CHAPTER I. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF DWEELLING HOUSE PART I. For some months after our marriage Euphemia and I boarded, but we did not like it. Indeed there was no reason why we should like it. Euphemia said that she never felt at home except when she was out, which feeling, indicating such an excessively unphilosophic state of mind, was enough to make me desire to have a home of my own, where, except upon rare and exceptional occasions, my wife would never care to go out. If you should want to rent a house there are three ways to find one. One way is to advertise, another is to read the advertisements of other people. This is a comparatively cheap way. A third method is to apply to an agent. But none of these plans are worth anything. The proper way is to know someone who will tell you of a house that will exactly suit you.  We tried all the plans. When we advertised we had about a dozen admirable answers, but in these, although everything seemed to suit, the amount of rent was not named. None of those in which the rent was named would do at all. And when I went to see the owners or agents of these suitable houses they asked much higher rents than those mentioned in the unavailable answers, and this notwithstanding the fact that they always asserted that their terms were either very reasonable or else greatly reduced on account of the season being advanced. It was now the fifteenth of May. Euphemia and I once wrote a book. This was just before we were married, in which we told young married people how to go to housekeeping and how much it would cost them. We knew all about it, for we had asked several people. Now, as the prices demanded as yearly rental for small furnished houses by the owners and agents of whom I had been speaking, were, in many cases, more than we had stated a house could be bought and furnished for. The advertisements of other people did not serve any better. There was always something wrong about the houses when we made close inquiries, and the trouble was generally in regard to the rent. With agents we had a little better fortune. Euphemia sometimes went with me on my expeditions to real estate offices, and she remarked that these offices were always in the basement, or else you had to go up to them in an elevator. There was nothing between these extremes. And it was a good deal the same way, she said, with their houses. They were all very low indeed in price and quality, or else too high. One trouble was that we wanted a house in a country place, not very far from the city and not very far from their railroad station or steamboat landing. We also wanted the house to be nicely shaded and fully furnished, and not to be in a malarial neighborhood or one infested by mosquitoes. If we do go to housekeeping, said Euphemia, we might as well get a house to suit us while we are about it. Moving is more expensive than a fire. There was one man who offered us a house that almost suited us. It was near the water, had rooms enough, and some but not very much ground, and was very accessible to the city. The rent, too, was quite reasonable. But the house was unfurnished. The agent, however, did not think that this would present any obstacle to our taking it. He was sure that the owner would furnish it if we paid him ten percent, on account of the value of furniture he put into it. We agreed that if the landlord would do this and let us furnish the house according to the plans laid down in our book, that we would take the house. But unfortunately this arrangement did not suit the landlord, although he was in the habit of furnishing houses for tenants and charging them ten percent on the cost. I saw him myself and talked to him about it. But you see, said he, when I had shown him our list of articles necessary for the furnishing of a house, it would not pay me to buy all these things and rent them out to you. If you only wanted heavy furniture, which would last for years, the plan would answer, but you want everything. I believe the small conveniences you have on this list come to more money than the furniture and carpets. Oh, yes, said I. We are not so very particular about furniture and carpets, but these little conveniences are the things that make housekeeping pleasant, and speaking from a common sense point of view profitable. That may be, he answered, but I can't afford to make matters pleasant and profitable for you in that way. Now then, let us look at one or two particulars. Here, on your list, is an ice-pick, twenty-five cents. Now, if I buy that ice-pick and rent it to you at two-and-a-half cents a year, I shall not get my money back unless it lasts you ten years. And even then, as it is not probable that I can sell that ice-pick after you have used it for ten years, I shall have made nothing at all by my bargain. And there are other things in that list, such as feather dusters and lamp chimneys that couldn't possibly last ten years. Don't you see my position? I saw it. We did not get that furnished house. Euphemia was greatly disappointed. It would have been just splendid, she said, to have taken our book and have ordered all those things at the stores, one after another, without even being obliged to ask the price. I had my private doubts in regard to this matter of price. I am afraid that Euphemia generally set down the lowest price and the best things. She did not mean to mislead, and her plan certainly made our book attractive. But it did not work very well in practice. We have a friend who undertook to furnish her house by our book, and she never could get the things as cheaply as we had them quoted. But you see, said Euphemia to her, we had to put them down at very low prices, because the model house we speak of in the book is to be entirely furnished for just so much. But in spite of this explanation the lady was not satisfied. We found ourselves obliged to give up the idea of a furnished house. We would have taken an unfurnished one and furnished it ourselves, but we had not money enough. We were dreadfully afraid that we should have to continue to board. It was now getting on towards summer. At least there was only a part of a month of spring left, and whenever I could get off from my business Euphemia and I made little excursions into the country round about the city. One afternoon we went up the river, and there we saw a site that transfixed us as it were. On the bank, a mile or so above the city, stood a canal boat. I say stood, because it was so firmly embedded in the ground by the riverside, that it would have been almost as impossible to move it as to have turned the sphinx around. This boat, we soon found, was inhabited by an oyster man and his family. They had lived there for many years and were really doing quite well. The boat was divided inside into rooms, and these were papered and painted and nicely furnished. There was a kitchen, a living room, a parlor, and bedrooms. There were all sorts of conveniences, carpets on the floors, pictures, and everything, at least so it seemed to us, to make a comfortable home. This was not all done at once, the oyster man told me. They had lived there for years and had gradually added this and that until the place was as we sought. He had an oyster bed out in the river, and he made cider in the winter, but where he got the apples I don't know. There was really no reason why he should not get rich in time. Well, we went all over that house and we praised everything so much that the oyster man's wife was delighted, and when we had some stewed oysters afterwards, eating them at a little table under a tree nearby, I believed that she picked out the very largest oysters she had to stew for us. When we had finished our supper and had paid for it, and were going down to take our little boat again, for we had rowed up the river, Euphemia stopped and looked around her. Then she clasped her hands and exclaimed in an ecstatic undertone, We must have a canalboat. And she never swerved from that determination. After I had seriously thought over the matter I could see no good reason against adopting the plan. It would certainly be a cheap method of living, and it would really be housekeeping. I grew more and more in favor of it. After what the oyster man had done, what might not we do? He had never written a book on housekeeping, nor in all probability had he considered the matter philosophically for one moment in all his life. But it was not an easy thing to find a canalboat. There were none advertised for rent, at least not for housekeeping purposes. We made many inquiries and took many a long walk along the water courses in the vicinity of the city, but all in vain. Of course we talked a great deal about our project, and our friends became greatly interested in it. And, of course, too, they gave us a great deal of advice, but we didn't mind that. We were philosophical enough to know that you can't have Shad without bones. They were good friends, and, by being careful in regard to the advice, it didn't interfere with our comfort. We were beginning to be discouraged, at least Euphemia was. Her discouragement is like water-cresses. It generally comes up in a very short time after she sows her wishes. But then it withers away rapidly, which is a comfort. One evening we were sitting, rather disconsolidately, in our room, and I was reading out the advertisements of country board in a newspaper, when, in rush, Dr. Here, one of our old friends. He was so full of something that he had to say that he didn't even ask us how we were. In fact, he didn't appear to want to know. I tell you what it is, said he. I have found just the very thing you want. A canal boat, I cried. Yes, said he, a canal boat. Furnished, asked Euphemia, her eyes glistening. Well, no, answered the doctor. I don't think you could expect that. But we can't live on the bare floor, said Euphemia. Our house must be furnished. Well, then, I suppose this won't do, said the doctor, roofily, for there isn't so much as a boot-jack in it. It has most things that are necessary for a boat, but it hasn't anything that you could call house furniture. But dear me, I should think you could furnish it very cheaply and comfortably out of your book. Very true, said Euphemia, if we could pick out the cheapest things and then get some folks to buy a lot of the books. We could begin with very little, said I, trying hard to keep calm. Certainly, said the doctor, you need make no more rooms at first than you can furnish. Then there are no rooms, said Euphemia. No, there is nothing but one vast apartment extending from stem to stern. Won't it be glorious, said Euphemia, to me? We can first make a kitchen and then a dining-room and a bedroom and then a parlor, just in the order in which our book says they ought to be furnished. Glorious, I cried, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm. I should think so. Doctor, where is this canal-boat? The doctor then went into a detailed statement. The boat was stranded on the shore of the Scoldsbury River not far below Ginkses. We knew where Ginkses was because we had spent a very happy day there during our honeymoon. The boat was a good one, but superannuated. That, however, did not interfere with its usefulness as a dwelling. We could get it, the doctor had seen the owner, for a small sum per annum, and here was positively no end to its capabilities. We sat up until twenty minutes past two, talking about that house. We ceased to call it a boat at about a quarter of eleven. CHAPTER I The next day I took the boat and paid a month's rent in advance. Three days afterward we moved into it. We had not much to move, which was a comfort, looking at it from one point of view. A carpenter had put up two partitions in it, which made three rooms, a kitchen, a dining room, and a very long bedroom, which was to be cut up into a parlor, study, spare room, etc., as soon as circumstances should allow, or my salary should be raised. Originally all the doors and windows were in the roof, so to speak. But our landlord allowed us to make as many windows to the side of the boat as we pleased. Provided we gave him the wood we cut out. It saved him trouble, he said, but I did not understand him at the time. Accordingly the carpenter made several windows for us and put in sashes, which opened on hinges like the hasp of a trunk. Our furniture did not amount to much at first. The very thought of living in this independent, romantic way was so delightful, remarked Euphemia said, that furniture seemed a mere secondary matter. We were obliged, indeed, to give up the idea of following the plan detailed in our book, because we hadn't the sum upon which the furnishing of a small house was based therein. And if we haven't the money, remarked Euphemia, it would be of no earthly use to look at the book. It would only make us doubt our own calculations. You might as well try to make brick without mortar, as the children of Israel did. I could do that myself, my dear, but we won't discuss that subject now. We will buy just what we absolutely need and then work up from that. Acting on this plan we bought first a small stove, because Euphemia