The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, February 02, 1893, Image 3
| coma.
"Wlmtr cries the carter in so sharp
a note that his very horse stiyted, and
I then, “Well, mnnnie," he aiTded, “it’a
; nanc of my affairs, but ye seem a decent
•.IKikeii 1 id, and if ye'll take a word from
me ye'll keep clear of the Shaws."
CHAPTER L
I SET OFF UPON MY JOUKHKT TO THE
HOISK OF SHAWS.
1 will begin the story of my adven
tures with a certain morning early in
the month of June, the year of grace
seventeen hundred and fifty-one, when
I took the key for the last time out of
the door of my father’s house. The sun
began to shine upon the summit of the
hills as 1 went down the road, and by
the time 1 had come as far as the manse
the blackbirds were whistling in the
garden lilacs, and the mist that hang
around the valley in the time of the
dawn was beginning to arise and die
away.
Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essen-
dean, was waiting for me by the garden
gate, good man! He asked me if 1 had
breakfasted, and hearing that 1 lacked
for nothing he took my hand in l>oth of
fcis and clapped it kindly under his arm.
“Well. Davie, lad," said he, “1 will go
with you as far as the ford, to set yon
on the way."
And wo began to walk forward in si
lence.
"Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?"
said he. after awhile.
“Why, sir,” said I, “if 1 knew where
1 was going, or what was likely to be
come of me, I would tell you candidly.
Essendean is a good place indeed, and 1
have been very happy there; but then 1
have never been anywhere else. My
father and mother, since they are both
dead, 1 shall be no nearer to in Esseu-
dean than in the kingdom of Hungary;
and to speak truth, if 1 thought 1 had a
chance to better myself where 1 was go
ing, 1 would go with a good will.”
“Aye?” said Mr. Campbell. “Very
well, Davie. Then it behooves me to
tell your fortunb, or so far as 1 may.
When your mother was gone and yom
father (the worthy, Christian man) be
gan to sicken for his end he gave me in
c harge a certain letter, which he said
was your inheritance. ‘So soon,' says
he, ‘as i am gone and the house is redd
up and the gear disposed of (all which,
Davie, hath been done) ‘give my boy
this letter inUFhis hand and start him
off to I he hoitle of Shaws, not far from
Cramond. That is the place 1 came
from,’ he said, ‘and it's where it befits
that my boy should return. He is a
steady lad,’ your father said, ‘and a
canny goer, and 1 doubt not he will
come safe and be well liked where be
goes.’"
"Th* house of Shaws!” 1 cried. “What
bad my poor father to do with the house
of Shaws?"
“Nay,” said Mr. Campbell, “who can
tell that for a surety? But the name of
that family, Davie, boy, is the name yon
bear—B.dfonrs of Shaws: an ancient,
honest, reputable house, peradventure
in these latter days decayed. Your
father, too, was a man of learning as
befitted his position; no man more
plausibly conducted school; nor had he
the manner or the speech of a common
dominie; bnt (as ye will yourself remem
ber) I took aye a pleasure to have him to
the manse to meet the gentry, and those
of my own house—Campbell of Kilren
net, Campbell of Dus wire, Campbell of
Minch and others, all well kenned gen
tlemen, had pleasure in his society
Lastly, to put all the elements of this
affair before you, here is the testa
mentary letter itself, superscribed by
the own hand of our departed brother."
have here a Utile packet which can
taint four Ihinyt."
He gave me the letter, which was ad
dressed in these words, "To the hands
of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws,
In his honse of Shaws, these will lg.‘ de
livered by my son, David Balfour." My
heart was beating hard at this great
prospect now suddenly openjpg before a
lad of sixteen years of age, the son of a
poor country dominie In the forest of
Ettrick.
“Mr. Campbell,” 1 stammered, “and
if yon were in my shoes, would you go?”
“Of a surety," said the minister, “that
would I, and without pause. A pretty
lad like you should get to Cramond
(which is near in by Edinburgh) in two
days of walk. If the worst came to the
worst, and your high relations (as 1 can
not but suppose them to be somewhat of
your blood) should put you to the door,
you can but walk the two days back
again and risp at the manse door, But
I would rather hope that ye shall be
well received as your poor father fore
cast for you, and for anything that 1
ken, come to be a great man in time.
And here, Davie, laddie,” he resm ed,
“it lies near upon my conscience to im
prove this parting, and set you on the
right guard against the dangers of the
world."
Here he cast abont for a comfortable
seat, lighted on a big bowlder under a
birch by the track side, sat down upon
it with a very long, serious upper lip,
and the sun now shining in njain ns be
tween two peaks, put his pocket hand
kerchief over his cocked hat to shelter
him. There then, with uplifted fore
finger. he first pnt me on my guard
against a considerable number of her
esies, to which 1 liad no temptation, and
urged upon me to be instant in my pray
ers and reading of the Bible. That done,
he drew a picture of the great bouse
that I was bound to, apd how I should
conduct myself with its inhabitants.
