Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 206 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a play-actor in m —— She lay astern of a bu just loosening ber topsails to little one, which was a yacht. But a yacht of no kind known in Europe, though Bertrand had seen the rig often enough in the Mediterranean. One Eye, the Cannoneer. Indiaman that was , the sentries, then edged off in the shrubbery till **'You think so?” o to sea, while he reached the summer house, into which he “OT the rubicund faces of Sir John and Miladi | entered unseen, even from the belegraph station Smith looked over the big ship’s quarter at the | opposite, by keeping behind the s | | The strange yacht was a felucca, with the | long, tapering yards of a Nile dahabiah, though her bull was that of a civilized yackt in form. Not in color, however. She was painted blue, scarlet, green, gold and _ merged into a slope which ran down to James- urple, in the oddest and most fantastic style | imaginable, while one of her sails, which was hanging loose to dry, was striped in the patterns only seen in Venice, The count was no sailor, but he had seen | enough of the ocean on the voyage from France to make him smile at the fantastically deco- rated vessel, so gaudy and un-sailor-like, when he heard some one behind him say in English: ley in which the emperor’s grave was subse- ‘Well, by crickey! blest if that ain’t the | rumimiest craft I ever seen in all my born days outside of Alexendry. D’ye twig the Don in the ’ammock grand asa prince, Jim? Wouldn't I like to cut ’im down by the ’ead, jest once, to | see ’im look like a fool.” Bertrand looked round and beheld two British | tars from one of the men-of-war in the harbor, staring at the yacht. So he asked: of a hill, a cottage, occupied by an old maid, ‘*Vat is dat sheep, mon ame? De leetle von, | aint so beautifool?” he sailor winked at his comrade and took a chew of his tobacco before answering: “That ’ere? That’ere ain’t a sheep at all, Frenchy. Mediterrany.” ‘* Vell, vell, dat felucca—vat is she?” “To my thinkin’ she’s the ’ome of a bloomin’ loonattick,” was the candid reply of Jack. “She hWistes the flag of Spain when she flies anythin’, and the feller as owns her sleeps on a gold bed and eats outer di’mon’ spoons, so they say.’ ‘* Ah, den et is de sheep of dat Mexicain dey call Delmont—is it so, mon ami?”’ ‘‘ Blest if | know, mounseer. ’E’s a bloomin’ opinion. "Oo ever seen a in such toggery ’mong Chris- all feller goin’ roun tian people?” The two sailors simultaneously spat on the ground in their disgust, and walked off, leaving Bertrand to gaze at the yacht. Gorgeousness to the extent of ostentation was visible in every detail of this singular sbip, where money seemed to have been flung about in the most reckless manner. Over the quarter- deck stretched an awning made of expensive silk, fringed with gold tassels, and supported on silver rods, while every bit of metal visible, usually made of brass, had the same white gloss, indicating its value. Under the awning, in a grass hammock, then a thing unknown in Europe, lay the figure of the Mexican that Bertrand had seen in the morning, in the same dress of black velvet, with a manga of purple silk thrown over the edge of the hammock, while the young man smoked a cigarette. The count was too far off to read the name of the yacht under its stern, but seeing a midship- man coming by, he asked him: ‘*Sare, veel you tell me ze name of dat leetle shee aint so drole?” She's monsieur: belo to a % s a Spaniard rich Mexiean, Don Alberto Delmont, rich as a Jew andasplendid fellow. He's asked all the officers to a big dinner to-morrow. Sir Hudson’s going to callon him, [ hear. The name? Ob, yes. Blest if I know what it is in English, but it spells—let me see—Muchachito—do you know what it is, monsieur?” “It is leetle boy, you say in English, mon ami. T’ank you.” Then the count rode away thinking: “Who is this Mexican, and ie is he here? What interest has a Mexican in liberating our emperor?” So he rode round the port to a place where he was within less than a cable ength of the felucca, and could see her more plainiy. Then he became aware that under her bow was a figure-head in the shape of a child, beautifully cut and painted the size of life. Bertrand looked at it closely and could not restrain a start, muttering: ‘‘ Mon Dieu! it is the King of Rome!” It was the portrait of Napoleon’s child, CHAPTER X. THE SUMMER KOUSE. THAT evening, as the sun was setting, Count Bertrand asked permission of the emperor to be ‘absent for a few hours, saying he