said that we could sleep on the floor if it were necessary, but we couldn't make a fire in the floor, at least not often. Then we got a table and two chairs. The next thing we purchased was some hanging shelves for our books, and Euphemia suddenly remembered the kitchen things. These, which were few, with some crockery, nearly brought us to the end of our reserves. But we had enough for a big easy chair which Euphemia was determined I should have, because I really needed it when I came home at night, tired with my long day's work at the office. I had always been used to an easy chair, and it was one of her most delightful dreams to see me in a real nice one, comfortably smoking my pipe in my own house after eating my own delicious little supper in company with my own dear wife. We selected the chair, and then we were about to order the things sent to our future home when I happened to think that we had no bed. I called Euphemia's attention to the fact. She was thunderstruck. I never thought of that, she said. We shall have to give up the stove. Not at all, said I. We can't do that. We must give up the easy chair. Oh, that would be too bad, said she. The house would seem like nothing to me without the chair. But we must do without it, my dear, said I, at least for a while. I can sit out on deck and smoke of an evening, you know. Yes, said Euphemia. You can sit on the bulwarks, and I can sit by you. That will do very well. I'm sure I'm glad the boat has bulwarks. So we resigned the easy chair and bought a bedstead in some very plain bedding. The bedstead was what is sometimes called a scissor's bed. We could shut it up when we did not want to sleep in it, and stand it against the wall. When we packed up our trunks and left the boarding-house, Euphemia fairly skipped with joy. We went down to Ginxes in the first boat, having arranged that our furniture should be sent to us in the afternoon. We wanted to be there to receive it. The trip was just wildly delirious. The air was charming, the sun was bright, and I had a whole holiday. When we reached Ginxes we found that the best way to get our trunks and ourselves to our house was to take a carriage, and so we took one. I told the driver to drive along the river-road, and I would tell him where to stop. When we reached our boat and had alighted, I said to the driver, you can just put our trunks inside anywhere. The man looked at the trunks and then looked at the boat. Afterward he looked at me. That boat ain't going anywhere, said he. I should think not, said Euphemia. We shouldn't want to live in it if it were. You're going to live in it, said the man. Yes, said Euphemia. Oh, said the man, and he took our trunks on board without another word. It was not very easy for him to get the trunks into our new home. In fact, it was not easy for us to get there ourselves. There was a gang-plank, with a rail on one side of it, which inclined from the shore to the deck of the boat at an angle of forty-five degrees. And when the man had staggered up this plank with the trunks, Euphemia said I ought to have helped him. But I really thought that it would be better for one person to fall off the plank than for two to go over together.  We scrambled up and stood upon the threshold, or rather the after-deck of our home. It was a proud moment.  At least we tried to go down in that fashion, but soon found it necessary to go one at a time. We wandered over the whole extent of our mansion, and found that our carpenter had done his work better than the woman whom we had engaged to scrub and clean the house. Something akin to despair must have seized upon her, for Euphemia declared that the floors looked dirtier than on the occasion of her first visit when we rented the boat. But that didn't discourage us. We felt sure that we should get it clean in time. Early in the afternoon our furniture arrived, together with the other things that we had bought, and the men who brought them over from the steamboat landing had the brightest, merriest faces I ever noticed among that class of people. Euphemia said it was an excellent omen to have such cheerful fellows come to us on the very first day of our housekeeping. Then we went to work. I put up the stove, which was not much trouble, as there was a place already in the deck for the stove pipe to be run through. Euphemia was somewhat surprised at the absence of a chimney, but I assured her that boats were very seldom built with chimneys. My dear little wife bustled about and arranged the pots and kettles on nails that I drove into the kitchen walls. Then she made the bed in the bedroom, and I hung up a looking glass and a few little pictures that we had brought in our trunks. Before four o'clock our house was in order. Then we began to be very hungry. My dear, said Euphemia, we ought to have thought to bring something to cook. That is very true, said I, but I think perhaps we had better walk up to Ginxes and get our supper tonight. You see, we are so tired and hungry. What, cried Euphemia, go to a hotel the very first day? I think it would be dreadful. Why, I have been looking forward to this first meal with the greatest delight. You can go up to the little store by the hotel and buy some things, and I will cook them, and we will have our first dear little meal here all along by ourselves, at our own table and in our own house. So this was determined upon, and after a hasty counting of the fund I had reserved for moving and kindred expenses, and which had been sorely depleted during the day, I set out and in about an hour returned with my first marketing. I made a fire using a lot of chips and blocks the carpenter had left, and Euphemia cooked the supper, and we ate it from our little table with two large towels for a tablecloth. It was the most delightful meal I ever ate. And when we had finished, Euphemia washed the dishes, the thoughtful creature had put some water on the stove to heat for the purpose while we were at supper, and then we went on deck, or on the piazza, as Euphemia thought we had better call it, and there we had our smoke. I say we, for Euphemia always helps me to smoke by sitting by me, and she seems to enjoy it as much as I do. And when the shades of evening began to gather around us, I hauled in the gang-plank, just like a delightful old drawbridge, Euphemia said, although I hoped for the sake of our ancestors that drawbridges were easier to haul in, and went to bed. It is lucky we were tired and wanted to go to bed early, for we had forgotten all about lamps or candles. For the next week we were too busy and happy people. I rose about half past five and made the fire. We found so much wood on the shore that I thought I should not have to add fuel to my expenses, and Euphemia cooked the breakfast. I then went to a well belonging to a cottage nearby where we had arranged for water-privileges, and filled two buckets with delicious water, and carried them home for Euphemia's use during the day. Then I hurried off to catch the train, for, as there was a station near Ginx's, I ceased to patronize the seam-boat, the hours of which were not convenient. After a day of work and pleasurable anticipation at the office, I hastened back to my home, generally laden with a basket of provisions and various household necessities. Milk was brought to us daily from the above-mentioned cottage by a little toddler who seemed just able to carry the small tin bucket which held a lacteal pint. If the urchin had been the child of rich parents as Euphemia sometimes observed, he would have been in his nurse's arms, but being poor he was scarcely weaned before he began to carry milk around to other people. After I reached home came supper and the delightful evening hours, when over my pipe I had given up cigars as being too expensive and inappropriate, and had taken to a tall pipe and canister tobacco, we talked and planned and told each other our day's experience. One of our earliest subjects of discussion was the name of our homestead. Euphemia insisted that it should have a name. I was quite willing that we found it no easy matter to select an appropriate title. I proposed a number of appellations intended to suggest the character of our home. Among these were safe ashore, firmly grounded, and some other names of that style, but Euphemia did not fancy any of them. She wanted a suitable name, of course, she said, but it must be something that would sound like a house but be like a boat. Partitionville she objected to, and gangplank Terrace did not suit her because it suggested convicts going out to work, which naturally was unpleasant. At last, after days of talk and cogitation, we named our house Rutter Grange. To be sure it wasn't exactly a Grange, but then it had such an enormous rudder that the justice of that part of the title seemed to overbalance any little inaccuracy in the other portion. But we did not spend all our time in talking. An hour or two every evening was occupied in what we called fixing the house, and gradually the inside of our abode began to look like a conventional dwelling. We put matting on the floors and cheap but very pretty paper on the walls. We added now a couple of chairs and now a table or something for the kitchen. Frequently, especially of a Sunday, we had company, and our guests were always charmed with Euphemia's cunning little meals. The dear girl loved good-eating so much that she could scarcely fail to be a good cook. We worked hard and were very happy, and thus the weeks passed on. CHAPTER II In this delightful way of living only one thing troubled us. We didn't save any money. There were so many little things that we wanted, and so many little things that were so cheap that I spent pretty much all I made, and that was far from the philosophical plan of living that I wished to follow. We talked this matter over a great deal after we had lived in our new home for about a month, and we at last came to the conclusion that we would take a border. We had no trouble in getting a border, for we had a friend, a young man who was engaged in the flower business, who was very anxious to come and live with us. He had been to see us two or three times, and had expressed himself charmed with our household arrangements. So we made terms with him. The carpenter partitioned off another room, and our border brought his trunk in a large red velvet armchair, and took up his abode at Rutter Grange. We liked our border very much, but he had some peculiarities. I suppose everybody has them. Among other things he was very fond of telling us what we ought to do. He suggested more improvements in the first three days of his sojourn with us than I had thought of since we commenced housekeeping. And what made the matter worse, his suggestions were generally very good ones. Had it been otherwise I might have borne his remarks more complacently, but to be continually told what you ought to do, and to know that you ought to do it, is extremely annoying. He was very anxious that I should take off the rudder, which was certainly useless to a boat situated as ours was, and make an ironing table of it. I persisted that the laws of symmetrical propriety required that the rudder should remain where it was, that the very name of our home would be interfered with by its removal, but he insisted that ironing table Grange would be just as good a name, and that symmetrical propriety in such a case did not amount to a row of pins. The result was that we did have the ironing table, and that euphemia was very much pleased with it. A great many other improvements were projected and carried out by him, and I was very much worried. He made a flower garden for euphemia on the extreme forward deck, and having borrowed a wheelbarrow he wheeled dozens of loads of arable dirt up our gang-plank and dumped them out on the deck. When he had covered the garden with a suitable depth of earth, he smoothed it off and then planted flower seeds. It was rather late in the season, but most of them came up. I was pleased with the garden, but sorry I had not made it myself. One afternoon I got away from the office considerably earlier than usual, and I hurried home to enjoy the short period of daylight that I should have before supper. It had been raining the day before, and as the bottom of our garden leaked so that earthy water trickled down at one end of our bedroom, I intended to devote a short time to stuffing up the cracks in the ceiling or bottom of the deck, whichever seems the most appropriate. But when I reached a bend in the river, once I always had the earliest view of my establishment, I did not have that view. I hurried on. The nearer I approached to the place where I lived, the more horror-stricken I became. There was no mistaking the fact. The boat was not there. In an instant the truth flashed upon me. The water was very high, the rain had swollen the river. My house had floated away. It was Wednesday. On Wednesday afternoons our border came home early. I clapped my hat tightly on my head and ground my teeth. Confound that border, I thought, he has been fooling with the anchor. He always said it was of no use, and taking advantage of my absence he has hauled it up and has floated away and has gone, gone with my wife and my home.  