“Be soople, Davie, in things imma
terial,” said he. “Bear ye this in mind,
that, though gentle born, ye have bad a
country rearing. Dinnae shame us,
Davie; dinnae shame ns! In von great
mucKie uonee, with all these domestics,
upper and under, show yourself as nice,
as circumspect, as quick at the concep
tion, and as slow of speech as any. As
'for the laird—remember lie’s the laird:
1 say no more; honor to whom honor.
It's a pleasure to obey a laird, or should
be, to the young.”
"Well, sir,” said 1, “it may lie, and
I’ll promise yon I'll try to make it so."
“Why, very well said,” replied Mr.
’Jampbell heartily. “And now to come
to tlie material or (to intike a quibble)
to the immaterial. 1 have here a little
packet which contains four things.”
He tugged it as lie spoke, and with
some difficulty, from the skirt pocket of
his coat. "Of these four things, the
first is your legal due—the little pickle
money for your father's books and plen
ishing, which I have bought (as 1 have
explained from the first) in .the design
of reselling at a profit to the incoming
dominie. The other three are gifties
that M s. Campbell and myself would
be blithe of your acceptance. The first,
which is round, will likely please ye best
at the first off go: hut, oh. Davie, lad
die! it's but a drop of water in the sea;
it'll help yon but a step, and vanish like
the morning. The second, which is flat
and square and written upon, will stand
by you through life, like a good staff
for the road and a good pillow to your
head in sickness. And as for the last,
which is cubical, that'll see you, it’s my
prayerfnl wish, into a better land.”
W ith that he got upon his feet, took
off his hat, and prayed a little while
aloud, and in affecting terms, for a
young man setting ont into the world;
then suddenly took me in his arms and
embraced me very hard: then held me
at arm’s length, looking at me with his
face all working with sorrow, and then
whipped about, and crying goodby to
me set off backward by the way that he
had come at a sort of a Jogging run. It
might have been laughable to another;
but I was in no mind to laugh. !
watched him as long as be was in sight,
and he never stopped harrying, nor once
looked back. Then it came in upon my
mind that this was all his-sorrow at my
departure, and my conscience smote me
hard and fast, because l, for my part,
was overjoyed to get away out of that
quiet countryside, and go to a great,
busy honse, among rich and respected
gentlefolk of my own name and blood.
"Davie, Davie,” 1 thought, “was ever
seen such black ingratitude? Can you
forget old favors and old friends at the
mere whistle of a name? Fy, fy; think
shame!”
And 1 sat down on the bowlder the
good man had just left and opened the
parcel to see the nature of my gifts.
That which he had called cubical 1 had
never had much doubt of. Sure enough,
it was a little Bible, to carry in a plaid
neuk. That which he had called round
1 found to be a shilling piece, and the
third, which was to help me so wonder
fully both in health and sickness all the
days of my life, was a little piece of
coarse, yellow paper, written upon thus
in red ink:
“To Make Lily of the Valley Water-
Take the flowers of lily of the valley ard
distill them in sack, and drink a spoon
ful or two as there is occasion. It re
stores speech to those that have the
dumb palsy. It is good against the
Gout; it comforts the heart and strength
ens the memory, and the flowers, pnt
into a Ulasse, close stopt and set into ano
hill of ants for a month, then take it
out, and you will find a liquor which
comes from the flowers, which keep in
a vial. It is good, ill or well, and
whether man or woman.”
And then in the minister’s own hand
was added:
"Likewise for sprains mb it in, and
for the cholic a great spooneful in the
hour.”
To be sure, I laughed over this: but it
was rather tremulous laughter, and I
was glad to get my bundle on my staff's
end and set ont over the ford and up the
hill upon the farther side, till, just as 1
came on the green drove road running
wide through the heather, I took my last
h>ok of Kirk Essendean, the trees about
the manse, and the big rowans fn the
kirkyard where my father and my
mother lay.
CHAPTER It
1 COME TO MY JOURNEY'S END.
On the forenoon of the second day,
coming to the top of a hill, 1 saw all the
country fall away before me down to
the sea, and in the midst of this descent,
on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh
smoking like a kiln.
Presently after 1 came by a house
where a Shephard lived ar.d got a rough
direction for the neighborhood of Cra
mond.
