburbs at last. Here were many a pleasant villa, and many a lordly mansion too, with splendid balconies, which were in reality gardens in the sky. There were trees, too, though now almost bare, and green lawns and bushes and flowers.
But none of these latter appealed to our young heroes because they were all so artificial.
Hillo! the cab stops; and the driver, radiant in the expectation of a tip, throws open the door.
"'Ere we are at last, young gents. 'Appy to drink yer 'ealth. Thousand thanks! Hain't seen a 'alf-crown before for a month. Nobuddy needn't say to me as the Scots ain't liberal."
One of the handsomest villas the boys had yet seen, and in the porch thereof stood Colonel Trelawney himself to welcome his guests.
"Right welcome to the Limes," he cried heartily. "Frank is out, but he'll be home to luncheon. Why, what tall hardy chaps you are, to be sure, and I'm right glad you came in your native dress. I wonder how my boy would look in the kilt. It's a matter of legs, I believe."
"Oh, sir," said Duncan, "he'll soon get legs when he comes to the Highlands, and climbs the hills and walks the moors for a few months."
"Well, come in, boys. James, here, will show you your room. We've put you both in the same, as I know young fellows like to talk before turning in."
The room was plainly, yet comfortably, furnished, and the window gave a pleasant view of gardens, shrubberies, and a cloudland of trees to which the autumn foliage still was clinging.
"'Ot watah, young gents."
"Thank you, James."
Duncan and Conal made haste to wash and dress.
James had opened their boxes, and was acting as valet to them in every way. But they were not used to this, and so they told James. God had given them hands and arms, and so they liked to make use of them.
Hark! footsteps on the stairs. Hurried ones, too; two steps, one stride!
Next moment the door was thrown open, and Frank himself stood before them, with both hands extended to bid them welcome.
CHAPTER III.--THE BOYS' LIFE IN LONDON.
"Cousin Frank!"
"That's me. And how are you, cousins Conal and Duncan? We're only far-off cousins, but that doesn't matter, does it? I'm jolly glad to see you, anyhow. You'll bring some life into this dull old hole; and I'll find some fun for you, you bet."
"Did you ask if we betted?" said Duncan, smiling, but serious. "We wouldn't be allowed to."
"No, no. 'You bet' is just an expression; for, mind you, everybody speaks slang nowadays in town. Oh, I don't bet--as a rule, though I did have a pony on the Oxford and Cambridge last race."
"And did the pony win?" asked Conal, naïvely.
"Eh? What? Ha, ha, ha! Why, it's a boat race, and a pony is a fiver. I'd saved the cash for a year, and like a fool I blewed it at last."
Well, if Frank Trelawney was not very much to look at as regards body, he was frank and open, with a handsome English face, all too pale, however, and he seemed to have more worldly wisdom in his noddle than Duncan, Conal, and Viking all put together.
After talking a little longer to our Highland heroes Frank knelt down and threw his arms around the great dog's neck, and Viking condescended to lick his cheek.
"I'm so glad that old Vike takes to you, Frank," said Duncan. "It isn't everybody he likes."
"Of course," said Frank, "'old' is merely a term of endearment, as father would say."
"That's it. He is only a year and six months old, but already there is nothing scarcely that he does not know, in country life, I mean, though I suppose he will be rather strange in town for a time."
"Sure to be. But here comes James. Luncheon served, James, eh?"
"Luncheon all ready, Master Frank."
They found the Colonel walking up and down the well-lighted hall smoking a cigarette. He was really a most inveterate smoker. He smoked before breakfast, after breakfast, all the forenoon, and all day long. Rolled his own cigarettes, too, so that his fore and middle fingers were indelibly stained yellow with the tobacco.
"Horrid habit!" he always told boys, "but I've become a slave to it. Don't you ever smoke."
Though some years over sixty, Trelawney was as straight as a telephone pole, handsome, and soldierly in face and bearing. The only thing that detracted from his facial appearance was a slight degree of bagginess betwixt the lower eyelids and the cheek bones. This was brought on, his doctor had told him often and often, by weakness of the heart caused by tobacco and wine. But Trelawney would not punish himself by leaving either off.