I ran wildly along the bank. I called aloud. I shouted and hailed each patch in craft, of which there were only two, but their crews must have been very inattentive to the woes of landsmen, or else they did not hear me, for they paid no attention to my cries. I met a fellow with an ax on his shoulder. I shouted to him before I reached him. Hello, did you see a boat?  A boat-house? asked the man. No, a house-boat, I asked. Didn't see nothing like it, said the man, and he passed on to his wife and home, no doubt. But me? Oh, where was my wife and home? I met several people, but none of them had seen a fugitive canal-boat. How many thoughts came into my brain as I ran along that river road? If that wretched border had not taken the rudder for an ironing table he might have steered inshore. Again and again I confounded, as far as mental ejaculations could do it, his suggestions. I was rapidly becoming frantic when I met a person who hailed me. Hello, he said. Are you after a canal-boat, adrift? Yes, I panted. I thought you was. You looked that way. Well, I can tell you where she is. She stuck fast in the reeds at the lower end, at Peter's pite. Where's that? said I. Oh, it's about a mile further up. I see her adrifting up with a tide, big flood-tide today, and I thought I'd see somebody after her for long. Anything aboard? End of section three. Section four of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. CHAPTER II. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF BORDER, PART II. ANYTHING. I could not answer the man. ANYTHING, indeed. I hurried on up the river without a word. Was the boat a wreck? I scarcely dared to think of it. I scarcely dared to think at all. The man called after me and I stopped. I could but stop, no matter what I might hear. Hello, Mr.—he said. Got any tobacco? I walked up to him. I took hold of him by the lapel of his coat. It was a dirty lapel, as I remember even now, but I didn't mind that. Look here, said I. Tell me the truth. I can bear it. Was that vessel wrecked? The man looked at me a little queerly. I could not exactly interpret his expression. You're sure you can bear it? said he. Yes, said I. My hand was trembling as I held his coat. Well, then, he said, it's more than I can, and he jerked his coat out of my hand and sprang away. When he reached the other side of the road he turned and shouted at me as though I had been deaf. Do you know what I think? he yelled.  And with that he went his way. I hastened on to Peter's point. Long before I reached it I saw the boat. It was apparently deserted. But still I pressed on. I must know the worst. When I reached the point I found that the boat had run aground, with her head in among the long reeds and mud and the rest of her hull lying at an angle from the shore. There was consequently no way for me to get on board but to wade through the mud and reeds to her bow and then climb up as well as I could. This I did but it was not easy to do. Twice I sank above my knees in mud and water, and had it not been for reeds, masses of which I frequently clutched when I thought I was going over. I believe I should have fallen down and come to my death in that horrible marsh. When I reached the boat I stood up to my hips in water and saw no way of climbing up. The gang-plank had undoubtedly floated away, and if it had not it would have been of no use to me in my position. But I was desperate. I clasped the post that they put in the bow of canal-boats. I stuck my toes and my fingernails in the cracks between the boards. How glad I was that the boat was an old one and had cracks. And so painfully and slowly slipping partway down once or twice and be slimy myself from chin to foot, I climbed up that post and scrambled upon deck. In an instant I reached the top of the stairs, and in another instant I rushed below. There sat my wife and our border, one on each side of the dining-room table complacently playing checkers. My sudden entrance startled them. My appearance startled them still more. Euphemia sprang to her feet and tottered toward me. Mercy, she exclaimed, has anything happened? Happened, I gasped. Look here, cried the border, clutching me by the arm. What a condition you're in. Did you fall in? Fall in, said I. Euphemia and the border looked at each other. I looked at them. Then I opened my mouth in earnest. I suppose you don't know, I yelled, that you have drifted away. By George, cried the border, and in two bounds he was on deck. Dirty as I was, Euphemia fell into my arms. I told her all. She hadn't known a bit of it. The boat had so gently drifted off and had so gently grounded among the reeds that the voyage had never so much as disturbed their games of checkers. He plays such a splendid game, Euphemia sobbed, and just as you came I thought I was going to beat him. I had two kings and two pieces on the next to last row and you are nearly drowned. You'll get your death of cold and he only had one king. She led me away and I undressed and washed myself and put on my Sunday clothes. When I reappeared I went out on deck with Euphemia. The border was there, standing by the Petunia bed. His arms were folded and he was thinking profoundly. As we approached he turned toward us. We were right about that anchor, he said. I should not have hauled it in. But it was such a little anchor that I thought it would be of more use on board as a garden hoe. A very little anchor will sometimes do very well, said I, cuttingly, when it is hooked around a tree. Yes, there is something in that, he said. It was now growing late and as our agitation subsided we began to be hungry. Fortunately we had everything necessary on board and, as it really didn't make any difference in our household economy where we happened to be located, we had supper quite as usual. In fact the kettle had been put on to boil during the checker playing. After supper we went on deck to smoke, as was our custom, but there was a certain coolness between me and our border. Early the next morning I arose and went upstairs to consider what had better be done when I saw the border standing on shore nearby. Hello! he cried. The tide's down and I got ashore without any trouble. You stay where you are. I've hired a couple of mules to tow the boat back. They'll be here when the tide rises. And hello! I found the gang-plank. It floated ashore about a quarter of a mile below here. In the course of the afternoon the mules and two men with a long rope appeared and we were then towed back to where we belonged. And we are there yet. Our border remains with us as the weather is still fine and the coolness between us is gradually diminishing. But the boat is moored at both ends, and twice a day I look to see if the ropes are all right. The petunias are growing beautifully, but the geraniums do not seem to flourish. Perhaps there is not a sufficient depth of earth for them. Several times our border has appeared to be on the point of suggesting something in regard to them, but for some reason or other he says nothing. One afternoon as I was hurrying down Broadway to catch the five clock train I met Waterford. He is an old friend of mine and I used to like him pretty well. Hello! said he. Where are you going? Home! I answered. Is that so? said he. I didn't know you had one. I was a little netled at this, and so I said, somewhat brusquely, perhaps. But you must have known I lived somewhere. Oh, yes, but I thought you boarded, said he. I had no idea that you had a home. But I have one in a very pleasant home, too. You must excuse me for not stopping longer, as I must catch my train.  Where is your little house? he asked. Why in the world he thought it was a little house I could not at the time imagine, unless he supposed that two people would not require a large one. But I know now that he lived in a very little house himself. But it was of no use getting angry with Waterford, especially as I saw he intended walking all the way down to the ferry with me. So I told him I didn't live in any house at all. Why, where do you live? he exclaimed, stopping short. I live in a boat, said I. A boat? A sort of Rob Roy arrangement, I suppose. Well, I would have not thought that of you.  She has done nothing of the kind, I answered. She lives with me, and she likes it very much. We are extremely comfortable, and our boat is not a canoe, or any such nonsensical affair. It is a large, commodious canal boat. Waterford turned around and looked at me. Are you a deckhand? he asked. Deck grandmother, I exclaimed. Well, you needn't get mad about it, said he. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I couldn't see what else you could be on a canal boat. I don't suppose, for instance, that you're captain. But I am, said I. Look here, said Waterford. This is coming it rather strong, isn't it? As I saw he was getting angry, I told him all about it. Told him how we had hired a stranded canal boat and had it fitted up as a house, and how we lived so cosily in it, and had called it rudder grange and how we had taken a border. Well, said he, this is certainly surprising. I'm coming out to see you some day. It will be better than going to Barnum's. I told him, it is the way of society, that we would be glad to see him and we parted. Waterford never did come to see us, and I merely mentioned this incident to show how some of our friends talked about rudder grange, when they first heard that we lived there. After dinner that evening, when I went up on deck with Euphemia to have my smoke, we saw the border sitting on the bulwarks near the garden, with his legs dangling down outside. Look here, said he. I looked, but there was nothing unusual to see. Is it, I asked. He turned around and seeing Euphemia said, nothing. It would be a very stupid person who could not take such a hint as that, and so after a walk around the garden Euphemia took occasion to go below to look at the kitchen fire. As soon as she had gone the border turned to me and said, I'll tell you what it is, she's working herself sick. Sick, said I, nonsense. No nonsense about it, he replied. The truth was that the border was right and I was wrong. We had spent several months at rudder grange, and during this time Euphemia had been working very hard, and she really did begin to look pale and thin. Indeed it would be very wearying for any woman of culture and refinement unused to housework, to cook and care for two men, and to do all the work of a canal boat besides. But I saw Euphemia so constantly, and thought so much of her, and had her image so continually in my heart, that I did not notice this until our border called my attention to it. I was sorry that he had had to do it.  If you were in my place, I replied somewhat cuttingly, you would probably suggest a lot of little things which would make everything very easy for her. I'd try to, he answered, without getting in the least angry.  She agreed quite readily when I proposed the plan, and she urged me to go and see the carpenter that very day to get him to come and partition off a little room for the girl. It was some time, of course, before the room was made, for whoever heard of a carpenter coming at the very time he was wanted, and when it was finished Euphemia occupied all her spare moments in getting it in nice order for the servant when she should come. I thought she was taking too much trouble, but she had her own ideas about such things.  So she put up pretty curtains at the girl's window, and with a box that she stood on end and some old muslin and a lot of tax, she made a toilet table so neat and convenient that I thought she ought to take it into our room and give the servant our wash stand. But all this time we had no girl, and as I had made up my mind about the matter, I naturally grew impatient, and at last I determined to go and get a girl myself. So one day at lunchtime I went to an intelligence office in the city.  There were also girls upon the stairs and girls in the hall below, besides some girls standing on the sidewalk before the door. When I made known my business and paid my fee, one of the several proprietors who were wandering about the front room went into the back apartment and soon returned with a tall Irish woman with a bony, weather-beaten face and a large, weather-beaten shawl. This woman was told to take a chair by my side. Down sat the huge creature and stared at me. I did not feel very easy under her scrutinizing gaze, but I bore it as best I could, and immediately began to ask her all the appropriate questions that I could think of. Some she answered satisfactorily, and some she didn't answer at all, but as soon as I made a pause she began to put questions herself. How many servants do you cape? she asked. I answered that we intended to get along with one, and if she understood her business I thought she would find her work very easy and the place a good one.  