A little farther on, and 1 was told 1
was in .Cramond parish, and began to
substitute in my inquiries the name of
the house of Shaws. It was a word that
seemed to surprise those of whom 1
sought my way. At first 1 thought the
plainness of my appearance in my conn-
try habit, and that all dusty from the
road, consorted ill with the greatness of
the place to which I was Ixmnd. But
after two, or maybe three, had given me
the same look and the same answer. I be
gan to take it in my head there was
something strange about the Shaws it
self.
The better to set this fear at rest 1
changed the form of my inquiries, and
spying an honest fellow coming along a
ane on the shaft of his cart I asked him
if he had ever heard tell of a house they
ralled the honse of Shaws.
He stopped his cart and looked at me.
like the others.
“Aye,” said he. “What for!”
“It’s a great house?” I asked.
“Doubtless," said he. “The house is
a big, muckle house.”
“Aye," said l. “but the folk that are
in it?"
"Folk!'” cried he. “Are ye daft?
There’s nae folk there—to call folk.”
“What?" says I: “not Mr. Ebenezer? -
“Oh, aye," sayu the man; "there’s the
laird, to be sure, if it’s him you’re want
ing. What’ll like be your business, man
nie?”
“1 was led to think that I would get a
situation,” I said, looking as modest as 1
1 1. “They call me David Balfour.”
At that 1 made sure the man started,
for 1 heard the blunderbuss rattle on
the window sffl. and it was after quite a
long pause and with a curious change
j of voice that the next question followed
"Is your father dead?”
1 was so much surprised at this that 1
could find no voice to answer, but stood
staring.
“Aye," the min resumed, “lie'll be
dead no doubt, and that'll be what
brings ye chapping to my door.” An
other pause and tben defiantly, “Well,
man," be said, “I’ll let ye in,” and he
disappeared from the window.
“Il’t loaded,” eald a t'olce.
The next person 1 came across was a
dapper little man In a beautiful white
wig, whom 1 saw to be a barlier on his
rounds, and knowing well that barbers
were great gossips 1 asked him plainly
what sort of a man was Mr. Balfour, of
the Shaws.
“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” said the barber,
“nae kind of a man, nae kind of a man
at all," and began to ask me very
shrewdly what my business was; bnt 1
v as more than a match for him at that,
ami he went on to his next customer no
wiser than he came.
1 cannot well describe the blow this
dealt to my illusions. If an hour's walk
ing would have brought me back to
Essendean I had left my adventure then
and there and returned to Mr. Camp
bell's. But 1 was ont of mere self re
spect to carry it through, and little as 1
liked the sound of what 1 beard, and
slow as I began to travel, 1 still kept
asking my way and still kept advanc
ing.
It was drawing on to sundown when
1 met a stout, dark, sour looking woman
coming trudging down a bill, and she.
when 1 had put my usual question,
turned sharp about, accompanied me
back to the summit she had just left and
pointed to a great bulk of building
standing very bare upon a green in the
bottom of the next valley. The country
was pleasant round about, running in
low hills, pleasantly watered and
wooded, and the crops, to my eyes, won
derfully good, but the house itself ap
peared to be a kind of ruin; no road led
up to it; no smoke arose from any of the
chimneys, nor was there any semblance
of a garden. My heart sank. “That!"
I cried.
The woman's face lit up with a ma
lignant anger. “That is the house of
Shaws!” she cried. “Blood built it;
blood stopped the building of it; blood
shall bring it down. See here!” she
cried again, “1 spit upon the ground
and crack my thumb at it! B'ark laj its
fall! If ye see the laird tell him what
ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve
banner and nineteen time th it Jennet
Clouston has called down the curse on
him and his house, byre and stable, man,
guest and master, wife, miss or bairn—
black, black be their fall!"
And the woman, whose voice had
risen fo a kind of eldritch singsong,
turned with a skip and was gone.
1 sat me down and stared at the bouse
of Shaws. The more 1 looked the
pleasanter that countryside appeared,
being all set with hawthorn bashes full
of flowers, the fields dotted v, ith sheep,
a fine flight of rooks in the sky and
every sign of a kind soil and climate,
and yet the barrack in the midst of it
went sore against my fancy.
The nearer I got to that the drearier
it appeared. It seemed like the one
wing of a honse that had never been
finished. What should have been the
inner end stood open on the npper floors
and showed against the sky with steps
and stairs of uncompleted masonry.
Many of the windows were unglazed,
and bats flev. in and out like doves ont
of a dovecote.
The night had begun to fall as 1 got
close, and in three of the lower win
dows, which were very high npand nar
row and well barred, the changing light
of a little fire began to glimmer.
Was tins the palace I had been com
ing to? Was it witbin these walls that
I was to seek new friends, and begin
great fortunes? Why, in my father's
house on Essen-Ws'lerside the fire and
the bright lights could show a mile
away, and the dooj open to a beggar’s
knoi k.
