clearing, andalmost like that of a backwoodsman. The only portion not wood was thehearth and the chimney.
All the information the cleerach could give them was hardly worthhaving, only he had seen Miss Campbell and young Harry, and they werethen taking the path through the forest that led away to the river andpast the field where the bull was.
"Then goodness help us," exclaimed the farmer. "I fear something hashappened to them."
Nothing could be done till daylight. So the three sat by the fire, onwhich the cleerach heaped more logs; for, summer though it was, thenight was chill, and a dew was falling. It was quite a keeper'scottage, no pictures on the walls except a Christmas gift-plate or twofrom the London Illustrated Weeklies, and some Christmas cards. Butstuffed heads and animals stood here and there in the corners, and skinsof wild creatures were nailed up everywhere. Skins of whitterit orweasel, of foumart or pole-cat, of the wild cat itself, of greatunsightly rats, of moles and of voles, and hawks and owls galore.
Scotchmen do not easily let down their hearts, so these men--and menthey were in every sense of the word--sat there by the fire telling eachother wild, weird forest tales and stories of folk-lore until at lengththe daylight streamed in at the window--cold and comfortless-looking--and almost put out the fire. "Will you have breakfast, laird, beforeyou start?" The laird said, "Yes."
The fire was replenished, and soon the keeper's great kettle wasboiling. Then in less than five minutes three huge dishes of oatmealbrose was made, and--that was the breakfast, with milk and butter.
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Towsie Jock never moved from under the tree all the night long. PoorMiss Campbell was weary, tired, and cramped, but she dared not sleep.Once or twice she caught herself half-dreaming, and started up again infright, and thanked Heaven she had not gone quite to sleep.
How long, long the stars seemed to shine, she thought! Would they neverfade? Would morning never, never come?
But see, through the green leafy veil a glimmer of dawn at last, and shelifts up her thoughts in prayer to Him who has preserved them.
How soundly Harry sleeps in her arms! How beautiful the boy looks, too,in his sleep! The young image of his stalwart father.
The light in the east spreads up and up, and the stars pale before it,and disappear. Then the few clouds there are, begin to light up, andfinally to glow in dazzling crimson and yellow.
She is wondering when assistance will come. But the sun shoots up, andhelp appears as far away as ever.
"Towsie, Towsie," mutters the boy in his sleep, and smiles.
A whole hour passes, and hope itself begins to die in the poor girl'sbreast, when oh! joy, from far away in the forest comes a shout.
"Coo-ee-ee!"
Then a shrill whistle. Then silence. She knows that assistance is notfar off, if she can only make them hear. She knows that the silencewhich succeeds the shouting means that they are listening for aresponse.
She tries to answer, but no sound much louder than a whisper can sheemit. The cold dews have rendered her almost voiceless.
Now she shakes and tries to arouse Harry.
"Harry, Harry, awake, dear!"
"Whe--where am I?" cries the boy, rubbing his eyes.
"In the forest, Harry; in a tree."
"Oh, I remember now," says Harry, smiling, and looking down; "andthere's Towsie. What a jolly sleep I've had, Guvie! Have you?"
Again came the shout, this time somewhat nearer.
"Answer, dear; answer, I'm _so_ hoarse. Cry as loud as you can."
Harry did as told. It would hardly be heard fifty yards away, however.
But it had one effect. It roused Towsie Jock. All his wrath seemed atonce to return, and he prepared once more to attack the tree.
"Towsie Jock, Towsie, Towsie!" sang the boy.
For the life of him he could not help it.
"Wow-ow-ow-wo-ah!" roared the bull.
That was a sound that could be heard for one good mile at least.
The three men advancing to the rescue heard it.
For the first time since he had left home the farmer-laird felt realdread and fear. In his imagination he could see the mangled bodies ofhis son and the governess, with the bull standing guard over them.
"Come on, men. Great heavens! I fear the worst now."
Milvaine had his strong, tall crook, John his terribly--punishing hidewhip, the cleerach had a double-barrelled gun.