The boys took to Mrs. Trelawney from the very first. She must have been fully twenty years younger than the Colonel, and had a sweet, even beautiful, face, and was altogether winning.
Well, that was a luncheon of what might be called elegant kickshaws, artistically cooked and served, but eminently unsatisfactory from a Scotch point of view.
The dinner in the evening was much the same, and really when these Highland lads got up from the table they almost longed for the honest, "sonsy" fleshpots of Glenvoie.
Walnuts and wine for dessert! But they did not drink wine, and would have preferred a cocoa-nut or two to the walnuts. There would have been some satisfaction in that.
A private box for the theatre!
"Oh," cried Duncan, "that will be nice!"
"You have often been at the theatre, dear, haven't you?"
This from Mrs. Trelawney, as she placed her very much be-ringed fingers on Conal's shoulder.
"No, auntie," replied Conal; "only just once, with Duncan there. It was in Glasgow. They were playing 'Rob Roy', and I shall never forget it. Never, never, never!"
But to-night it was a play of quite a different class, a kind of musical comedy. Plenty of action and go in it, plenty of the most ordinary and musicless singing, which pleased the gallery immensely, and frequent spells of idiotic dancing. There were no serious situations at all, however, and no thread of narrative woven into the play.
Moreover, both Scotch boys were placed at a disadvantage owing to their inability to follow the English patois, which on the whole was thoroughly Cockney, the letter "R" being dead and buried, and the "H" being silent after a "W", so that the lads did not enjoy themselves quite as much as they had expected to.
Every now and then the colonel excused himself. He told our heroes he was going to see a man. That really meant lounging into the buffet to smoke a cigarette, and moisten a constitutionally dry throat.
A few days after this, however, the colonel, who, by some means or other known only to himself, was behind the scenes (virtually speaking) of all the best theatres, managed to get a box for the Lyceum.
That truly great tragedian, Irving, was playing in "The Bells", and the young M'Vaynes were struck dumb with astonishment; they were thrilled and awed with the terrible realism of the grand actor, and when the curtain fell at last both boys thanked the colonel most heartily.
"That is real acting, a real play!" cried Duncan enthusiastically. "I'm sure neither Conal nor I want to sit and listen to Cockney buffoonery after that."
Dear Mrs. Trelawney, as both boys called her, had evidently made up her mind to give the lads as pleasant a time as possible. Every fine day, and there were now many, she took them all for a drive.
"We sha'n't be back for luncheon, Tree," she always told her husband. "You must eat in solitary state and grandeur for one day."
"Indeed," she smilingly informed Duncan, "I don't care much to lunch at home. I like to be free, and not have extreme gentility and servants pottering about behind your chair, and listening to every word you say. I hate the proprieties."
Duncan and Conal both smiled. They felt just that way themselves.
After a drive in the park, Mrs. Trelawney would go shopping, and those two brown-faced, brown-kneed Highland boys created a good deal of sensation, though they seemed quite unaware of the fact.
Ah! but after the shopping came luncheon. And the colonel's wife knew where to go to. A charming hotel, not a million of miles from the Thames embankment. And that was a luncheon, too, or, as Frank called it, a spread!
It was a square meal at all events, and Mrs. Trelawney seemed delighted at seeing the boys thoroughly enjoying it.
"Now you lads must eat, you know, because you've got to grow many, many inches yet. And this is liberty hall anyhow. Isn't it delightfully free and easy?"
It was. This the boys admitted.
The more they were with Mrs. Trelawney the more they liked her. And the young M'Vaynes might have said the same of Frank. He was a charming companion. Moreover, he had many accomplishments that his 42nd cousins could not boast of. He could sing with a sweet girl-voice, and he played the violin charmingly, his mother accompanying him on the piano.
She, too, could sing, and in the evenings she often electrified her guests by her renderings of dramatic pieces. Everybody who visited at the Trelawneys' house knew that the colonel had married a young and beautiful actress, and that here she was--far more a woman of the world, and a more perfect lady than anyone at her table.