I hesitated. I knew our wash tubs were not stationary, for I had helped to carry them about. But they might be screwed fast and made stationary if that was an important object. But before making this answer I thought of the great conveniences for washing presented by our residence, surrounded as it was at high tide by water. Why, we live in a stationary wash tub, I said, smiling. The woman looked at me steadfastly for a minute, and then she rose to her feet. Then she called out as if she were crying fish or strawberries. Mrs. Blaine! the female keeper of the intelligence office, and the male keeper, and the thin clerk, and all the women in the back room, and all the patrons in the front room jumped up and gathered round us. CHAPTER III Astonished and somewhat disconcerted I rose to my feet and confronted the tall Irish woman, and stood smiling in an uncertain sort of way, as if it were all very funny, but I couldn't see the point. I think I must have impressed the people with the idea that I wished I hadn't come. He says, exclaimed the woman, as if some other huckster were crying fish on the other side of the street. He says he lives in a wash tub. He's crazy, ejaculated Mrs. Blaine, with an air that indicated policemen as plainly as if she had put her thought into words. A low murmur ran through the crowd of women, while the thin clerk edged toward the door. I saw there was no time to lose. I stepped back a little from the tall savage who was breathing like a hot air engine in front of me, and made my explanations to the company. I told the tale of redder grange, and showed them how it was like to a stationary wash tub at certain stages of the tide. I was listened to with great attention. When I had finished, the tall woman turned around and faced the assemblage. And he wants a cook to make soup in a canal boat, said she, and off she marched into the back room, followed closely by all the other women. I don't think we have any one here who would suit you, said Mrs. Blaine. I didn't think so either. What on earth would euphemia have done with that volcanic Irish woman in her little kitchen? I took up my hat and bad Mrs. Blaine good morning. Good morning, said she, with a distressing smile. She had one of those mouths that looked exactly like a gash in the face. I went home without a girl. In a day or two euphemia came to town and got one. Apparently she got her without any trouble, but I am not sure. She went to a home—somebody's home—a place where they keep orphans to let, so to speak. Here euphemia selected a light-haired medium-sized orphan and brought her home. The girl's name was Pomona. Whether or not her parents gave her this name is doubtful. At any rate she did not seem quite decided in her mind about it herself, for she had not been with us more than two weeks before she expressed a desire to be called Claire. This longing of her heart, however, was denied her. So euphemia, who was always correct, called her Pomona. I did the same whenever I could think not to say Bologna, which seemed to come very pat for some reason or other. As for the border he generally called her Altoona, connecting her in some way with the process of stopping for refreshments in which she was an adept. She was an earnest, hearty girl. She was always in good humor, and when I asked her to do anything she assented in a bright, cheerful way, and in a loud tone full of good fellowship, as though she would say, certainly my high old cock, to be sure I will. Don't worry about it. Give your mind no more uneasiness on that subject.  She did not know very much, but she was delighted to learn and she was very strong. Whatever euphemia told her to do she did instantly with a bang. What pleased her better than anything else was to run up and down the gang-plank, carrying buckets of water to water the garden. She delighted in outdoor work and sometimes dug so vigorously in our garden that she brought up pieces of the deck-planking with every shovelful. Our border took the greatest interest in her and sometimes watched her movement so intently that he let his pipe go out. What a whacking girl that would be to tread grapes out in the vineyards of Italy. She'd make wine cheap, he once remarked. Then I'm glad she isn't there, said euphemia, for wine oughtn't to be cheap. Euphemia was a thorough little temperance woman. The one thing about Pomona that troubled me more than anything else was her taste for literature. It was not literature to which I objected but her very peculiar taste. She would read in the kitchen every night after she had washed the dishes. But if she had not read aloud it would not have made so much difference to me. But I am naturally very sensitive to external impressions, and I do not like the company of people who, like our girl, cannot read without pronouncing in a measured and distinct voice every word of what they are reading. And when the matter thus read appeals to one's every sentiment of aversion, and there is no way of escaping it, the case is hard indeed. From the first I felt inclined to order Pomona if she could not attain the power of silent perusal to cease from reading altogether, but euphemia would not hear to this. Poor thing, said she, it would be cruel to take from her her only recreation. And she says she can't read any other way. You needn't listen if you don't want to. That was all very well in an abstract point of view, but the fact was that in practice the more I didn't want to listen the more I heard. As the evenings were often cool, we sat in our dining-room, and the partition between this room and the kitchen seemed to have no influence whatever in a resting sound. So that when I was trying to read or reflect, it was by no means exhilarating to my mind to hear from the next room that the ladies sell, seal the, now size it, the, weep on, and all through the, borely, villy, and retain, Ned, his vigorous hold. She drew the blade through his fingers, and hurled it far behind her, bing, with, jor. This sort of thing, kept up for an hour or so at a time, used to drive me nearly wild. But Euphemia did not mind it. I believe that she had so delicate a sense of what was proper that she did not hear Pomona's private readings. On one occasion even Euphemia's influence could scarcely restrain me from violent interference. It was our border's night out, when he was detained in town by his business, and Pomona was sitting up to let him in. This was necessary, for our front door, or main hatchway, had no night latch, but was fastened by means of a bolt. Euphemia and I used to sit up for him, but that was earlier in the season, when it was pleasant to be out on deck until quite a late hour. But Pomona never objected to sitting or getting up late, and so we allowed this weekly duty to devolve on her. On this particular night I was very tired and sleepy, and soon after I got into bed I dropped into a delightful slumber. But it was not long before I was awakened by the fact that Sarah did not flinch but grasped the heated iron in her uninjured hand, and when the rapid ennimal approached, she thrust the lurid poker in his mind. My conscience, said I to Euphemia, can't that girl be stopped?  No, but she needn't read out that way. She can't read any other way, said Euphemia drowsily. Yell after yell resounded as he wildly sprang. I can't stand that, and I won't, said I. Why don't she go into the kitchen? The dining room's no place for her. She must not sit there, said the Euphemia. There's a window-pane out.  I shall not be able to breathe if I do, but I suppose that's no matter, I replied. The reading continued. Ha, ha, Lord Marmant, Thundered, Thou too shalt suffer all that this poor I sprang out of bed. Euphemia thought I was going for my pistol, and she gave one bound and struck her head out of the door. Pomona, fly, she cried. Yes, ma'am, said Pomona, and she got up and flew, not very fast, I imagine. Where she flew, too, I don't know, but she took the lamp with her, and I could hear distant syllables of agony and blood until the border came home and Pomona went to bed. I think that this made an impression upon Euphemia, for although she did not speak to me upon the subject or any other that night, the next time I heard Pomona reading, the words ran somewhat thus. The astonishing chiapness of land is accounted for by the want of home markets, of good row woods, and chiap means of transportation in many sectians of the state. End of section 6 Section 7 of Rudder Grange This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 4 Treating of a Novel Style of Burglar, Part 1 I've spoken of my pistol. During the early part of our residence at Rudder Grange I never thought of such a thing as owning a pistol. But it was different now. I kept a colt's revolver loaded in the bureau drawer in our bedroom. The cause of this change was burglars. Not that any of these unpleasant persons had visited us, but we much feared they would. Several houses in the vicinity had been entered during the past month, and we could never tell when our turn would come. To be sure, our border suggested that if we were to anchor out a little further at night, no burglar would risk catching his death of cold by swimming out to us, but Euphemia having replied that it would be rather difficult to move a canal boat every night without paddle wheels, or sails, or mules, especially if it were a ground, this plan was considered to be effectually disposed of. So we made up our minds that we must fasten up everything very securely, and I bought a pistol and two burglar alarms. One of these I affixed to the most exposed window and the other to the door which opened on the deck. These alarms were very simple affairs, but they were good enough. When they were properly attached to a window or door and it was opened, a little gong sounded like a violently deranged clock, striking all the hours of the day at once. The window did not trouble us much, but it was rather irksome to have to make the attachment to the door every night and to take it off every morning. However, as Euphemia said, it was better to take a little trouble than to have the house full of burglars, which was true enough. We made all the necessary arrangements in case burglars should make an in-road upon us. At the first sound of the alarm, Euphemia and the girl were to lie flat on the floor or get under their beds. Then the border and I were to stand up, back to back, each with pistol in hand, and fire away, revolving in a common center the while. In this way, by aiming horizontally at about four feet from the floor, we could rake the premises and run no risk of shooting each other or the women of the family. To be sure, there were some slight objections to this plan. The border's room was at some distance from ours, and he would probably not hear the alarm and the burglars might not be willing to wait while I went forward and roused him up and brought him to our part of the house. But this was a minor difficulty. I had no doubt but that, if it should be necessary, I could manage to get our border into position in plenty of time. It was not very long before there was an opportunity of testing the plan. About twelve o'clock one night one of the alarms that on the kitchen window went off with a whirr and a wild succession of clangs. For a moment I thought the morning train had arrived and then I woke up. Euphemia was already under the bed. I hurried on a few clothes and then I tried to find the bureau in the dark. This was not easy as I lost my bearings entirely. But I found it at last, got the top drawer open and took out my pistol. Then I slipped out of the room, hurried up the stairs, opened the door, setting off the alarm there, by the way, and ran along the deck. There was a cold night wind and hastily descended the steep steps that led into the border's room. The door that was at the bottom of the steps was not fastened and as I opened it a little stray moonlight illuminated the room. I hastily stepped to the bed and shook the border by the shoulder. He kept his pistol under the pillow. An instant he was on his feet. His hand grasped my throat and the cold muzzle of his Derringer pistol was at my forehead. It was an awfully big muzzle like the mouth of a bottle. I don't know when I lived so long as during the first minute that he held me thus. Rascal, he said, do so much as breathe and I'll pull the trigger. I didn't breathe.  