1 came forward cautiously, and giv
ing ear as 1 came beard some one rat
tling with dishes, and a little, dry, eager
cough that came in fits, but there was
no sound of speech and not a dog
barked.
The door, as well as 1 could see it in
the dim light, was a great piece of
wood all studded with nails, and I lifted
my hand with a faint heart under my
jacket and knocked once. Th -n 1 stood
and waited. The honse had fallen into
a dead silence. A whole minute passed
away, and nothing stirred but the hats
overhead. 1 knocked again and heark
ened again. By this time my ears had
grown so accustomed to the quiet that 1
could hear the ticking of the clock in
side as it slowly counted out the sec
onds, but whoever was in that house
kept deadly still and must have held his
breath.
I was in. two minds whether to run
away; but anger got the np;>cr hand,
and 1 began instead to rain kicks and
buffets on the door and to shout out
aloud for Mr. Balfour. 1 was iu full
career when 1 heard the cough right
overhead, and jumping back and looking
up beheld a man's head in a tall night
cap. and the liell mouth of a blunder
buss at one of the first windows.
“It's loaded," said a voice.
”1 have come here with a letter,” 1
said,‘Ho Mr. Ebenezer Balfour, of Shaws
Is be here?"
“From whom is it?” asked the man
with the blunderbuss.
“That is neither here nor there," said
I, for I was growing very wroth.
“Well," was the reply, “ye can pnt it
down upon the doorstep and 1* off with
ye.”
“1 will do no such thing,” I cried. “1
will deliver it into Mr. Balfour’s hands,
as it was meant I should. It is a letter
of introduction.”
“A what?” cried the voice sharply.
I repeated what 1 hail said.
“Who are yo yourself?” was the next
Question after a considerable pause.
“T am rtnii aakAmaf^ of TOV pn-Tpq,” an-ld
CHAPTER III.
I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MV CNCLR.
Presently there came a great rattling
of chains and holts, and the door was
cautiously opened and shut to again be
hind me as soon as I hail passed.
“Go into the kitchen and tonch naeth-
ing,” said the voice; and while the per
son of the house set himself to replacing
the defenses of the door, 1 groped my
way forward and entered the kitchen.
The tire had burned up fairly bright,
and showed me the barest room I think
1 ever pnt my eyes on. Half a dozen
dishes stood upon the shelves; the table
! was laid for supper with a bowl of por
ridge, a born spoon and a cup of small
beer. Besides what 1 have named there
was not another thing in that great,
stone vaulted, empty chamber, but^lock-
fast chests ...ranged along the wall and
a corner cupboard with a jiadlock.
As soon as the last chain was np the
man rejoined me. He was a mean,
stooping, ns now shouldered, clay fac ’d
creature, ard his age might have been
anything between fifty and seventy. His
nightcap was flannel, and so was the
nightgown be wore, instead of coat ami
waistcoat, over his ragged shirt. He
was long unshaved; bnt what most dl*
! tressed and even daunted me, he would
I neither take his eye away from me noi
i look me fairly in the face. What be
was, whether by trade or birth, was
more than 1 could fathom; bnt he
seemed most like an old, unprofitable
! serving man, who should have been left
in charge of that big house upon board
wages.
“Are ye sharp set?” he asked, glanc
ing at about the level of my knee. “Ye
can eat that drop parritch.”
“I’ll lake the ale, though.”
1 said 1 feared it was his own sup-
per.
“Oh," said be, “1 can do fine Ranting
j it. I’ll take the ale, though, for it
j slockens my congh.” He drank the cup
about half out, still keeping an eye upon
me as he drank, and then suddenly held
out -his hand. “Let s see the letter,”
said he.
I told him the letter was for Mr. Bal
four—not for him.
“And who do ye think 1 am? - says he.
“Give me Alexander's letter.”
“You know my father's name?”
“It should be strange if 1 didua,” he
returned, “for he was my born brother,
and little as ye seem to like either me or
my house, or my good parritch, I’m your
born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my
born nephew. So give us the letter and
sit down and fill your kyte.”
If 1 had been some years younger,
what with shame, weariness and disap-
poiutment.I believe 1 had burst into tears.
As it was, 1 could find no words, neither
black nor white, but banded him the
letter and sat down to the porridge with
as little appetite for meat as ever a
Young man had.
Meanwhile my uncle, stooping over
the fire, turned the letter over and over
in bis hands.
"Do ye ken what’s in it?" he asked
suddenly.
“Yon see for yourself, sir,” said 1,
“that the seal bas not been broken.”
“Aye,” said be, "but what brought yon
here?”
"To give the letter,” said 1.
“No," says he cunningly, “but ye’ll
have bad some hopes, nae doubt?”