And the boys were a great attraction. They were so outspoken, yet so innocent, that conversation with them was full of amusement. They always donned their belts and dress tartans for dinner, and were a good deal admired. Moreover, they soon got to be asked frequently out to dinners, or to dances. These they very much enjoyed.
Well, a whole month passed away, and Duncan and his brother were now able to endure London and London life, though they never could love it.
Many a long walk did Frank take them. The carriage would drive them as far as the Strand, then the journey was continued on foot citywards.
Everything here was new--I can't say fresh, for there is precious little freshness about London streets--to the Scotch lads. They could have wished, however, that the pavements had been less crowded, that the people had been less lazy-looking, and that the vendors of penny wares had not thrust their unsavoury hands so often right under their noses.
Frank seemed determined to show his 42nd cousins every phase of London life. He even took them into a corner drink-palace, and there ordered lemonade, just that they might see a little of the dark side of city life.
They were horrified to behold those gin-sodden men and women, many leaning almost helplessly against the counter; the patched and semi-dropsical faces of the females, the maudlin idiotic looks of the males, Duncan thought he never could forget.
He shuddered, and felt relieved when out once more in the crowded streets.
One day Frank thought he would give his cousins a special treat, so he took them to the Zoo.
Both were much interested in beholding the larger wild beasts, the lions of Africa, the splendid tigers of India, the sulky hippopotami, and ill-natured-looking rhinoceroses. But it was a sad sight after all, for these half-starved-looking beasts were deprived of the freedom of forest and plains, and confined here in filthy dens, all for the pleasure of a gaping crowd of ignorant Cockneys.
But when they came upon the birds of prey, and their eyes caught sight of a poor puny specimen of the Scottish eagle, chained to a post, and almost destitute of feathers, Duncan's heart melted with shame and sorrow, and he turned hurriedly away.
As far as the Zoo was concerned, Frank's best intentions had failed to give his guests pleasure. But they were too polite to say so.
————
Duncan and Conal had now been two months in London, and could understand even what the street boys said. On the whole they had enjoyed the wonderful sights of this wonderful city, for these really seemed unending.
Then came Christmas.
Christmas and the pantomime.
They enjoyed Drury Lane far more even than the parties or even the dances they were invited to. The scenery and scenes were exquisitely lovely. No dream of fairyland ever equalled these.
The boys gave themselves wholly up to amusement throughout all the festive season. But to their credit be it said, they did not gorge on goose, turkey, or pudding as everybody else did.
"No wonder," thought Duncan, "that the Englishman is called John Guttle in many parts of Scotland." For he had never seen such eating or drinking in his life before.
Then after the festivities of the festive week came dulness and dreariness extreme. The people had spent all their money, and wretchedness abounded on every pavement of the sleet-swept streets of the city. Yes, and the misery even overflowed into the west-end suburbs.
It was about this time that Duncan made a discovery.
Frank had told him, frankly enough, that his father was not over-well off, but it was evident to him now that Colonel Trelawney was simply struggling to keep up appearances, and that, in all probability, he was deeply in debt.
Mrs. Trelawney, or "dear Auntie", as the Scotch lads called her, was ever the same. Nothing seemed to trouble or worry her.
But the colonel at breakfast used to take up his letters, one by one, and eye them with some degree of suspicion before opening them.
The waste-paper basket was close to him, and was wonderfully handy.
"The first application," he would say with a smile as he tore up a bill and summarily disposed of the fragments.
"Second application"--that too was torn up.
Letter from a friend--put aside to be read at leisure.
A long blue letter--suspicious--disposed of without reading.
"Ha! Amy, love, here is Sweater & Co.'s fourth letter. Threatens us with--ah, you know."
"Well, dear," says Mrs. Trelawney with her sweetest smile, "just let them sweat!"
"Give 'em a bill, I suppose," the colonel says, as if speaking to himself.
And the letter is put aside.
So one way or another Trelawney got through his pile at last, and settled down to serious eating, that is, he made a hearty meal from a Londoner's point of view. Then he lit a cigarette.
