People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 April 1894 — MATT A TALE OF A CARAVAN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MATT A TALE OF A CARAVAN

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER Vlll.—Continued. Brinkley knew by this last phenomenon that the spray concealed the entrance of some largo subterranean cavern. If any doubt had remained in his mind it would have been dispelled by the appearance of a solitary pigeon, which, leaving its companions, wavered lightly, flew back through the spray with a rapid downward flight and disappeared. He was floating a little nearer with an enjoyment deepened by the sense of danger, when a figure suddenly appeared on the rocks close by him, wildly waving its hands. “Keep back! Keep back!” cried a voice. He looked at the figure and recognized William Jones, ne answered him, but the sound of his voice was drowned by the roar from the rocks. Then William Jones shouted again more indistinctly, and repeated his excited gestures. It was clear that he

was warning the swimmer against some hidden danger. Brinkley took the warning, and struck out for the shore, and then back to the place where he had left his clothes. Watching his opportunity, he found a suitable spot and clambered in upon the rocks. He had just dried himself and thrown on some of his clothes, when he saw William Jones standing near and watching him. “How are you?” asked the young man, with a nod. “Pray what did you mean by going on in that absurd way just now?” “What did I mean?” repeated William, with a little of his former excitement. “Look ye, now, I was waving you back from the Devil’s Caldron. There’s many a man been drowned there and been washed away Lord knows where. I’ve heerd tell,” he added, solemnly, “they are carried right down into the devil’s kitchen.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Jones, but I’m used to such dangers, and I know how to take care of myself.” William Jones shook his head a little angrily. “Don’t you come here no more, that’s all!” he said, and, muttering ominously to himself, retired. But he only ascended the neighboring crag, and, squatting himself there like a bird of ill-omen, kept his eyes on the stranger. Having dressed himself, Brinkley climbed in the same direction. He found William seated on the edge of a crag, looking the reverse of amiable, and amusing himself by throwing stones in the direction of the sea. “You seem to know this place well,” said the young man, standing over him. William Jones replied, without looking lip: “I ought to; I were born here. Father was born here. Know it? I wish I know’d as well how to make my own -fortin’.” “And yet they tell me,” observed the other, Watching him slyly, “that William Jones, of Aberglyn, has money in the bank, and is a rich man.” He saw William’s color change at once; but, recovering himself at once, the %vorthy gave a contemptuous grunt and aimed a stone spitefully at a large gull which just then floated slowly by. “Who told you that?” he asked, glancing quickly up, and then looking down again. “Some tomfool, wi’ no more sense in ’un than that gun. Rich! I wish I was, I do!” Brinkley was amused, and a little curious. Laughing gayly, he threw himself down by William’s side. William shifted his seat uneasily, and threw another stone. “My dear Mr. Jones,” said the young man, assuming the flippant style which

Matt found so irritating; “I have often wondered how you get your living.” William started nervously. “You are, I believe, a fisherman by profession; yet you never go fishing. You possess a boat, but you are seldom seen to use it. You are not, I think, of a poetical disposition, yet you spend your days in watching the water, like a poet, or a person in love. I conclude, very reluctantly, that your old habits stick to you, and that you speculate on the disasters of your fellow creatures.” “What d’ye mean, master?” grunted William, puzzled and a little alarmed by this style of address. “A nice wreck now would admirably suit your tastes? A well-laden Indiaman, smashing up on the reef yonder, would lend sunshine to your existence and deepen your faith in a paternal Providence. Eh, Mr. Jones?” “I don’t know nowt about no wrecks,” was the reply. “They’re no consarn o’ mine.”

“Ah, but I have heard you lament the good old times, when wrecking was a respectable occupation and when there were no impertinent coast guards to interfere with respectable foUowers of the business. By the way, I have often wondered, Mr. Jones, if popular report is true, and if among these cliffs or surrounding sand hills there is buried treasure cast up from time to time by the sea and concealed by energetic persons like yourself?" William Jones could stand this no longer. Looking as pale as it was possible for so rubicund a person to become, and glancing around him suspiciously, he rose to his feet. “I know nowt o’ that,” he said. “If there is summat I wish I could find it; but sech things never come the way of honest chaps like me. Good mornin’, master! Take a poor man’s advice and don’t you go swimming no more near the Devil’s Caldron!” So saying, he walked off in the direction of the deserted village. Presently Brinkley rose and followed him, keeping him steadily in view. From time to time William Jones looked round, as if to see whether the other was coming; lingering when Brinkley lingered, hastening his pace when Brinkley hastened his. As an experiment, Brinkley turned and began walking back towards the cliffs. Glancing round over his shoulder, he saw that William Jones had also turned, and was walking back. “Curious!” he reflected. “The innocent one is keeping me'in view. I have a good mind to breathe him!”