“1 confess, sir,” said I, “when 1 was
told that 1 had kinsfolk well to do, 1 did
indeed indulge the hope that they might
help me in my life. But 1 am no beg
gar; I look for no favors at your bands,
and 1 want none that are not freely
given. For as poor as I appear, I have
friends of my own that will be blithe to
help me.”
“Hoot, hoot!” said Uncle Ebenezer,
“dinna fly up in the snuff at me. We’ll
agree fine yet. And Davie, my man, if
you’re done with that bit parritch, 1
could just take a sup of it myself. Aye,”
he continued, as soon as he had ousted
me from the stool and spoon, “they’re
tine, halesome food—they’re grand food,
parritch.” He murmured a little grace
to himself and fell to. “Your father
was very fond of his meat. I mind. He
was a hearty if not a great eater, but as
for me, I could never do mair than pylne
at food.” He took a pull at the small
beer, which probably reminded him of
hospitable dntips, for his next speech
ran thus, “If ye’re dry ye’ll find water
behind the door."
To this 1 returned no answer, stand
ing stiffly on my two feet and looking
down upon my uncle with a mighty an
gry heart. He, on his part, continued
to eat like a man under some pressure
of time, and to throw out little darting
glances now at my shoes and now at my
homespun stockings. Once o»ly, when
he had ventured to look a little higher,
our eyes met, and no thief taken with a
hand in a man’s pocket could have
shown more lively signals of distress.
This set me in a muse whether bis timid
ity arose from too long a disuse of any
human company, and whether perhaps,
upon a little trial, it might pass off and
my nncle change into an altogether dif
ferent man. From this I was awakened
by his sharp voice.
“Your father's been long dead?” he
asked.
“Three weeks, sir," said L
“He was a secret man, Alexander—a
secret,, silept man,” be continued, “He
' never saia muckle wnen ne was young.
I He'll never have spoken muckle of me.”
“1 never knew, sir, till you told it me
vnnrself that he had anv brother.”
t “Dear me, uear me: saw r.oenezer
' “Nor yet of Shaws, 1 dare say.”
“Not so much as the name, sir,” said I.
“To think o’ that I” said he. “A
strange nature of a man!" For all that
ho seemed singularly satisfied, but
i whether with himself or me, or with this
! conduct of my father, was more than 1
could read. Certainly, however, he
seemed to lie outgrowing that distaste
or ill will that he had conceived at first
against my i>erson, for jM-esently he
jumped up, came across the room be
hind me and hit me a smack upon the
shoulder. “We'll agree fine yet!” he
cried. “I'm just as glad 1 let you in.
and now cone awa' to vour bed ”
To my surprise, ne nt no lamp or
caudle, but set forth into the dark pas
sage, groped his way, breathing deeply,
up a flight of stejis, and jiaused before a
door, which he unlocked. 1 was close
upon his heels, having stumbled after
him as liest 1 might; and he bade me go
in, for that was my chamber. I did as
he bid, but paused after a few steps and
begged a light to go to lied with.
“Hoot toot!" said Uncle Ebenezer,
/‘there’s a fine moon.”
“Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-
mirk,” [dark as the pit] said L “I can-
m>t> aoa Kxxsl ’*
"Hoot toot, hoot toot!” said he.
“Lights in a house is a thing 1 dinnae
agree with. I'm unco feared of fires.
Good night to ye, Davie, my man."
And before I had time to add a further
protest, be pulled the door to, and 1
heard him lock me in from the outside.
1 did not know whether to laugh or
cry. The room was as cold as a well
and the bed, when I had found my way
to it, as damp as a peat hag; bnt by
good fortune I had caught npmy bundle
and my plaid, and rolling myself in the
latter 1 lay down upon the flour under
the lee of the big bedstead and fell
speedily asleep.
With the first peep of day 1 opened •
eyes, to find myself in a great bed
chamber, bang with stamped leather,
furnished with fine embroidered furni
ture and lit by three fair windows. Ten
years ago, or perhaps twenty, it must
have been as pleasant a room to lie
down or to awake in as a man could
wish; but damp, dirt, disuse and the
mice and spiders bad done their worst
since then. Many of the window panes
besides were broken, and indeed this
was so common a feat are in that house
that 1 believe my uncle must at some
time have stood a siege from his indig
nant neighbors—iierhaps with Jennet
Clouston at their head.
Meanwhile the sun was shining out
side, and being very cold in that miser
able room 1 knocked and shouted till
my jailer came and let me out. He
carried me to the back of the honse,
where was a draw well, and told me to
“wash my face there, if I wanted;” and
when that was done, I made the best of
my own way back to the kitchen, where
he had lit the fire and was making the
porridge. The table was laid with two
bowls and two horn spoona, but the
same single measure of small beer. Per
haps my eye rested on this particular
with some surprise, and perhaps my
uncle observed it; for he sjioko np as if
in answer to my thought, asking me if I
would like to drink ale—for so he called
It.