felt unwell, and had been too closely confined over his writ- ‘ing—the after-celebrated ““Memories of St. Helena,” He spoke in the presence of Captain Gervaise, and the emperior, with a show of displeasure, consented, saying: ‘* You all want to escape from me.” The count bowed in his usual quiet way and left the house, when he lighted a cigar and ‘strolled in the garden awhile, in full sight of It’s a flooker, as they calls ’em in the | _ tions, t ' - — ee | —_—[— LL ' / | 18 course Ido. Here I’ve been two years on this island and never an attempt at escape made yet, barring that Yankee schooner that they suspected and drove off so roughly.” ‘* Two years, you’ve been here you say?” ** Yes, what of it?” ‘*Then you never heard Wright’s story?’ ‘“Wright’s story? What, the old fellow in command of the Penelope, who hates Boney so badly? No. Didn’t know he had a story.” ** It’s nearly forgotten now, but it’s well worth hearing.” ‘Tell it then. I've nothing to do but finish this cigar which by the by is not a bad one. Got it from old Smith, that snob who went out in the Hyder Ali this afternoon. Old boy asked me to call if ever I got to Calcutta. Migbt do worse. Girls got a cool forty thou- sand each, eh?’ | “Yes,” returned Gervaise sarcastically, quently made. Down tbis valley ran a tiny | ‘‘and a father-in-law thrown in. He’d look rivulet into a little bay about three miles below, | nice in your mother’s. drawing-room, Egerton, and at the bead of this bay was a guard-house, | wouldn't be?” occupied by soldiers. | Bertrand knew the voice of the second man The prisoner could not go far in any direction now. It was Harry Egerton, junior captain without running on a British sentry. | of the 53d, a lady-killer of good family, but im- The other side of the valley was not so steep | pecunious. as that toward Longwood, and had, on a slope we laughed awkwardly. ‘‘Hang it, man, forty thousand pounds | covers a multitude of—” | H’s lying around loose, you mean. I fancy I bear the old cad saying ‘ Lady ’Arriet, ’m ’a ppy to see you in my ’ouse and ope you’ll’ave a ‘arty good time of it, as you ’ave a ‘arty wel- elter of the posts and sitting down on the floor as he entered. This summer house was built on a point of the plateau on which the old house of Longwood was situated. St. Helena is traversed by several such ridges, forming valleys of various sizes, sloping to the sea. On the north side of Longwood, they were ee town, the camp of the Fifty-third English regi- ment lying between the house and the town. On the other side of Longwood was the rocky road leading to Diana’s Point, whither the cap- tive had ridden alone that morning. On the side opposite Jamestown, the bluffs fell away in sheer precipices into the lonely val- called Miss Mason, whose curiosity made her the emperor’s pet aversion. Bertrand gained his post unseen from the telegraph station, and a screen of bushes shielded him from Miss Mason’s prying, as he soon ascer- | tained, for he bad brougbt a strong glass with | come, l’m sure, bless your old ’art.”’ him and could distinctly see that lady at her | ‘‘ Qh, cut that!” cried Egerton angrily. ‘Go knitting on ber veranda. on with Wrighbt’s story. What is it?” By cautious maneuvering he gota sightof the | Gervaise puffed at his cigar. pelegeepy statiou—one of the semaphore institu- | ‘* Well, it’s a long time ago, before you came en new—and saw that the operator was | here, in fact.”’ smoking a pipe, in conversation with a soldier ** How long?” on duty there. ‘* Nearly a year.” He waited till the sun went down and the ** What's it all about?” short twilight of the tropics was over, when he ‘* Boney, of course.” hid himself in the bushes near the summer house ‘** Well then, tell it and don’t let me ask so and waited patiently. many questions.” He knew that Captain Gervaise made a point ‘* All right. I suppose you know what makes of imspecting the summer house with a lantern | Wright so bitter on Boney?” every nigbt, and sure enough, that officer soon ** No, I don’t.” after made his appearance with a_ brother ‘* Well, you see he got taken prisoner in 1804, officer, took a seat in the building and entered | I think it was, at the end of the peace when the into conversation. French snapped up so many English travelers. ‘* Well, Hal,” said the captain, ‘‘I don’t know | They let the citizens go, but they kept Wright, what you think, but Im tired of this jailer | because he was a naval officer.” business. How long is it to last, I wonder?” “Pretty shabby trick.” ‘*Till old Boney dies or escapes,” said the ‘So he thought, and