Would it hold good in a case like that? I was going to be back into the little patch of moonlight. Oh, is it you? He said, relaxing his grasp. What do you want? A mustard plaster? He had a package of patent plasters in his room. You took one and dipped it in hot water and it was all ready. No, said I, gasping a little. Burglars. Oh, he said, and he put down his pistol and put on his clothes. He went to going down. I started to go down first, but the border held me back. Let me go down, he said. No, said I. My wife is there. That's the very reason you should not go, he said. She is safe enough yet and they would fire only at a man. It would be a bad job for her if you were killed. I'll go down. So he went down slowly and cautiously, his pistol in one burglar and euphemia were below, so I followed. The border was standing in the middle of the dining room, into which the stairs led. I could not see him, but I put my hand against him as I was feeling my way across the floor. I whispered to him, shall we put our backs together and revolve and fire? No, he whispered back, not now. He may be on a shelf by this door. As we opened the door we instinctively stopped. The window was open and by the light of the moon that shone in we saw the rascal standing on a chair, leaning out of the window, evidently just ready to escape. Fortunately we were unheard. Let's pull him in, whispered the border. No, I whispered in reply, we don't want him in. Let's hoist him out. All right, returned the hoist when I count three, breathed the border into my ear. We reached the chair. Each of us took hold of two of its legs. One, two, three, said the border, and together we gave a tremendous lift and shot the wretch out of the window. The tide was high and there was a good deal of water around the boat. We heard a rousing splash outside. Now there was no need of silence. Shall we run on deck and rush on deck? I seized the boat-hook and looked over the side, but I saw no one. He's gone to the bottom, I exclaimed. He didn't go very far then, said the border, for it's not more than two feet deep there. Just then our attention was attracted by a voice from the shore. Will you please let down the gang plank? We looked ashore and there stood Pomona, dripping from every pore. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Brother Grange by Frank R. Stockton. CHAPTER IV. We spoke no words, but lowered the gang plank. She came aboard. Good night, said the border, and he went to bed. Pomona, said I, what have you been doing? I was a child. How'd I went? You shouldn't do that, I said sternly. Someday you'll be drowned.  Yes, ma'am. Sir, I mean," said she as she went downstairs. When I reached my room, I lighted the lamp and found Euphemia still under the bed. Is it all right? She asked. Yes, I answered. There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of the window. Did you get her back? Were you worried about me, dear? No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under the bed. In one minute she was asleep. The border and I did not make this matter a subject of conversation afterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways and made her take several dovers' powders the next day. An important fact in domestic economy was that we did not find it out, and this fact was that housekeeping cost money. At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures, it was no trouble at all to count up our receipts, and every week the result was more unsatisfactorily. If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has to be taken along all the time and which gets bigger and bigger like a snowball, I think we would find the accounts more important. We always got our pencils and paper and money out at the end of the week. Yes, said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned, but it would be all well enough if we could take that snowball to the fire and melt it down. But there is never any fire when there are snowballs, said Euphemia. No, said I, and that's just the trouble. It was on the following Thursday, when I came home so happy, for she had been very quiet and preoccupied for the first part of the week. So much so indeed that I had thought of ordering smaller roasts for a week or two and taking her to a Thomas concert with the money saved. But this evening she looked as if she did not need Thomas' orchestra. What makes you so bright, my dear, said I, when I greeted her. Has anything jolly happened? No, said she, of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it, but she would not tell me. It was a plan that she intended to keep to herself until she saw how it worked. I did not press her because she had so few secrets and I did not hear anything about this plan until it had been carried out. Her scheme was as follows. After thinking over our financial condition and puzzling her brain to find some way of bettering to help defray our household expenses. She had never made any money, but that was no reason why she should not begin. It was too bad that I should have to toil and toil and not make nearly enough money after all. So she would go to work and earn something with her own hands. She had heard of an establishment in the city where ladies of limited means or transiently impecunious could in a very quiet and private way get sewing to do. They could thus find anyone but the officers of the institution knowing anything about it. So Euphemia went to this place and she got some work. It was not a very large bundle, but it was larger than she had been accustomed to carry and, what was perfectly dreadful, it was wrapped up in newspaper. When Euphemia told me the story, she said that this was too much for her courage. She could not go on the cars and perhaps meet people belonging to our church with a newspaper bundle under her arm. And as for expedience saved her from this humiliation. She had to purchase some sewing-cotton and some other little things, and when she had bought them she handed her bundle to the woman behind the counter and asked her if she would not be so good as to have that wrapped up with the other things. It was a good deal to ask she knew and the woman smiled for the articles she had bought would not make a package as large as her hand. However, her request was complied with and she took away and wore a stamp on the outside. I suppose that there are not more than half a dozen people in this country who would refuse Euphemia anything that she would be willing to ask for. So she took the work home and she labored faithfully at it for about a week. She did not suppose it would take her so long, but she was not used to such very plain sewing and was much afraid that she would not do it neatly enough. Besides this she could only work on it in the daytime when I was away and was of course interrupted a great deal by her ordinary household duties and the necessity of a careful oversight of Pomona's somewhat erratic methods of doing her work. But at last she finished the job and took it into the city. She did not want to spend any more money on the trip than was absolutely necessary and so was very glad to find that she had a remnant of pocket money sufficient to pay her fare both ways. When she reached the city she walked up to the place where her work was to be much farther when she went on foot than it had seemed to her in riding the street cars. She handed over her bundle to the proper person and as it was soon examined and approved she received her pay therefore. It amounted to sixty cents. She had made no bargain but she was a little astonished. However she said nothing but left the place without asking for any more work. In fact she forgot all about it. She had an idea that everything was all wrong and that idea engrossed her mind entirely. There was no mistake about the sum paid for the lady clerk had referred to the printed table of prices when she calculated the amount due. But something was wrong and at the moment Euphemia could not tell what it was. She left the place and started to walk back to the ferry. But she was so tired and weak and hungry it was now an hour or two past her regular luncheon time that she thought she should faint if she did not go somewhere and as she was she went into a restaurant. She sat down at a table and a waiter came to her to see what she would have. She was not accustomed to eating houses and perhaps this was the first time that she had ever visited one alone. What she wanted was something simple. So she ordered a cup of tea and some rolls and a piece of chicken. The meal was a very good one and Euphemia enjoyed it. When she had finished she went up to the counter to settle. Her bill was sixty cents. She paid the money that she had received and walked down to the ferry all in a day as she said. When she got home she thought it over and then she cried. After a while she dried her eyes and when I came home she told me all about it. I give up, she said, I don't believe I can help you any. Poor little thing I took her in my arms and comforted her and before bedtime I had convinced her that she was fully able to help me better than anyone else on earth and that without puzzling her we'd be in pain. There was only one way to save her. She could not help you any more. So we went on in our old way and by keeping our attention on our weekly balance we prevented it from growing very rapidly.  It was all the capital we had and became as calm and contented as circumstances allowed. End of section eight. Section nine of Rudder Grange. Please visit LibriVox.org. Rutter Grange by Frank R. Stockton. CHAPTER V. Pomona Produces a Partial Revolution in Rutter Grange, Part I. Euphemia began to take a great deal of comfort in her girl. Every evening she had some new instance to relate of Pomona's inventive abilities and aptness in adapting herself to the peculiarities of our method of housekeeping. Only to think, said she, one afternoon, Pomona has just done another very smart thing.  Well, she has remedied all that.  I tell you she's smart. Yes, there is no doubt of that, I said, but I think that there is a danger of her taking more interest in such extraordinary and novel duties than in the regular work of the house. Now, don't discourage the girl, my dear, she said, for she is of the greatest use to me, and I don't want you to be throwing cold water about like some people. Not even if I throw it out of Pomona's little door, I suppose. No, don't throw it at all. Encourage people. What would the world be if everybody chilled our aspirations in extraordinary efforts, like Fulton's steamboat? All right, I said, I'll not discourage her. It was now getting late in the season. It was quite too cool to sit out on deck in the evening, and our garden began to look desolate. Our border had wheeled up a lot of fresh earth, and had prepared a large bed in which she had planted turnips. They made an excellent fall crop, he assured us. From being simply cool it began to be rainy, and the weather grew decidedly unpleasant. But our border bad us take courage. This was probably the equinoctial, and when it was over there would be a delightful Indian summer, and the turnips would grow nicely. This sounded very well, but the wind blew up cold at night, and there was a great deal of unpleasant rain. One night it blew what Pomona called a whorlacane, and we went to bed very early to keep warm. We heard our border on deck in the garden after we were in bed, and Euphemia said she could not imagine what he was about, unless he was anchoring his turnips to keep them from blowing away. During that night I had a dream. I thought I was a boy again, and was trying to stand upon my head, a feat for which I had been famous.  I woke suddenly, and found that the footboard of the bed was much higher than our heads. We were lying on a very much inclined plane with our heads downward. I roused Euphemia, and we both got out of bed, when almost at the same moment we slipped down the floor into ever so much water. Euphemia was scarcely awake, and she fell down, gurgling. It was dark, but I heard her fall, and jumped over the bedstead to her assistance. I had scarcely raised her up when I heard a pounding at the front door, or main hatchway, and our border shouted, Get up! Come out of that! Open the door! The old boat's turning over! My heart fell within me, but I clutched Euphemia. I said no word, and she simply screamed. I dragged her over the floor, sometimes in the water and sometimes out of it. I got the dining-room door open and set her on the stairs. They were in a topsy-turvy condition, but they were dry. I found a lantern which hung on a nail, with a matchbox under it, and I struck a light. Then I scrambled back and brought her some clothes. All this time the border was yelling and pounding at the door. When Euphemia was ready I opened the door and took her out. Dress yourself, said the border. I'll hold her here until you come back. I left her and found my clothes, which chair and all had tumbled against the foot of the bed and had not gone into the water, and soon reappeared on deck. The wind was blowing strongly, but it did not now seem to be very cold. The deck reminded me of the gangplank of a Harlem steamboat at Low Tide. It was inclined at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, I am sure. There was light enough for us to see about us, but the scene and all the dreadful circumstances made me feel the most intense desire to wake up and find it all a dream. There was no doubt, however, about the border being wide awake. Now, then, said he, take hold of her on that side and we'll help her over here. You scramble down on that side, it's all dry just there. The boat's turned over toward the water, and I'll lower her down to you. I'll let a rope over the sides. You can hold on to that as you go down. I got over the bulwarks and let myself down to the ground. Then the border got Euphemia up and slipped her over the side, holding to her at hands and letting her gently down until I could reach her. She never said a word, but screamed at times. I carried her a little way up the shore and set her down. I wanted to take her up to a house nearby where we bought our milk, but she declined to go until we had saved Pomona. So I went back to the boat, having carefully wrapped up Euphemia to endeavor to save the girl. I found that the border had so arranged the gangplank that it was possible, without a very great exercise of agility, to pass from the shore to the boat.  