Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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But, although he was so well dressed that I felt surprised at his
travelling third-class, he had the appearance of a highly respectable,
old-fashioned butler out for a holiday, rather than a gentleman. A pair
of double eye-glasses hung from a broad black ribbon, and he sat with
both hands resting on the knob of his umbrella as he gazed benevolently
into my face.

'I wonder,' he suggested, soon after the train had restarted, 'whether
you would object to changing sides with me?'

'I don't mind at all,' I answered.

'A great pity,' he continued, 'to put up the window on such a lovely
warm day, but I am a great sufferer with a tickling in my throat, and
anything of a draught--thank you, my lad, thank you,' he said, as I took
the seat which he had left.

Resting his umbrella by his side, he took a small packet from his
waistcoat pocket, and helped himself to a lozenge. 'May I offer you
one?' he said, holding out the packet in a somewhat shaky hand. 'You
won't find them at all unpleasant.'

As I noticed the smell of aniseed, I accepted the offer at once. He
seemed to speak as if I were a man rather than a boy of fifteen, and no
doubt I felt flattered. But his voice was scarcely in accordance with
his general appearance, and it was easy to detect a note of
ill-breeding.

(_Continued on page 138._)

[Illustration: "'May I offer you a lozenge?'"]

[Illustration: "He gave me back the half-crown."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 135._)

Before we reached the next station, the old gentleman made several
remarks about the condition of the crops, the beauty of the country, and
the unusual quantity of rain that had recently fallen, and when
presently the train stopped again, and the woman at the farther end of
the compartment rose from her seat, he put out a hand to open the door,
though he nodded without raising his hat when she turned to thank him
from the platform.

'Now, I wonder,' he said, when we were on the way again, 'if you are
able to oblige me?'

'How?' I asked.

'I want two shillings and sixpence or sixpenny-worth of coppers for a
half-crown piece.'

'I think I can do that,' I answered, thrusting a hand into my pocket.

'You may think it strange that I should ask you,' he suggested.

'Not at all.'

'But,' he continued, 'I hadn't time to get change, and I want a paper at
the next station.'

Bringing out a handful of silver, I gave him two shillings and a
sixpence, whereupon he handed me a half-crown in exchange.

'It looks like a new one,' I remarked.

'I trust it may bring you good fortune, my lad,' he answered. 'Though,
in one respect, you certainly seem to be well provided for already.'

I suppose I smiled with satisfaction.

'But,' he continued, 'never forget one thing. Money is the root of all
evil--the root of all evil.'

'Do you live in London?' I asked presently.

'Yes,' he replied, 'although it does not agree with my delicate throat.
But we cannot choose where we would wish to live.'

'I wonder,' I said, a little hesitatingly, 'whether you could tell me
where to find a lodging?'

'Ah,' he cried, 'you may be sure of this! If I can assist you in any way
I shall be very happy--very happy indeed. Of course it is to some extent
a question of what you are prepared to pay.'

'I must not pay much,' I said, 'because, you see, I may not get anything
to do just at present.'

'So you have come to London to try your fortune?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I only want just a bedroom.'

He was looking up at the rack over my head.

'Your luggage is in the van?' he remarked.

'I have no luggage,' I answered, realising that this must appear a
somewhat serious drawback.

'May I inquire how much money you possess?' he asked.

'A little over a pound.'

'Ah!' he cried; 'and that is to be the beginning of a fortune, we will
hope. I have always taken a great interest in young men,' he continued.
'Now, let me see what we can do. I live with my son and my
daughter-in-law, and it is just possible she might accommodate you, if
you would like to come with me when we get out of this train.'

'I should like it very much indeed,' I answered, congratulating myself
that I had not been backward in asking his advice. I felt no shadow of
doubt concerning his good faith. He looked so entirely respectable that
I should have gone anywhere at his bidding. So, when the train stopped
at the London terminus I walked by his side through the booking-office,
out of the station-yard, and took a seat on an omnibus without an
instant's hesitation. I noticed that he had a way of turning his head
very quickly, almost as if he were looking out for some one, and I
thought it nice of him to insist on paying my fare. We took two
omnibuses before we alighted at the corner of Baker Street and
Marylebone Road, when, holding my arm in a most friendly manner, he led
me in the direction of Lisson Grove, although at the time I had no idea
whither we were going.