I told him such was my habit, bnt not
to put himself about.'
"Nae, nae," said he; ‘Til deny you
nothing in reason." He fetched an
other cup from the shelf, and then, to
my great surprise, instead of drawing
more lieer, he ponied an accurate half
from one enp to the other. There was
a kind of nobleness in this that took my
breath away. If my nncle was certain
ly a miser ho was one of that thorough
breed that goes near to make the vice
respectable.
When we had made an end of onr
meal my uncle Ebenezer unlocked a
drawer, and drew out.of it a clay pipe
and a lump of tobacco, from which he
cut one fill before he locked it np again.
Tben he sat down in the sun at one of
the windows and silently smoked. From
time to time his eyes came coasting round
to me, and he shot out one of his ques
tions. Once it was, “And your mother?'
and when 1 had told him that she, too,
was dead, “Aye, she was a bonnie lassie!”
Then after another long pause, “Whao
were these friends o’ yours?”
1 told him they were ninorem geuue-
men of the name of Campbell; though
indeed there was only one, and that the
minister, that had ever taken the least
note of me, but 1 began to think my
uncle made too light of my position,
and finding myself alone with him 1 did
not wish him to suppose me helpless.
He seemed to turn this over in his
mind; and then, “Davie, my man,” said
he, “ye’ve come to the right bit when ye
came to your Uncle Ebenezer. I’ve a
great notion of the family, and 1 mean
to do the right by you, hut while I’m
taking a bit think to mysel' of what's
the best thing to put yon to—whether
the law, or the meenistry, or may he the
army, whilk is what boys are fondest of
—1 wouldnae like the Balfours to be
humbled before a wheen Hieland Camp
bells, and I'll ask you to keep your
tongue within your teeth. Nae letters,
nae messages, nae kind of word to ony
body, or else—there’s my door.”
“Uncle Elienezer,” said l, “I’ve no
manner or reason to suppose you mean
anything but well by me. For all that.
I would have yon to know that I have a
pride of my own. It was by no will of
| mine that I came seeking you, and if
you show me your door again I'll take
you at the word.”
He seemed grievously put out. “Hoot*
| toots,” said he, ‘‘ca’ cannie man—ca'
[ cannie! Bide a day or two. I’m nae
i warlock, to find a fertune for you in the
j bottom of a parritch bowl; but just yon
| give me a day or two and say naething
| to naebody, and as sure as sure I'll do
tbe riarht bv-Ton.”
“Very wcil.T said I, “enough said. It
you want to help me there's no doubt
bnt I'll be glad of it, and none but I’ll
be grateful.”
It seemed to me (too soon, I dare say)
that I was getting the npjier hand of my
uncle, and 1 began next to say that 1
must have the bed and bedclothes aired
and pnt to sun dry, for nothing would
make me sleep in snch a pickle.
“Is this my house or yours?” said he in
his keen voice, and then all of a sadden
broke off. “Nae, nae,” said ho; “1 dinnae
mean that. What’s mine is yours, Da
vie, my man, and what's yours is mine.
Blood's thicker than water, and then‘s
Uiebody but you and me that ought the
name.” And then on he rambled about
the family, and its ancient greatness,
and bis father that began to enlarge the
{ bouse, and himself that stopped the
| building os a pinful waste.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Like a Great Railway,
With its branches running in
every direction, art the arteries
and veins which convey the
blood to every part of the hu
man system, A fold, sudden
changes or exposur j, may cause
poisonous acids to dog the cir*
dilation, and then .:omes Rheu-
j matism. Beware 1 If you val
ue life remove the obstruction
with Dr. Drmmond's Lightning
Remedy. You cai get a large
bottle at the drugg ists for $5 or
it will be sent to yea by prepaid
express with a guai anteeofeure
if >ou send to the Drummond
Medicine Co., 4850Maiden Lane,
New York. Agent > wanted
A man never * *alizes how
much furniture he owns until
he tries to walk rag idly through
his house in the da k.
A Million Fri
A friend in
indeed, and m i»
million people
such a friend *
Discovery for l
Coughs, and Colds,
never used this <
Medicine, one trial
you that it has w-
ative powers in al
Throat, Chest and
bottle is guarantt
that is claimed or
be refunded. Tria
at Willcox & Co’s
Large bottles 50c. i
nds.
is a friend
^ than one
‘ found just
King’s New
onsumption,
-If you have
Teat Cough
vill convince
nderful cur
diseases of
,ungs. Each
d to do all
money will
bottles free
Drug Store,
nd $1.00.