Where is Pomona, I said, endeavoring to stand on the hillside of the deck? I don't know, said he, but we must get the things out. The tide's rising and the wind's getting up. The boat will go over before we know it. But we must find the girl, I said. She can't be left to drown. I don't think it would matter much, said he, getting over the side of the boat with his awkward load. She would be of about as much use drowned as any other way. If it hadn't been for the hold that she cut in the side of the boat, this would never have happened. You don't think it was that, I said, holding the picture in the chair while he let himself down to the gangplank? Yes, it was, he replied. The tide's very high and the water got over that hole and rushed in. The water and the wind will finish this old craft before very long. CHAPTER V. Pomona produces a partial revolution in rudder-grange, part two.  I went below to look for Pomona. The lantern still hung on the nail and I took it down and went into the kitchen. There was Pomona, dressed, and with her hat on, quietly packing some things in a basket. Come, hurry out of this, I cried.  Yes, ma'am, sir, I mean, I know it, and I suppose we shall soon be at the mercy of the waves. Well then, go as quickly as you can. What are you putting in that basket? Food, she said. We may need it. I took her by the shoulder and hurried her on deck, over the bulwark, down the gangplank, and so to the place where I had left Euphemia. I found the dear girl there, quiet and collected, all up in a little bunch, to shield herself from the wind. I wasted no time but hurried the two women over to the house of our milk merchant. There with some difficulty I roused the good woman, and after seeing Euphemia and Pomona safely in the house, I left them to tell the tale, and ran back to the boat. The border was working like a trojan. He had already a pile of our furniture on the beach. I set about helping him, and for an hour we labored at this hasty and toilsome moving. It was indeed a toilsome business. The floors were shelving, the stairs leaned over sideways, ever so far, and the gangplank was desperately short and steep. Still we saved quite a number of household articles. Some things we broke and some we forgot, and some things were too big to move in this way, but we did very well considering the circumstances. The wind roared, the tide rose, and the boat groaned and creaked. We were in the kitchen trying to take the stove apart. The border was sure we could carry it up if we could get the pipe out and the legs and doors off when we heard a crash. We rushed on deck and we found that the garden had fallen in. Making our way, as well as we could, toward the gaping rent in the deck, we saw that the turnip bed had gone down bodily into the border's room. He did not hesitate but scrambled down his narrow stairs. I followed him. He struck a match that he had in his pocket and lighted a little lantern that hung under the stairs. His room was a perfect rubbish heap. The floor, bed, chairs, pitcher, basin, everything was covered or filled with garden mold and turnips. Never did I behold such a scene. He stood in the midst of it, holding his lantern high above his head. At length he spoke. If we had time, he said, we might come down here and pick out a lot of turnips. But how about your furniture, I exclaimed. Oh, that's ruined, he replied. So we did not attempt to save any of it, but we got hold of his trunk and carried that on shore. When we returned we found that the water was pouring through his partition, making the room a lake of mud. And as the water was rising rapidly below and the boat was keeling over more and more, we thought it was time to leave and we left. It would not do to go far away from our possessions, which were piled up in a sad-looking heap on the shore. And so, after I had gone over to the milk-womans to assure Euphemia of our safety, the border and I passed the rest of the night. There was not much of it left. In walking up and down the beach, smoking some cigars which he fortunately had in his pocket. In the morning I took Euphemia to the hotel about a mile away and arranged for the storage of our furniture there until we could find another habitation. This habitation, we determined, was to be in a substantial house or part of a house which should not be affected by the tides. During the morning the removal of our effects was successfully accomplished and our border went to town to look for a furnished room. He had nothing but his trunk to take to it. In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel where she was taking a nap. She certainly needed it for she had spent the night in a wooden rocking-chair at the milk-womans and I strolled down to the river to take a last look at the remains of old Redder Grange. I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to the canal-boat and thought how it had been worn by my feet more than any others and how gladly I had walked that way so often during that delightful summer. I forgot all that had been disagreeable and thought only of the happy times we had had. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon and the wind had entirely died away. When I came with inside of our old home it presented a doleful appearance. The bow had drifted out into the river and was almost entirely underwater. The stern stuck up in a mournful and ridiculous manner with its keel instead of its broadside presenting to the view of persons on the shore. As I neared the boat I heard a voice. I stopped and listened. There was no one in sight. Could the sounds come from the boat? I concluded that it must be so and I walked up closer. Then I distinctly heard the words. He grasped her by the throat and yelled, Yelling to me, Thou never wilt reveal my secret, Or thy hot heart's blood shall stain this marble fiber. She gave one grievous gasp, and it was Pomona. Doubtless she had climbed up the stern of the boat and had descended into the depths of the wreck to rescue her beloved book. The reading of which had so long been interrupted by my harsh decrees. Could I break in on this one hour of rapture? I had not the heart to do it, and as I slowly moved away there came to me the last words that I ever heard from Rutter Grange. And with one wild shriek to heaven her heart's blood spattered that princely home of woe. CHAPTER VI The New Rutter Grange, Part I I have before given an account of the difficulties we encountered when we started out house-hunting, and it was this doleful experience which made Euphemia declare that before we set out on a second search for a residence we should know exactly what we wanted. To do this we must know how other people live, we must examine into the advantages and disadvantages of the various methods of house-keeping, and make up our minds on the subject. When we came to this conclusion we were in a city boarding-house, and we were entirely satisfied that this style of living did not suit us at all. At this juncture I received a letter from the gentleman who had boarded with us on the canal-boat. Shortly after leaving us, the previous fall, he had married a widow-lady with two children, and was now keeping house in a French flat in the upper part of the city. We had called upon the happy couple soon after their marriage, and the letter now received contained an invitation for us to come and dine and spend the night. We'll go, said Euphemia, there's nothing I want so much as to see how people keep house in a French flat. Of course we'll like it, and I must see those children. So we went. The house, as Euphemia remarked, was anything but flat. It was very tall, indeed, the tallest house in the neighborhood. We entered the vestibule, the outer door being opened, and behold, on one side of us a row of bell-handles. Above each of these handles was the mouth of a speaking tube, and above each of these a little glazed frame containing a visiting card. Isn't this cute, said Euphemia, reading over the cards. Here's his name, and this is his bell and tube. Which would you do first, ring or blow? My dear, said I, you don't blow up those tubes. We must ring the bell, just as if it were an ordinary front door bell, and instead of coming to the door someone will call down the tube to us. I rang the bell under the boarder's name, and very soon a voice at the tube said, Well, I told our names, and in an instant the front door opened. Why, their flat must be right here, whispered Euphemia. How quickly the girl came. And she looked for the girl as we entered, but there was no one there. Their flat is on the fifth story, said I. He mentioned that in his letter.  Up and up the softly carpeted stairs we climbed, and not a soul we saw or heard. It is like an enchanted cavern, said Euphemia.  When you come to the yogur, said the boarder, who was standing at the top of the stairs. He did not behave at all like an ogre, for he was very glad to see us, and so was his wife. After we had settled down in the parlor, and the boarder's wife had gone to see about something concerning the dinner, Euphemia asked after the children. I hope they haven't gone to bed, she said, for I do so want to see the dear little things. The ex-boarder, as Euphemia called him, smiled grimly. They're not so very little, he said. My wife's son is nearly grown. He is at an academy in Connecticut, and he expects to go into a civil engineer's office in the spring. His sister is older than he is. My wife married in the first instance when she was very young. Very young indeed. Oh, said Euphemia, and then after a pause, and neither of them is at home now? No, said the ex-boarder. By the way, what do you think of this dado? It is a portable one. I defied it myself. You can take it away with you to another house when you move. But there is the dinner-bell. I'll show you over the establishment after we have had something to eat. After our meal we made a tour of inspection. The flat, which included the whole floor, contained nine or ten rooms, of all shapes and sizes. The corners in some of the rooms were cut off and shaped up into closets and recesses, so that Euphemia said the corners of every room were in some other room. Near the back of the flat was a dumb-waiter with bells and speaking-tubes. When the butcher, the baker, or the kerosene lamp-maker came each morning, he rang the bell and called up the tube to know what was wanted. The order was called down and he brought the things in the afternoon. All this greatly charmed Euphemia. It was so cute, so complete. There were no interviews with disagreeable tradespeople, none of the ordinary annoyances of housekeeping. Everything seemed to be done with a bell, a speaking-tube, or a crank. Indeed, said the exporter, if it were not for people tripping over the wires, I could rig up attachments by which I could sit in the parlor, and by using pedals and a keyboard I could do all the work of this house without getting out of my easy chair. One of the most peculiar features of the establishment was the servant's room. This was at the rear end of the floor, and as there was not much space left after the other rooms had been made, it was very small, so small, indeed, that it would accommodate only a very short bedstead. This made it necessary for our friends to consider the sides of the servant when they engaged her. There were several excellent girls at the intelligence office where I called, said the exporter, but I measured them and they were all too tall. So we had to take a short one, who was only so-so. There was one big scotch girl who was the very person for us, and I would have taken her if my wife had not objected to my plan for her accommodation. What was that? I asked. Well, said he, I first thought of cutting a hole in the partition wall at the foot of the bed for her to put her feet through. Never, said his wife emphatically, I would never have allowed that. And then, continued he, I thought of turning the bed around and cutting a larger hole through which she might have put her head into the little room on this side. A low table could have stood under the hole, and her head might have rested on a cushion on the table very comfortably. My dear, said his wife, it would have frightened me to death to go into that room and see that head on a cushion on a table, like John the Baptist interrupted Euphemia. Well, said our exporter, the plan would have had its advantages. Oh, cried Euphemia, looking out of a back window. What a lovely little iron balcony!  