After passing through one or two quiet squares and dingy streets, we
reached one which looked more dingy still, with its rows of narrow, high
terrace houses, a number of unkempt children playing about the road, and
a fish-hawker bawling by the kerb. At one of the dingy-looking houses my
companion stopped, taking a latch-key from his waistcoat pocket; but as
soon as he opened the door a woman came out of a room, standing with her
arms akimbo in front of him, while I brought up the rear.

She was tall, like the old man, but her face was red and puffy, while a
wisp of fair hair fell untidily over her forehead. She wore a
dirty-looking dress, with several buttons missing, their places being
supplied by pins.

'Who's the kid?' she asked, and it was impossible to imagine that she
felt pleased at my presence.

'A young friend I happened to meet in the train,' he answered in a
curious tone. 'This way, my lad,' he added, 'this way,' and, stepping
past the woman, he opened a door of a back room. 'Just sit down for a
moment till I come back,' he said, although there was nothing to sit
upon but a bed.

Closing the door, he went away, and I heard him entering the front room.
I suddenly became the prey of all manner of anxious feelings. The house
itself was close and stuffy, with a curious odour as of some pungent
acid. I did not feel favourably impressed by the appearance of the
woman. But when a few minutes had passed the sound of voices reached my
ears, although it was impossible to hear the words with any
distinctness. Knowing that the old man was in all probability discussing
me with the woman who must be his daughter, I did what I may safely say
I had never attempted before in my life. Overcome with eagerness to
learn what was being said concerning myself, I stole towards the door,
opened it, and played the eavesdropper.

Even now I could not make out half their meaning, and what I heard only
served to perplex and frighten me.

'I tell you he is just what we want,' said the man, and the only word I
could catch in the woman's answer was--'Risk!'

'An open-faced, honest-looking boy,' he continued. 'You have only to
look at him a second to feel you can trust him. Dress him properly, and
he is as good as a fortune.'

If it had seemed possible to dart along the passage and out through the
front door, I should have done so, but my knees were shaking under me;
and, hearing fresh movements in the next room, I drew back and reclosed
the door. A few minutes later the man returned.

'Come this way,' he said, and I followed him into the front room. 'My
daughter, Mrs. Loveridge,' he continued, 'does not like strangers, but I
have persuaded her to treat you as a member of the family----'

'But if you would rather not!' I cried, looking up into her face.

'We are not rich people,' he said, entirely ignoring my outburst, 'but
what we have we are willing to share--now, no one can say fairer than
that. You give up what money you have got in that pocket of yours, and,
when you have taken it out in board and lodging, we will see whether we
can't manage to find you some useful work to do. So hand out, my lad!'

CHAPTER XVII.

Although he had looked so benevolent in the train, I had already begun
to fear this urbane old man far more than I had previously feared the
tramp at Broughton. With an uncomfortable feeling that he had got me in
his power, I could see no way of quickly getting out of it. To refuse to
hand over my money was out of the question, although, with an appearance
of kindness, he gave me back the particular half-crown which I had
changed for him in the train.

The next few hours went by wretchedly enough. Mr. Parsons (for that I
learned was his name) did not leave me for a moment alone, and there was
nothing to divert my thoughts from the extremely disagreeable situation.
I could see no sign of any kind of book; and, indeed, the only form of
print in the house seemed to be half of an old newspaper. At about
half-past eight, Mrs. Loveridge began to prepare for something
resembling a meal by placing on the table, without a cloth, a piece of
bacon, and some bread and cheese. When it was supposed to be ready I
made the acquaintance of Mr. Loveridge, a small, pale-faced, dark-haired
man, with one leg shorter than the other. He wore a boot with a very
thick cork sole, and walked with crutches. Mr. Loveridge scarcely opened
his lips, but greeted me with a long, keen stare. Although I did not
feel the least appetite, I made a pretence of eating.

After supper, we all sat round the table, just as it was, while the men
smoked, and talked in a jargon which it was impossible to understand.

'Better put the kid to bed,' said Loveridge, presently; and, indeed, I
was beginning to feel exceedingly curious as to my sleeping quarters.

Rising from her chair, Mrs. Loveridge led the way upstairs to the top of
the house, where she opened a door and said that was to be my room.

'Can I have a candle?' I asked.

'No, you can't,' she answered. 'And you needn't be afraid. We always
lock the front door and take out the key, and sleep with one eye open in
this house.'

With that she went downstairs and I shut the door. The window had
neither blind nor curtains, and the room was almost dark. I could,
however, distinguish a bed on the floor, and suddenly I remembered the
last and only other time I had slept in a bedroom without a bed--at Mrs.
Riddles', at Polehampton--and sincerely wished myself back in that
cupboard, despite its nearness to Castlemore. I prayed earnestly to God
to watch over me, for I knew instinctively that I was in some great
danger. I felt that I had fallen among thieves--if these people were not
thieves, what could they be?