He struck off from the path, and hastened, running rather than walking, towards the sand hills. So soon as he was certain that he was followed he began to run in good earnest. To his delight, William began running too. He plunged among the sand hills, and was soon engaged busily running up and down them, hither and thither. From time to time he caught a glimpse of his pursuer. It was an exciting chase. When he had been engaged in it for half an hour, and was almost breathless himself, he suddenly paused in one of the deep hollows, threw himself down on his back, and lit a cigar. A few minutes afterwards hd heard a sound as of violent puffing and breathing, and the next instant William Jones, panting, gasping, perspiring at every pore, appeared above him. “How d’ye do, Mr. Jones?” he cried, gayly. “Come and have a cigar.” Instead of replying, William Jones looked completely thunderstruck, and after glaring feebly down and muttering incoherently disappeared as suddenly as he had come. Brinkley finished his cigar leisurely and then strolled back to the caravan.

CHAPTER IX A DISCOVERY. The young man of the caravan was now thoroughly convinced that one of two things must be true: Either that William Jones had been instructed to keep a watch on him, or that he (William Jones) had a secret of some sort which he was anxious not to have re-, vealed. After both suppositions had been duly weighed the second was accepted as the most likely, and it forthwith received the young man’s consideration. If there was a secret, he argued, it was in some way connected—firstly, with William Jones’ worldly prosperity; secondly, with the reports current of treasure hidden in times past among the sand hills of the dangerous caverns of the sea. Was it possible, after all, that these reports were true and that in some mysterious manner Jones had become acquainted with the hiding place? It seemed very improbable, for many reasons, one of the chief being the man’s extreme poverty, which appeared to touch the very edge of sheer starvation.

A little inquiry in the neighborhood, however, elicited the information that Jones, despite his abject penury, was certainly well to do and had money in the bank of the neighboring market town; that the ruined village of Aberglyn belonged almost entirely to him, and that, in short, he was by nature, and habit a miserly person, who would prefer hoarding up whatever he possessed to purchasing with it the commonest necessaries of life. An old coast guard, whom Brinkley found next day on the station, was his chief informant. “Don’t you believe him, sir,” said the old salt, “if he tells you he’s poor. He’s a shark, William Jones is, and couldn’t own up even to his own father. It's my belief he’s got gold hidden somewhere among them sand hills, let alone what he’s got in the savings bank. Ah, he’s a artful one, is William Jones.” Brinkley had said nothing of his own private suspicions, but had merely introduced in a general way the subject of Jones’ worldly position. Further conversation with Tim, who had made a few straggling acquaintances in the district, corroborated the other testimony. The young man became more and more convinced that William Jones was worth studying. Matt had not turned up that morning. Instead of looking after her, Brinkley took another stroll towards the vicinity of the Devil’s Caldron. He had not gone far before he discovered

that he was watched again. The figure of William Jones followed in the distance, bat keeping him well in £iew. • It was certainly curious. He walked over to the cliffs and looked down at the scene of yesterdays bathing adventure. A strong wind was blowing and the waves were surging up the rocks with deafening roar and foamy spume. The place looked very ugly, particularly near the caldron. All the passage was churned to milky white, and the sound from beneath was, to use an old simile, like the roar of innumerable chariots. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the head of William Jones eagerly watching, the body being hidden in intervening rock. “Strange!” he reflected. “My predatory friend can’t keep his treasure, if he possesses any, down in that watery gulf. Yet, whenever I come near it, his manner tells me that I am ‘warm,’ as they say in the game of hide and seek.” To test the matter a little further he set off on a brisk walk along the cliffs, leaving the caldron behind. He found, as he had suspected, that he was no longer followed. Returning as he came, and resuming his old position, he saw William Jones immediately reappear. That day he discovered no clew to the mystery, nor the next, nor the

next again, though on each day he went through a similar performance. Strange to say, Matt had not put in an appearance, and for reasons of lffs own he had thought it better not to seek her. On the morning of the third day—a dark, chilly morning, after a night of rain—Tim put his head into the caravan, where his master was seated at his easel, and grinned delightedly. “Mr. Charles! She’s come, sor!” “Who the deuce has come?” cried Brinkley. “The lady, your honor, to have her picture taken. Will I show her into the parlor?” But as he spok6 Matt pushed him aside and entered. She wore her best clothes, but looked a little pale and anxious, Brinkley thought, greeting her with a familiar nod. “So you’ve come at last? Tim, get out, you rascal. I thought you had given me up.” He assumed a coldness, though he felt it not, for he had made up his mind not to “encourage” the young person.