That's a fire escape, said the exporter. We don't go out there unless it is very hot indeed, on account of the house being on fire. You see, there is a little door on the floor of the balcony and an iron ladder leading to the balcony beneath, and so on, down to the first story. And you have to creep through that hole and go down that dreadful steep ladder every time there is a fire? said Euphemia. Well, I guess we would never go down but once, he answered. No indeed, said Euphemia, you'd fall down and break your neck the first time, and she turned away from the window with a very grave expression on her face. Soon after this our hostess conducted Euphemia to the guest chamber, while her husband and I finished a bedtime cigar. When I joined Euphemia in her room, she met me with a mysterious expression on her face.  I did not notice it until I came in just now, and then, being quite astonished, I said, Why, here's a child's bed. Who sleeps here? Oh, says she, that's our little Adele's bedstead. We have it in our room when she's here. Adele, Adele, said I, I didn't know she was little, not small enough for that bed at any rate. Why, yes, said she, Adele is only four years old. The bedstead is quite large enough for her. And she is not here now, I said, utterly amazed at all this. No, she answered, she is not here now, but we try to have her with us as much as we can, and always keep her little bed ready for her. I suppose she's with her father's people, I said, and she answered, Oh yes, and bad me a good night. What does all this mean? Our boarder told us that the daughter is grown up, and here his wife declares that she is only four years old. I don't know what in the world to make of this mystery. I could give Euphemia no clue. I suppose there was some mistake, and that was all I could say, except that I was sleepy, and that we could find out all about it in the morning. But Euphemia could not dismiss this subject from her mind. She said no more, but I could see until I fell asleep that she was thinking about it. It must have been about the middle of the night. Perhaps later, when I was suddenly awakened by Euphemia starting up in the bed with the exclamation, I have it. What! I cried, sitting up in a great hurry. What is it? What have you got? What's the matter? I know it, she said. I know it. Our boarder is a grandfather. Little Adele is the grown-up daughter's child. He was quite particular to say that his wife married very young. Just to think of it. So short a time ago he was living with us, a bachelor, and now, in four short months, he's a grandfather. Carefully propounded inquiries in the morning proved Euphemia's conclusions to be correct. The next evening, when we were quietly sitting in our own room, Euphemia remarked that she did not wish to have anything to do with French flats. They seemed to be very convenient, I said. Oh, yes, convenient enough, but I don't like them.  And when I think of those fire escapes and the boarder's grandchild, it makes me feel very unpleasant. But the grandchild don't follow as a matter of course, I said. No, she answered, but I shall never like French flats. And we discussed them no more. CHAPTER VI. THE NEW RUTTER GRAINGE PART II For some weeks we examined into every style of economic and respectable housekeeping, and many methods of living in what Euphemia called imitation comfort were set aside as unworthy of consideration. My dear, said Euphemia one evening, what we really ought to do is to build. Then we would have exactly the house we want. Very true, I replied, but to build a house a man must have money. Oh, no, said she, or at least not much. For one thing you might join a building association. In some of those societies I know that you only have to pay a dollar a week. But do you suppose the association builds houses for all its members? I asked. Of course, I suppose so. Else why is it called a building association? I had read a good deal about those organizations, and I explained to Euphemia that a dollar a week was never received by any of them in payment for a new house. Then build yourself, she said. I know how that can be done. Oh, it's easy enough, I remarked, if you have the money. No, you needn't have any money, said Euphemia, rather hastily. Just let me show you. Supposing, for instance, that you want to build a house worth, well, say, twenty thousand dollars in some pretty town near the city. I would rather figure on a cheaper house than that for a country place, I interrupted. Well then, say, two thousand dollars. You get masons and carpenters and people to dig the cellar, and you engage them to build your house. You needn't pay them until it's done, of course. Then when it's all finished, borrow two thousand dollars and give the house a security. After that, you see, you only have to pay the interest on the borrowed money. When you save enough money to pay back the loan, the house is your own. Now, isn't that a good plan?  Well, said Euphemia, I guess they could be found if you would only look for them. I'll look for them when I go to heaven, I said. We gave up for the present the idea of building or buying a house and determined to rent a small place in the country, and then, as Euphemia wisely said, if we liked it, we might buy it. After she had dropped her building project, she thought that one ought to know just how a house would suit before having it on one's hands. We could afford something better than a canal boat now, and therefore we were not so restricted as in our first search for a house. But the one thing which troubled my wife, and indeed caused me much anxious thought, was that scourge of almost all rural localities tramps. It would be necessary for me to be away all day, and we could not afford to keep a man, so we must be careful to get a house somewhere off the line of ordinary travel, or else in a well-settled neighborhood, where there would be someone near at hand in case of unruly visitors. A village I don't like, said Euphemia, there is always so much gossip and people know all about what you have and what you do, and yet it would be very lonely and perhaps dangerous for us to live off somewhere all by ourselves. And there is another objection to a village.  We ought to have a dear little farm, with some fields for corn and a cow and a barn and things of that sort. All that would be lovely. I'll tell you what we want, she cried, seized with a sudden inspiration. We ought to try to get the end house of a village. Then our house could be near the neighbors, and our farm could stretch out a little way into the country beyond us. Let us fix our minds upon such a house, and I believe we can get it. So we fixed our minds, but in the course of a week or two we unfixed them several times to allow the consideration of places which otherwise would have been out of range, and during one of these intervals of mental disfixment we took a house. It was not the end house of a village, but it was in the outskirts of a very small rural settlement. Our nearest neighbor was within vigorous shouting distance, and the house suited us so well in other respects that we concluded that this would do. The house was small but large enough. There were some trees around it and a little lawn in front. There was a garden, a small barn and stable, a pasture field, and land enough besides for small patches of corn and potatoes. The rent was low, the water good, and no one can imagine how delighted we were. We did not furnish the whole house at first, but what mattered it? We had no horse or cow, but the pasture and barn were ready for them. We did not propose to begin with everything at once. Our first evening in that house was made up of hours of unalloyed bliss. We walked from room to room, we looked out on the garden and the lawn, we sat on the little porch while I smoked. We were happy at Rudder Grange, said Euphemia, but that was only a canal boat, and could not in the nature of things have been a permanent home. No, said I, it could not have been permanent, but in many respects it was a delightful home. The very name of it brings pleasant thoughts. It was a nice name, said Euphemia, and I'll tell you what we might do. Let us call this place Rudder Grange, the new Rudder Grange. The name will do just as well for a house as for a boat. I agreed on the spot and the house was christened. Our household was very small. We had a servant, a German woman, and we had ourselves, and that was all. I did not do much in the garden. It was too late in the season. The former occupant had planted some corn and potatoes with a few other vegetables, and these I weeded and hoed, working early in the morning and when I came home in the afternoon.  This exercise gave us splendid appetites, and we loved our new home more and more. Our German girl did not suit us exactly at first, and day by day she grew to suit us less. She was a quiet, kindly, pleasant creature and delighted in an out-of-door light. She was as willing to weed in the garden as she was to cook or wash. At first I was very much pleased with this because, as I remarked to Euphemia, you can find very few girls who would be willing to work in the garden, and she might be made very useful. But after a time Euphemia began to get a little out of patience with her. She worked out of doors entirely too much, and what she did there, as well as some of her work in the house, was very much like certain German literature. You did not know how it was done or what it was for. One afternoon I found Euphemia quite annoyed. Look here, she said, and see what the girl has been at work at nearly all this afternoon. I was upstairs sowing and thought she was ironing. Isn't it too provoking? It was provoking. The contemplative German had collected a lot of short hand bones, where she found them I cannot imagine, and had made of them a border around my wife's flower bed. The bones stuck up straight a few inches above the ground, all along the edge of the bed, and the marrow cavity of each one was filled with earth in which she had planted seeds. These, she says, will spring up and look beautiful, said Euphemia. They have that style of thing in her country. Then let her take them off with her to her country, I exclaimed. No, no, said Euphemia hurriedly. Don't kick them out. It would only wound her feelings. She did it all for the best, and thought it would please me to have such a border around my bed. But she is too independent and neglects her proper work. I will give her a week's notice and get another servant. When she goes we can take these horrid bones away. But I hope nobody will call on us in the meantime. Must we keep these things here a whole week? I asked. Oh, I can't turn her away without giving her fair notice. That would be cruel. I saw the truth of the remark, and determined to bear with the bones and her rather than be unkind. That night Euphemia informed the girl of her decision, and the next morning, soon after I had left, the good German appeared with her bonnet on and her carpet bag in her hand to take leave of her mistress. What! cried Euphemia. You are not going today. If it is good to go at all, it is good to go now, said the girl. And you will go off and leave me without anyone in the house after my putting myself out to give you fair notice. It's shameful. I think it is very good for me to go now, quietly repied the girl. This house is very loneful. I will go to-morrow in the city to see your husband for my money. Good morning. And off she treads to the station. Before I reached the house that afternoon, Euphemia rushed out to tell this story. I would not like to say how far I kicked those hand bones. This German girl had several successors, and some of them suited as badly and left as abruptly as herself. But Euphemia never forgot the ungrateful stab given her by this hand bone girl, as she always called her. It was her first wound of the kind, and it came in the very beginning of the campaign when she was all unused to this domestic warfare. CHAPTER VII It was a couple of weeks or thereabouts after this episode that Euphemia came down to the gate to meet me on my return from the city. I noticed a very peculiar expression on her face. She looked both thoughtful and pleased. Almost the first words she said to me were these. A tramp came here today. I am sorry to hear that, I exclaimed. That's the worst news I have had yet. I did hope that we were far enough from the line of travel to escape those scourges. How did you get rid of him? Was he impertinent? You must not feel that way about all tramps, said she. Perhaps they are deserving of our charity and ought to be helped. There is a great difference in them. That may be, I said, but what of this one? When was he here, and when did he go? He did not go at all. He is here now. Here now, I cried, where is he? Do not call out so loud, said Euphemia, putting her hand on my arm. You awaken him. He is asleep. A sleep, said I, a tramp, here—yes, stop. Let me tell you about him. He told me his story, and it is a sad one. He is a middle-aged man, fifty perhaps, and has been rich. He was once a broker in Wall Street, but lost money by the failure of various railroads, the Camden and Amboy for one. That hasn't failed, I interrupted. Well then it was the northern Pacific, or some other one of them, at any rate I know it was either a railroad or a bank, and he soon became very poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful merchant, and lives in a fine house, with horses and carriages and all that, and this poor man has written to his son, but has never had any answer. So now he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see him. He knows he will not be turned away if he can once meet his son face to face. He was very tired when he stopped here, and he has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you know, and so after I had given him something to eat, I let him lie down in the outer kitchen, on that roll of rag carpet that is there. I spread it out for him. It is a hard bed for one who is known comfort, but he seems to sleep soundly. Let me see him, said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen. There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days since he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed for about the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and a good deal torn, and he wore one boot and one shoe. Phew! said I. Have you been giving him whiskey? No, whispered Euphemia. Of course not. I noticed that smell, and he said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol. They needed it, I am sure, I remarked as I turned away. And now, said I, where is the girl? This is her afternoon out. What is the matter? You look frightened. Oh, I am not frightened, but I must go down to the station again. Just run up and put on your bonnet.  