I reproached myself for having been so easily deceived by Parsons, and
determined to make my escape at the earliest opportunity. The hint in
Mrs. Loveridge's parting words had not been necessary to convince me of
the uselessness of trying to get away during the night, so I lay down on
the mattress and the blankets (there were no sheets) and tried to make
up my mind how to act. I could not believe that the object of Parsons in
bringing me to his house had been merely to obtain the small sum of
money I possessed. Yet he appeared eager to detain me, and he had
persuaded his daughter of the need for such detention. It seemed to
follow that he meant to make use of me in some way--some undesirable
way, no doubt. In vain I racked my brains, before I fell asleep that
miserable night, to see through his design. But I realised that my
situation had become worse than ever, and it seemed difficult to imagine
that only yesterday I had been the companion of Jacintha and her
brother. I determined to do my utmost to disguise my suspicions, to
exercise patience and--for once--judgment, and to await a favourable
opportunity with all the courage I could muster.

(_Continued on page 146._)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

V.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF INDIA.

Perhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India
than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been
there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that
in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The
great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is,
with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people.
We have to remember that this population is made up of many different
races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various
parts. India is above all things an _old_ country. Its sacred books, its
temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient
times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place
between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may account for the likeness
between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have
from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except
the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more
or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new
subjects.

[Illustration: East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta.]

The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha,
though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha
depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the
world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into
communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from
convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves
largely of the many natural caverns with which the rocks of India and
Thibet abound.

At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry
turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a
verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the
same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be
chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to
support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall,
with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it
sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in
Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers
might have been worse off.

Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of
industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and
animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.

One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island
a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the
sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a
huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is
reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly
underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside
frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about
as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns,
though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing
projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet
long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals,
either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head
of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.

The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and
the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the
festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before
the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.

HELENA HEATH.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

III.--THE SIMPLON ROAD.

[Illustration: The Simplon Pass.]

In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had
occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to
Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the
great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his
troops many hundred years before.

This road of Napoleon's--still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in
Europe--was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all
respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres)
along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge
over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon
made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.

How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years
later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain,
would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the
Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.

* * * * *

Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a
diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted
along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English
schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.

'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it
to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'

'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman
who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an
accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not
sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey
in less than an hour by rail.'

'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said
the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with
a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high
snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in
the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel,
boxed up in a stuffy train?'

'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour,
smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country,
and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten
the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our
Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel
is twelve miles long--the longest railway tunnel in the world.'

'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say
it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside
the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and
ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an
explanation from some one.

A Swiss gentleman--speaking, however, most excellent
English--enlightened the lad.

'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been
carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and
avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and
the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so
that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a
million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able
to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'

'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in
future?'

'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the
peasants--they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their
sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good
offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk
of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so
greatly diminished.'

'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard
monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers
out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard
of them.'

'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the
parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley
to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow,
and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is
freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the
snow.'

* * * * *

Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road
which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met
with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there
were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is
at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred
years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.

S. C.

THE BAT AND THE BALL.

'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball,
While mounting to the skies;
'I know I shall have such a fall
After this dreadful rise.
I speak no ill of any one,
However they provoke,
But many things the Bat has done
Are something past a joke.'

'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,'
The Bat exclaimed with glee,
'But yet he never says he owes
His rise in life to me.
No, no, that's not his way at all;
And though I do my best,
His graceless growls at every fall
Are something past a jest.'

JOHN LEA.

WITHOUT A HEN TO BUY STAMPS.

A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately
enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in
Somaliland.

He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and
by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he
learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic
little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without
a letter.

'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that
is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of
Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'

A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and
is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But
let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on
the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form
the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.

X.

MAY DAY.

The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and
none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little
May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.

Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the
children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers
tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some
would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the
frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have
plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.

On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for
they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they
would want.

'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May
said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.

'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none
too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure
she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'

'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,'
May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon
for my flowers.'

May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than
Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always
thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.

'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody
will miss the ribbon.'

'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this
would be quite useless.

How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If
only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some
plan.

However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be
disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as
well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and
asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.

'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice
said.

'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always
so kind to us.'

So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she
knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help
her.

'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up
early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice
promised, as she kissed her good-bye.

It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was
very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.