“I couldn’t come before, they wouldn’t let me. But last night William Jones he didn’t come home, and I broke open the box and took out my clothes and ran straight off here.” Her face fell as she proceeded, for she could not fail to notice the coolness of the young man’s greeting. “Well, since! you have come, we’ll get to work,” said Brinkley. “It’s chilly and damp outside, so we’ll remain here in shelter.”

Matt took off her hat and then proceeded to divest herself of her coarse jacket, revealing for the first time the low-necked silk dress beneath. Meantime the young man placed the sketch in position. Turning presently, he beheld Matt’s transformation. Old and shabby as the dress was, torn here and there and revealing beneath glimpses of coarse stockings and clumsy boots, it became her wonderfully. As a result of much polishing with soap and water her face shone again and her arms and neck were white as snow. Thus attired, Matt looked no longer a long, shambling girl, but a tall, bright, resplendent young lady. It was no use. Brinkley could not conceal his admiration. Matt’s arms alone were enough to make a painter wild with delight. “Why, Matt, you look positively magnificent! 1 had no idea you were so pretty.” The girl blushed with pleasure.

The young man worked away for a good hour and a half, at the end of which time he put the finishing touch to the sketch. “Finis coronal opus!” he cried. “Look, Matt!” Matt examined the picture with unconscious delight. It was herself, a little idealized, but quite characteristic and altogether charming. “May I take it home?” she asked eagerly. “I’ll get you to leave it a few days longer. I must get a frame for it, Matt, and then you shall have it all complete. Now, let me look at you again,” he said, taking her by both hands and looking up at her sunny face. “Are you pleased? Will you take care of the picture for the painter’s sake?” Matt’s answer was embarrassing. She quietly sat down on his knee and gave him a smacking kiss. “Matt! Matt!” he cried. “You mustn’t.” But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and go away from William Jones and ty stay with you.” “My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn't be proper." “Why not?” asked Matt, simply.

“The world is censorious little one. I am a young man; you are a young lady. We shall have to shake bands soon and say good-by. There, there," he continued, seeing her eyes fill with tears, “I’m not gone yet. I must stay as long as I can, only—really—you must look upon me as quite an old fellow. I am awfully old, you know, compared to you.” He gently disengaged himself, and Matt sat down on a camp stool close by. Her face had grown very wistful and sad. “Matt,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “tell me something more about William Jones." “I hate William Jones. I hate everybody—but you.” “Really?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, I feel greatly flattered. But about the gentle Jones? You say he was out all last night?” Matt nodded. “He goes out nigh every night,” she said, “and often don’t come home till morning. Sometimes he tiuds things and brings ’em. He finds bits o’ gold, and old ropes, and bottles o’ rum.” “Very odd. Where?" “lie don’t tell; I know.” “I wish you’d tell me. Matt. Do. I have a particular reason for wanting the information.” Matt hesitated. “You won't sajr I told? William Tones would be downright wild, he would.” “I’ll keep the secret faithfully. Now?” Thus urged, Matt informed her friend that on two occasions, out of curiosity, she had followed her guardian on his nightly pilgrimages and watched him go in the direction of the Devil’s Caldron. On both occasions the night was very dark. On getting clear of the coast-guard station, and among the sandhills, Jones had lighted a lantern which he carried. Trembling and afraid, she had followed the light along the cliffs; then out among the sand hills. But all at once the light and its bearer had disappeared into the solid earth, leaving her to find her way home in terror. The explanation of all this was, in Matt’s opinion, very simple. William Jones was a bad man and went to “visit the fairies."

“Yes,” she cried, “and every time ho goes the fairies give him summat, and he brings it home.” “Each time you followed him,” asked Brinkley, thoughtfully, “he disappeared at about the same place?” “Yes,” said Matt; “and the light and him sunk right down and never come up again.” [TO BE CONTINUED.]

BRINKLEY TOOK. THE WARNING AND STRUCK OUT FOR SHORE.

“WHY MATT, YOU LOOK MAGNIFICENT.”