who forget there is a morrow jibe at the culprits, and thus plant the seeds of dissensions which bloom in fights. It was a sweaty, red-faced crew that the marshal dumped into Pennington's grocery with, "Here, Bill, I found your boy and these young demons fightin' down 't the circus ground, and I took 'em in charge. You 'tend to 'em, will you?"

Mr. Pennington's glance at his son showed that Piggy was unharmed. A swift survey of the others gave each, save Bud, a bill of health. But when Mr. Pennington's eyes fell on Bud, he leaned on a show-case and laughed till he shook all over; for Bud, with a brimless hat upon a tousled head, with a face scratched till it looked like a railroad map, with a torn shirt that exposed a dirty shoulder and a freckled back, with trousers so badly shattered that two hands could hardly hold them togetherBud, as Mr. Pennington expressed it, looked like a second-hand boy. The simile pleased Pennington so that he renewed his laughter, and paid no heed to the chatter of the pack that was clamoring to tell, all in one breath, how the incident

"NOW, HENRY, DON'T EVER
HAVE ANYTHING TO
TO DO
WITH THAT KIND OF TRASH

AGAIN.""

began, progressed, and closed which had led to Bud's dilapidation. Also they were drawing gloomy pictures of the appearance of his assailants, after the custom of boys in such cases. Because his son was not involved in the calamity, Piggy's father was not moved deeply by the story of the raid of the North-enders and their downfall. So he put the young gentlemen of the Court of Boyville into the back room of his grocery store, where coal-oil and molasses barrels and hams and bacon and black shadows of many mysterious things were gathered. He gave the royal party a cheese knife and a watermelon, and bade them be merry, a bidding which set the hearts of Piggy and Abe and Jimmy and Mealy to dancing, while Bud's heart, which had been sinking lower and lower into a quagmire of dread, beat on numbly and did not join the joy. As the

time for going home approached, Bud shivered in his soul at the thought of meeting Miss Morgan. Not even the watermelon revived him, and when a watermelon will not help a boy his extremity is dire. Still he laughed and chatted with apparent merriment, but he knew how hollow was his laughter and what mockery was in his cheer. When the melon was eaten, business took its regular order.

"Say, Bud, how you goin' to get home?" asked Abe.

Bud grinned as he looked at his rags. "Gee," said Mealy, "I'm glad it ain't me."

"Aw, shucks," returned Bud, and he thought of the stricken Ananias in the Sunday-school lesson leaf as he spoke; “run right through like I always do. What I got

to be 'fraid of?"

"Yes, Mr. Bud, you can laugh, but you know you'll catch it when you get home."

This shaft from Jimmy Sears put in words the terror in Bud's heart. But he replied: "I'll bet you I don't."

Bud's instinct piloted him by a circuitous route up the alley to the kitchen door. Miss Morgan sat on the front porch, waiting for the boy to return before serving supper. He stood helplessly in the kitchen for a minute, with a weight of indecision upon him. He feared to go to the front porch, where Miss Morgan was. He feared to stay in the kitchen. But when he saw the empty woodbox a light seemed to dawn. Instinct guided him to the woodpile, and the law of self-preservation filled his arms with wood, and instinct carried him to the kitchen wood-box time and again, and laid the wood in the box as gently as if it had been glass and as softly as if it had been velvet. Not until the pile had grown far above the wainscoting on the kitchen wall did a stick crashing to the floor tell Miss Morgan that Bud was in the house.

But there is a destiny that shapes our ends, and just as the falling wood attracted Miss Morgan's attention, it was diverted by a belligerent party at her front gate. The belligerent party was composed of two persons, to wit: one mother from the North End of Willow Creek, irate to the spluttering point, and one boy lagging as far behind the mother as his short arm would allow him to lag. The mother held the short arm, and was literally dragging her son to Miss Morgan's gate, to offer him in evidence as "Exhibit A" in a possible cause of the State of Kansas vs. Henry Perkins. Exhibit A was black and blue as to the eyes, torn as to the shirt,

kitchen floor, she called: "Henry, come here!'

As Bud shambled through the house, the spokesman of the belligerents replied: "No, there isn't no mistake, either. My boy is a good little boy, and just as peaceable a boy as there is in this town. And because I don't allow him to fight, that Perkins boy picks on him all the time. I've told him to keep out of his way and not to play with Henry Perkins, but he can't be runnin' all over this town to keep

...

. . . I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE NICE FOR THE MISSIONARY SOCIETY.""

bloody as to the nose, tumbled and dusty as to the hair, and as to the countenance, clearly and unquestionably sheep-faced. The mother opened the bombardment with: "Miss Morgan, I just want you to look at my boy."

Miss Morgan looked in horror, and exclaimed: "Well, for mercy sakes! Where on earth's he been?"