I had been rapidly revolving the matter in my mind. What was I to do with this wretch who was now asleep in my outer kitchen? If I woke him up and drove him off, and I might have difficulty in doing it, there was every reason to believe that he would not go far, but return at night and commit some revengeful act. I never saw a more sinister-looking fellow, and he was certainly drunk. He must not be allowed to wander about our neighborhood. I would go for the constable and have him arrested. So I locked the door from the kitchen into the house, and then the outside door of the kitchen, and when my wife came down we hurried off. On the way I told her what I intended to do, and what I thought of her guest. She answered scarcely a word, and I hoped that she was frightened. I think she was. The constable, who was also coroner of our township, had gone to a creek three miles away to hold an inquest, and there was nobody to arrest the man. The nearest police station was at Hackingford, six miles away on the railroad. I held a consultation with the station master and the gentleman who kept the grocery store opposite. They could think of nothing to be done except to shoot the man, and to that I objected. However, said I, he can't stay here, and a happy thought just then striking me, I called to the boy who drove the village express wagon, and engaged him for a job. The wagon was standing at the station, and to save time I got in and rode to my house. Ephemia went over to call on the grocery man's wife until I returned. I had determined that the man should be taken away, although until I was riding home I had not made up my mind where to have him taken. But on the road I settled this matter. On reaching the house we drove into the yard as close to the kitchen as we could go. Then I unlocked the door, and the boy, who was a big strapping fellow, entered with me. We found the ex-broker still wrapped in the soundest slumber. Leaving the boy to watch him I went upstairs and got a baggage tag which I directed to the chief of police at the police station in Hackingford. I returned to the kitchen and fastened this tag conspicuously on the lapel of the sleeper's coat. Then with a clothesline I tied him up carefully hand and foot. To all this he offered not the slightest opposition. When he was suitably packed, with due regard to the probable tenderness of wrist and ankle, and in one brought up in luxury, the boy and I carried him to the wagon. He was a heavy load, and we may have bumped him a little, but his sleep was not disturbed. Then we drove him to the express office. This was at the railroad station, and the station master was also the express agent. At first he was not inclined to receive my parcel, but when I assured him that all sorts of live things were sent by express and that I could see no reason for making an exception in this case he added my arguments to his own disposition as a householder to see the goods forwarded to their destination, and so gave me a receipt and pasted a label on the ex-broker's shoulder. I set no value on the package which I prepaid. Now then, said the station master, he'll go all right if the express agent on the train will take him. This matter was soon settled, for in a few minutes the train stopped at the station. My package was wheeled to the express car, and two porters who entered heartily into the spirit of the thing hoisted it into the car. The train agent, who just then noticed the character of the goods, began to declare that he would not have the fellow in his car, but my friend the station master shouted out that everything was all right, the man was properly packed, invoiced and paid for, and the train which was behind time moved away before the irate agent could take measures to get rid of his unwelcome freight. Now, said I, there'll be a drunken man at the police station in Hackingsford in about half an hour. His offense will be as evident there as here, and they can do what they please with him. I shall telegraph to explain the matter and prepare them for his arrival. When I had done this Euphemia and I went home. The tramp had cost me some money, but I was well satisfied with my evening's work, and felt that the township owed me, at least, a vote of thanks. But I firmly made out my mind that Euphemia should never again be left unprotected. I would not even trust to a servant who would agree to have no afternoons out. I would get a dog. The next day I advertised for a fierce watchdog, and in the course of a week I got one. Before procuring him I examined into the merits and price of about one hundred dogs. My dog was named Pete, but I determined to make a change in that respect. He was a very tall, bony, powerful beast of a dull black color, and with a lower jaw that would crack the hind leg of an ox, so I was informed. He was of a varied breed, and the good Irishman of whom I bought him, said he had fine blood in him, and attempted to refer him back to the different classes of dogs from which he had been derived. But after I had him awhile I made an analysis based on his appearance and character, and concluded that he was mainly bloodhound, shaded with wolf-dog and mastiff, and picked out with touches of bull-dog. The man brought him home for me, and chained him up in an unused woodshed, for I had no dog-house as yet. Now, then, said he, all you've got to do is keep him chained up there for three or four days till he gets used to you. And I'll tell you the best way to make a dog like you, just give him a good licking. Then he'll know you're his master, and he'll like you ever afterward. There's plenty of people that don't know that. And by the way, sir, that chains none too strong for him. I got it when he wasn't worn half-grown. You'd better get him a new one. When the man had gone I stood and looked at the dog, and could not help hoping that he would learn to like me without the intervention of a thrashing. Such harsh methods were not always necessary, I felt sure. After our evening meal, a combination of dinner and supper, of which Euphemia used to say that she did not know whether to call it din-per or suppner, we went out together to look at our new guardian. Euphemia was charmed with him. How massive, she exclaimed, what splendid limbs, and look at that immense head. I know I shall never be afraid now. I feel that this is a dog I can rely upon. Make him stand up, please, so I can see how tall he is. I think it would be better not to disturb him, I answered. He may be tired. He will get up of his own accord very soon. And indeed I hope he will not get up until I go to the store and get him a new chain. As I said this, I made a step forward to look at his chain, and at that instant a low growl like the first rumblings of an earthquake ran through the dog. I stepped back again and walked over to the village for the chain. The dog chain shown me at the store all seemed too short and too weak, and I concluded to buy two chains, such as were used for hitching horses, and to join them so as to make a long as well as a strong one of them. I wanted him to be able to come out of the woodshed when it would be necessary to show himself. On my way home with my purchase the thought suddenly struck me. How will you put that chain on your dog? The memory of the rumbling growl was still vivid. I never put the chain on him.  His chain held and I went into the house. That night he broke loose and went home to his master, who lived fully ten miles away. When I found in the morning that he was gone I was in doubt whether it would be better to go and look for him or not. But I concluded to keep up a brave heart and found him as I expected at the place where I had bought him. The Irishman took him to my house again and I had to pay for the man's loss of time as well as for his fare on the railroad. But the dog's old master chained him up with the new chain and I felt repaid for my outlay. Every morning and night I fed that dog and I spoke as kindly and gently to him as I knew how. But he seemed to cherish the distaste for me and always greeted me with a growl. He was an awful dog. About a week after the arrival of this animal I was astonished and frightened on nearing the house to hear a scream from my wife. I rushed into the yard and was greeted with a succession of screams from two voices that seemed to come from the vicinity of the wood shed. Hurrying thither I perceived Euphemia standing on the roof of the shed in perilous proximity to the edge, while near the ridge of the roof sat our hired girl with her handkerchief over her head. Hurry, hurry! cried Euphemia. Climb up here! The dog is loose! Be quick! Be quick! Oh! He's coming! He's coming! I asked for no explanation. There was a rail fence by the side of the shed and I sprang on this and was on the roof just as the dog came bounding and barking from the barn. Instantly Euphemia had me in her arms and we came very near going off the roof together. I never feared to have you come home before, she sobbed. I thought he would tear you limb from limb. But how did all this happen, said I? Ock! I can hardly remember, said the girl from under her handkerchief. Well, I didn't ask you, I said, somewhat too sharply. Oh, I'll tell you, said Euphemia. There was a man at the gate and he looked suspicious and didn't try to come in. And Mary was at the barn looking for an egg and I thought this was a good time to see whether the dog was a good watchdog or not. So I went and unchained him. Did you unchain that dog? I cried. Yes, and the minute he was loose he made a rush at the gate. But the man was gone before he got there, and as he ran down the road I saw that he was Mr. Henderson's man, who was coming here on an errand, I expect. And then I went down to the barn to get Mary to come and help me chain up the dog, and when she came out he began to chase me and then her. And we were so frightened that we climbed up here, and I don't know, I'm sure, how I ever got up that fence. And do you think he can climb up here? Oh, no, my dear, I said. And he's just the beast to go after a steep ladder, said the girl, and muffled tones. And what are we to do, ask Euphemia? We can't eat and sleep up here. Don't you think if we were all to shout out together we could make some neighbor here? Oh, yes, I said, there is no doubt of it. But then if a neighbor comes the dog would fall on him, and tear him limb from limb, interrupted Euphemia. Yes, and besides, my dear, I should hate to have any of the neighbors come and find us all up here. It would look so utterly absurd. Let me try and think of some other plan. Well, please be as quick as you can. It's dreadful to be—who's that? I looked up and saw a female figure just entering the yard. Oh, what shall we do? exclaimed Euphemia. The dog will get her, call to her. No, no, said I. Don't make a noise. It will only bring the dog. He seems to have gone to the barn or somewhere. Keep perfectly quiet, and she may go up on the porch. And as the front door is not locked, she may rush into the house if she sees him coming. I do hope she will do that, said Euphemia, anxiously. And yet, said I, it's not pleasant to have strangers going in the house when no one's there. But it's better than seeing a stranger torn to pieces before your eyes, said Euphemia. Yes, I replied, it is. Don't you think we might get down now? The dog isn't here. No, no, cried Euphemia. There he is now, coming this way. And look at that woman. She is coming right to the shed. Sure enough, our visitor had passed by the front door and was walking toward us. Evidently, she had heard our voices. Don't come here, cried Euphemia. You'll be killed. Run, run, the dog is coming. Why, mercy on us. It's Pomona.