Well the month of January was raw and disagreeable, and seldom was there a day without a fog either white or yellow.
Is it any wonder that, brought up in a clear transparent atmosphere among breezes that blew over heathy hills, and were laden with the balsamic odour of the pine-trees, Duncan and Conal began to languish and long for home.
With great candour they told "Auntie" they wanted to get home to enjoy skating, tobogganing, and white-hare shooting; and she promised to speak to the colonel.
"We will be so sorry to leave you, auntie, for you've been so good to us."
"And I shall miss you, boys, sadly."
"Yes, I hope so. It will give Conal and me pleasure to think that you like us. And of course Frank comes with us."
"I fear it is too cold for Frank."
"Oh no, auntie dear. One never feels cold in Scotland, the air is so bracing, you know."
So that very day it was all arranged, and Laird M'Vayne had a letter to that effect.
The parting was somewhat sorrowful, but the boys did not say "Farewell!" only "Au revoir", because both hoped to return, and by that time they declared that Frank would be as hardy as--as--well, as hardy as Highlanders usually are.
The last things that the boys bought in London were skates. Of course they could have got those in Edinburgh, but not so cheaply, and for this reason: there did not seem to be the ghost of a chance of any skating for the Londoners this season, and so they got the skates for an old song.
They went by sea to Edinburgh. The Queen was at present all but a cargo-boat, and besides the three lads and Vike, there was only one other passenger, an old minister of the Church of Scotland.
The same skipper and the same mate, and delighted they were to see the boys again, and they gave Frank a right hearty welcome on their account.
But Frank had that with him which secured him a welcome wherever he went--his fiddle, and when after dinner he played them some sad and plaintive old Scottish airs, all were delighted, and the minister got up from his chair, and, grasping the boy's hand, thanked him most effusively.
"Dear lad," he said, "you have brought the moisture to my eyes, although I had thought my fountain of tears had dried up many and many a long year ago."
Now here is something strange; although, when once fairly out of the Thames' mouth and at sea, it was blowing a head wind, with waves houses high, Frank was not even squeamish. I have seen many cases like this, though I must confess they are somewhat rare.
Nor was the minister ill; but then, like the Scotch boys, he was sea-fast, having done quite a deal of coasting.
"How goes the project you have in view?" asked Duncan that evening of the skipper.
"Well," was the reply, "it is not what the French call a fait accompli just yet, but it is bound to be so before very long."
"Well, my 42nd cousin Frank here would like to go to sea also. Could you do with the three of us?"
"Yes. You must be prepared to rough it a bit, and we'll be rather cramped for room, but we shall manage. Eh, mate?"
"I'm sure we shall, and this young gentleman must take his fiddle."
"And I'll take the bagpipes," said Duncan, laughing.
"Hurrah!" cried the mate. "Won't we astonish the king of the Cannibal Islands? Eh?"
It was Frank's turn to cry "Hurrah!"
"But," he added, "will there be real live cannibals, sir?"
"Certainly. What good would dead ones be?"
"And is there a chance of being caught and killed and eaten, and all the like of that?"
"Ay, though it isn't pleasant to look forward to. Only mind this: I may tell you for your comfort that although, after being knocked on the head with a nullah, your Highland cousin would be trussed at once and hung up in front of a clear fire until done to a turn, you yourself would be kept alive for weeks. Penned up, you know, like a chicken."
"But why?"
"Oh, they always do that with London boys, because they are generally too lean for decent cooking, and need too much basting. You would be penned up and fattened with rice and bananas."
"Humph!" said Frank, and after a pause of thoughtfulness, "Well, I suppose there is some consolation in being kept alive a bit; but bother it all, I don't half like the idea of being a side dish."
The weather was more favourable during this voyage, and though bitterly cold, all the boys took plenty of exercise on the quarter-deck, and so kept warm. So, too, did the old minister, who was really a jolly fellow, and did not preach at them nor dilate on the follies of youth. Moreover, this son of the Auld Kirk enjoyed a hearty glass of toddy before turning in.