when they kept him other, indifferently. ‘‘ It’s a beastly hole, to be | twenty years in the Temple, every one else sure, and he can’t last long; but then, you | thought so too. But I say it made old Wright’s know, it wouldn’t do to let him go. He’s turned | fortune.” Europe upside down too often.” ** How so?” Gervaise gave a growl. ‘‘ Well, be was a poor man when he went in ‘Tm hanged if I’m not sick of it, Hal. I | a junior lieutenant, low on the list, with no in- have to do all Sir Hudson’s dirty work, and I | fluence, no money, no an-*hing.” swear I feel ashamed of it. Do you know, it’s ‘Pretty common complaint, Redge.” Sa like sticking needles into a lion when he’s ‘* But when he came out be was not only first trapped. Sometines I wish he would escape to | on the list, but found that his case had excited give us all a fair chance of a battle to take him | sympathy, and that he bad bee» made com- again,” mander while be lay in prison, and had gone The other yawned. to the head of that list, too, while twenty years’ ‘‘'You’re too confounded sentimental. Itall | pay had been accumulating fer him at com- comes of reading so much French. I’m thank- und interest. Parliament took hold of it, an ful I don’t speak a word of the language beyond | by Jove, sir, he tumbled right into a tub o a sacre and peste. I can swear in five languages, | grease, for they posted him and gave him the but that’s the furthest I ever got. Have a/| crack frigate of the British navy, with leave to weed, Redge?” apply for his own duty. And what does that Reginald Gervaise nodded, and they both | devil of vindictiveness do, but apply to come lighted cigars and began to smoke, while Ber- here and play policeman.” trand lay within twenty feet, listening to them ‘* Wanted to wreak his spite, eh?’ and cursing them in his heart for not going | ‘Yes. Well. He was very near not getting away. here at all.” Presently the one called Hal said: ‘** How was that?’ ** He sailed from England all right, but ran into a collier in a fog off Havre, and got dam- aged so he had to go into the French port for repairs. When he came out he was followed by a French lugger, painted white, that must have bad a very devil for a captain—or a Yavpkee,”’ ‘* How was that?” ‘* Well, sir, this little lugger actually fired into bim in the Channel, and again out at sea, though she wasn’t a third of bis size. But she had one gun aboard—a thirty-two—that car- ried further than any in the frigate, and she sailed like the very devil ora Baltimore clipper. At last they met near the West Indies, ina dead calm, and had their spite out for a whole day.” ‘Well, who licked? Wright, of course, or he wouldn’t be bere.” ‘ Yes, Wright licked at last, but at a cost that would bave taken away auy other man’s ** By the by, Gervaise, are you going to that Mexican fellow’s spread?” ‘** No, why should [? Confounded vulgar cad! What do I want of him?” ‘* Well, old Lowe’s going, and all the garri- son, and the navy men they say too. He’s | ordered supper at a guinea a head, and they | say his yacht’s fairly Beded down with cham- | pagne. I’m sure we can’t refuse to help him to | drink it, in charity to the poor devil.” “ Pshaw,” said Gervaise. ‘I don’t like champagne in this climate. What the deuce brings the fellow bere anyway?” ‘Curiosity. I hear he’s going round the world, and is to write a book. Of course no book’s complete nowadays without Boney in it. fle seems to be a. deuced hospitable fellow though, but he talks worse English than Boney, and that’s saying a good deal.” ‘Well, I shall not go, for the best of all reasons,” commission.” ‘* And what’s that?’ ‘* Indeed.” ** I can’t.” ‘Yes. Dll tell you bow it was. First he ‘Why not?’ _ ‘Why not! You don’t suppose Sir Hudson 1S feing to take off all the guards that night, while the garrison is’ getting drunk? I have the pleasure to be on what is called a perpetual detail. I’m never off duty.” * Well, that’s nothing, You could get one of | the subs to take your turn for one night, | Champagne’s bed for youngsters.” ‘“ Yes, and find my man gone next day.” ‘Oh, nonsense, Gervaise,” ant out his boats to take her, and she sunk th*> all,” ** Well done, Frenchy.” ‘* You may say that. Wright told me that he never saw such gunnery in bis life. At last he’d onlv one boat left and the Ingger got on his quarter and hung there, plugging thirty-two- pound shot into bim between wind and water, so that he thought he must sink if it kept up any longer. And so he struck bis flag, as bis guns would not carry as far a3 the lugger.” o ee ee EoOmicbooks (c (E()