“Your sealskin st cque is rath
er short, is it m t ?’. “Yes ;
vhen 1 got it my h isband was
short.”
Deserving Pi
We desire to say
zens, that for yea
been selling Dr.
Discovery for Cons
King’s New Life Pii
Arnica Salve and 1
ters; and have ne
remedies that sell
that have given sm
satisfaction. Wet
tate to guarantee
time, and we stam
fund the purchase
isfactory results di
their use. These n
won their great pop
ly on their meri
Willcox & Co. Dru
;o our citi-
s we have
ving’s New
imption, Dr.
s,Bucklen’s
lectric Bi^-
'er handle!
us well, or
h universal
o not hesi-
chem every
ready to re
•rice, if sat-
• not follow
medics have
ilarity pure-
s. Sold by
rgists.
Prunella—Did you tell him I
was out, Marie? Her Maid-
Yes, ma’am. Prmnella—Did
he seem to believe you ? Her
Maid—Not until I , aid you told
me to tell him so.
Shiloh's Consuirq
This is beyond
most successful <
cine we have ever
doses invariably ct
cases of Cough, Cr<
chitis, while its w.
cess in the cure of '
is without a paralh
tory of med cine,
discovery it has be
guarantee, a test w
medicine can sta
have a cough we f
you to try it. Pri,
and $1. If your lu
chest, or back lam<
Porous Plaster. Si
A. Bovd
tion Cure,
luestion the
’ough Medi-
sold, a few
re the worst
upandBron-
nderful sue
Jonsumption
1 in the his-
4ince its first
)□ sold on a
hich no other
id. If you
arnestly ask
e 10c., 50c.
igs are sore,
. use Shiloh’s
Id by Dr. J.
Banks—I don’t i iind the grip
itself so much—it’s the after ef
fects I’m afraid of.
Rivers—The aftur effects is
«vhat ails me. I'm still stand
ing off the doctor fi>r $65.—Chi
cago Tribune.
Answer This Q jestion.
Why do so man people we
see around us seen to prefer to
suffer and be mai e miserable
by Indigestion, ('onstipation,
Dizziness, Loss <•{ Appetite,
Coming up of the Food, Yellow
Skin, when for 75c. we will sell
them Shiloh’s Vit ilizer, guar
anteed to cure th* tn. Sold by
Dr. J. A. Boyd.
KIDNAPPED,”
BTf
Robert
Louis
Stevenson,
is now running ir this paper.
Don't Miss a Chapter
TXART8VILLE RAl .ROAD.
In effact Jan. a, ISM.
DAILY MIX.EL TRAIN
Leave Hartsville 5.00 a m
Jovann 5.30 a a
F'oyd’a 5.36 a in
Darlington 5.50 a is
Palmetto 0.03 u m
Arrive Florence 6.15 * m
Leave Florence o.tO p , u
Palmetto. 9.15 p m
Darlington 9.30 p m
Floyd’* 9.45 p in
Jovann 10-05 p ib
Arrrive Hartsville V-~ 10.36 p m
J. F. DIVINEiSGeu. 8upt.
CHARLESTON, SUHTER AND
NORTHERN RAILROAD
CHARLES E. KIMBALL Receiver.
NORTH.
UX7VV w <!• 14. AVy
SOUTH.
21
1
2
22
A..V.
AM.
A,M.
P.M.
. ...
6.50
Charleston
10.30
8.15
I’regnalTi
9.05
6 45
8 30
Sumter
13.50
1 20
8.48
1.00
Lamar
11 31
11.39
9.22
1.20
Syracuse
11 11
11.03
10.40
1.41
Darlington
10.40
10.29
11.15
2 05
Mont Clare
10 26
958
11.40
2.21
Robin's Neck
10.10
8.18
12.10
2.41
Mandeville
9.50
7.53
12.10
8 01
Henuettsville
9.30
7.23
3 0
Gibson
8.40
4.30
Hamlet
7.50
P.M.
P.M
P.M.
A.M.
Close connection is made at Hamlet
for all points reached by or via the
Seaboard Air Line System ; at Ben-
nettsville for all points via C. F. A Y.
V. K R.
No. 3 does not take passengers south
of Sumter.
Nos. 21 and 22 do not run north of
Henuettsville.
J. H. AVER1LL, General Manager.
c.
A D. and C. A 8. RAILROADS-
In effect Jan. 2, 1898.