And the leader of the war party returned: "Where's he been? Well, I'll tell you where he's been. And I just want you to know who done this." Here Exhibit A got behind a post. The recital of the details of his catastrophe was humiliating. But the mother continued: "Henry Perkins done this. I don't believe in stirring up neighborhood quarrels and all that, but I've just stood this long enough. My boy can't stick

ence of Exhibit A; for the boys it was a scene too shameful for mutual recognition. Miss Morgan broke the heavy silence with: "Henry, where on earth have you been?"

"Been t' the circus," replied the boy. "Henry, did you blacken that little boy's eyes, and tear his clothes that way?" inquired Miss Morgan when her wits returned.

"Why-no'm-I didn't. But he was one of four fellers that picked on me comin' home from the circus, and tried to lick me."

tacking posse, "did you pick a fight with that Perkins boy?" "Oh, no'm, no'm! I was just playin' round the tent, me and another boy, and Bud he come up and jumped on us. And then, to add verisimilitude to his narrative, he appended: "Him and four other boys." "Henry," asked Miss Morgan, as she surveyed the débris of Henry's Sunday clothes and her womanly wrath for the destroyer of them began to boil," Henry, now tell me honestly, is this little boy telling the truth? Now, don't you story to me, Henry."

his nose out of the door without that Perkins boy jumpin' on him. If you can't do any thing with that Perkins boy, I'll show him there's a law in this land."

Miss Morgan wilted as the speech proceeded. She had voice to say only, "I'm sure there's some mistake;' and then remembering the crash of the wood on the

"Honest injun, Miss Morgan, I cross my heart and hope to drop dead this minute if I ain't tellin' you the way it was. Him and them North-enders, why they come along and

OMETHING more than a quarter of a million dollars have been expended in building, fitting, and racing the greatest of American yachts, the Columbia, in preparation for her contest with the greatest of English yachts, the Shamrock. In addition to this, it is estimated, and the estimate 'MUG." is conservative, that the five races of early October will cost the cup defenders at least $200,000. Lipton and his Englishmen, what with crossing the ocean twice with the Shamrock and her great steam tender, will spend even more than the Ameri

THE

66

cans.

And yet the average superiority of the Columbia over the former champion, the Defender, as shown by numerous trial races, is only five or ten minutes in thirty miles. In other words, for an increase of sailing speed equal to ten or twenty seconds to the mile three Americans, and some others, will pay nearly half a million dollars, and take the equal chances that the genius of the American designer has out-pointed the genius of the English designer. All this in the face of the fact that this prime racing-machine, reaching to the very limit of its speed, will not sail as fast by several knots an hour as an unpretentious little steam yacht costing perhaps a quarter as much. Indeed, it is quite possible that a number of such powerful pleasure craft as the Commodore's yacht Corsair may lay by at the start with the indulgence of superiority, and, when the racers are away, steam calmly past them, reaching the finish in time to have tea before they come in. And when the five great races have been sailed and the country has once more returned to politics, the Columbia, perfect though she be as a racing-machine, will sell for hardly more than the cost of the lead on her keel. In the event that she is beaten, her owners can expect no returns in gate money, nor in guarantees, to salve the hurt of their losses; and in case she wins-may

Neptune favor her!-the reward will consist merely in a high kind of satisfaction and an old, bottomless silver pitcher, called, disrespectfully, "The Mug."

There is something glorious-like war-in the very disregard of cost with which yachtsmen are seeking the honors of this most finished of sports-honors so great that the whole country shares freely in them, and will feel the glory of victory or the sting of defeat only less acutely than the cup-defenders themselves. Good sport is always its own best justification; and yet there is a deep additional satisfaction in the feeling that, even from the point of view of strict utility, every penny of these great sums has been well spent. For every one of the great cup contests has taught American ship-builders and American seamen important new lessons, to each according to his craft-a subject large enough to make an article in itself. Moreover, we are so constituted that we must have visible symbols of our supremacy, and a battered silver mug serves its own unique and patriotic purpose.

Viewed in this regard, we must look upon the modern racing yacht as an important, as well as a curious, production. She is as much a result of high breeding as a race-horse; indeed, it is difficult to feel that this splendid creature, with her all but human beauty, her frailties, and her foibles, is really inanimate. A yachtsman will trace the pedigree of his favorite racer back through Gloriana, Puritan, and Magic, and name the exact points of excellence which she has obtained from each. One has given windward qualities, one has given exceeding stiffness on the legs, one has given beauty, and so on through all the long list since the America brought home the famous cup. And now there are those in high authority who believe that the Columbia and the Shamrock have nearly reached the utmost of racing excellence. For forty years the English designer has bred from the best of the American types, and the American has bred from the best of the English types;