The bull--infuriated now beyond measure--came roaring to meet them.
The cleerach fired at his legs. The shot but made him stumble for amoment; it had no other effect. On he came wilder than ever. He seemedto single the farmer himself out, and charged him head down. MrMilvaine met the charge manfully enough. He leapt nimbly to one side,striking straight home with the iron-shod end of the crook. It woundedthe bull in the neck, but ill would it have fared with the farmer had henot got speedily behind a tree.
Whack, whack, whack. John is behind the bull with his whip of hide.
The bull wheels round upon him ere ever he can escape, and runs himbetween his horns against a tree.
John has seized the horns, and thus they stand man and brute locked in adeath grip.
The farmer has stumbled and fallen in running to John's assistance. Thecleerach is loading again, when help comes from a most unexpectedquarter, and Eily herself rushes on the scene.
She at once seizes the bull by the hock. The roar he emits is one ofagony and rage, but John is free.
Eily easily eludes the bull's charge. He follows a little way towardsthe gate, then turns, when she fixes him again. And this game continuesuntil the bull is fairly into the field.
Whenever the bull turns Eily seizes his hock; whenever he gives herchase she runs farther into the field, barking defiantly.
"I think, men, we may safely leave the brute to Eily," said LairdMilvaine; "but where _can_ the dear children be!"
"Safe, safe, safe!" cried a voice from the tree.
Miss Campbell could speak now.
"Thank God!" was the fervent ejaculation breathed by every lip.
An hour afterwards Harry was in his mother's arms, laughing and crowingwith delight as he related to his mamma all the fun of what he calledthe jolly match with Towsie.
His mother's eyes were red with weeping, but she was laughing nownevertheless.
Book 1--CHAPTER FOUR.
HARRY MILVAINE, LANDED PROPRIETOR--HIS BUNGALOW, AND HOW HE BUILTIT--"I'LL BE A SAILOR, TO BE SURE."
Were I to tell one-half of the adventures of the child Harold, as hisfather called him, I would fill this whole book with them, and would nothave space to say a word about his career as a youth and young man. SoI shall not begin.
No more vivacious reader of books of biography, travel, and adventure,perhaps ever existed than Harry Milvaine was when about the age of ten.I have often wondered when he slept.
At midsummer in the far north of Scotland there is light enough allnight to read by. Harry took advantage of this, and would continue at abook from sunset till sunrise.
The boy had a deal of independence of character and real good feeling.
"I must have light to read by all night in winter," he said to himself,"but it would be unfair to burn my father's candles. I'll make some."
There was an odd old volume in Mr Milvaine's library, called "The Artsand Sciences," which was a very great favourite with Harry because ittold him everything.
It taught him how to make moulded candles. He possessed a tinpen-and-pencil case. This made a first-rate mould. He collected fat,he got a wick and fixed it to the bottom of the case and held it in theposition described by the book, then he poured in the melted fat, andlo! and behold, when it cooled, a candle was the result. He worked, inhis own little tool-house, away down among the shrubbery at the bottomof the lawn, and made many candles. John, the coachman, admired themvery much, and so did the female servants.
"Dear
me?" said one old milk-maid, "it's your father, Master Harry, thatshould be proud of his bonnie, bonnie boy."
This old milk-maid had a beard and moustache that many a city clerkwould have envied, and she was reputed to be a witch accordingly, butshe dearly loved little Harry, and Harry loved her, and made a regularconfidante of her.
She did not give him bad advice either. One example in proof of this.Harry came to her one day in great grief. He was not crying, but hismouth was pursed up very much, and he was very red in the face.
"Oh, Yonitch, Yonitch!" he exclaimed, in bitterness, "what _shall_ I do?I've shot papa's favourite cock."
"Shot him dead? Have you, dear?" said Yonitch.
"Oh, dead enough, Yonitch. I fired at him, and my arrow has gone cleanthrough his breast. I don't think I really meant it, though."
Yonitch ran down with him to the paddock to view the body, and
Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy Page 5