Lea\e Wadenboro • 1.40 p in
Dennett's 2.01 p m
Morveu’s 2.25 p m
McFarland 2-40 p m
Cheraw 4.00 p in
Cash's 4 30 p m
Society Hill 6.05 p m
Dove’s 5.45 p m
Floyd’s 6.00 p in
Darlington 0.25 p m
Palmetto 0.40 p m
Arrive Florence 7.(X£p in
Leave Florence 0.80 a m
Palmetto 6.50 a in
Darlington 7.30 a m
Floyd's 7.55 a in
Dove's 8 10 a in
Society Hill 8 40am
Cash’s 9 35 a m
Cheraw 10.00 a m
McFarland 11.45 p m
Morven’s 12.05 p m
Bennett’s 12.20 p m
Arrive Wadesboro 12.45 p m
Local Freight Train.
Leave Florence 9.00 a m
Arrive Darlington 9.45 a m
Leave Darlington 5.00 p m
Arrive Florence 6.45 p m
A. F. RAY ENEL, President.
N ORTHEASTERN RAILROAD.
In effect Jan. 2, 1893.
SOUTH BOUND.
No. 15
l^eave Florence 0 25am
Kingstree 7.85 am
lames 7.55 a m
Arrive Charleston 9.44 a m
No. 27.
Leave Florence 10.60 p|m
Kingstree 11.50 pm
Lanes 12.18 a w
Arrive Charleston 2.19 am
No. 23.
I^eave Florence 11.00 p in
_ Kingstree 12.14 am
Lanes 12.32 a m
Arrive Charleston 2.38 a m
No. 53.
Leave Lanes 8.45 p m
Arrive Charleston 10.40 p m
Train on C. A D. U. K. connects at
Florence with No. 16 Train.
NORTH BOUND.
Leave Charleston
No. 78.
I .alien
8.22 a in
Kingstree
Arrive Florence
4.55 a m
Leave Charleston
No. 66
I-aues
Kingstree
Arrive Florence
No. 14.
I-cave Charleston
Lanes
Kingstree
6.17 p m
Arrive Florence
7.10 p m
Leave Charleston
No. 52.
Arrive Lanes
No. 52 runs through to Columbia
via Central R. It. of S. C.
No. 78 runs solid to Wilming
ton, N. C., making close connection
with W. A W. R. R. for all points
North.
Trains Nos. 14 and 06 run via Wilson
an Fayetteville—Short Line—and
make close connection for all points
North.
J. F. DIVINE. Gen. Snpt.
Am/ILMINGTON, COLUMBIANA
NT AUGUSTA RALROAD.
In effect January 2 1893.
SOUTH BOUND.
No. 23.
Leave Wilmington 6.25 p in
Marion 9.41 p m
Arrive Florence 10-25 p m
No. 5o.
Leave Florence 3.20 a m
Sumter 4.35 a m
Arrive Columbia 6.15 a m
No. 63.
Leave Sumter 9.43 a in
Arrive Columbia 10.55 a m
No. 68.
Leave Florence..^ 7.57 a m
Sumter 9 20 a m
Arrive Columbia
No. 52 runs through from Charles
ton via Central Railroad; leaving
Lanes 8-32 a m, Manning 9 09 a m.
NORTH BOUND.
No. 51.
Leave Columbia 10.45 p m
Sumter 12.05 a m
Arrive Florence 1.30 am
No. 78.
Leave Florence 3.10 a
Marion 5.53 a m
Arrive Wilmington 9.10 am
No. 59.
Leave Columbia
Sumter 7.30 p in
Arrive Florence 8.50 p m
No. 58.
Leave Columbia 6.10 pm
Arrive Sumter 7. 25p m
No 53 runs through to charleston
via central Railroad, arriving Man
ning 8.00 p in. Lanes 8.40
charleston 10.30 a m.
Trains on Manchester and Augr
B. R-, leave Sumter daily except Sun
day, 10-50 a. m., arrive Rimini 11:59 a.
m. Returning leave '.Rimini 12:30 p.
in., arrive Sumter 1:40 p in.
Trains on Hartsville R. R. leave
Hartitille 5:00 a. m., arriving Floyds
5:35 a. in. Returning leave Floyds
9:45 p. in., arriving Hartsvill 10:5 p. m.
Daily except Sunday.
Tiains on Wilmington, Chadhouru
and Conway Railroad leave Chad-
bourn 10:30 a. m., arrive at Conway
1:00 p. m„ returning leave Conway at
2 30 p. m , arrive Chadbourn 5:20 p.
in Leave Chadbourn 7:15 a. m. and
5:50 p. iu., arrive Hub at 8:00 a. m. and
6:25 p. in. Returning leave Hub 9:00
a. m. and 6:45 p. in , arrive at I had-
bourn 9:45 a- m. and 7:30 p m. Daily
except Sunday.
JOHN F. Di VINE, CenT Sup’t.
FOR SALE
A Second-hand Sewing Machine: in
excellent condition. Apply at Tut
Dakuxmo* Nxwa OOaa.