But his mission was accomplished, And a new and added gem Sparkled with a wondrous l.u.s.tre In the Dutch king's diadem.

Little did the gallant seaman Think that in the days to be, England's hand should proudly wrest it From his land's supremacy.

THE GROOM'S STORY.

BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.

The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.

I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss, But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an' that's good enough for us.

We knew as it was in 'im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part, We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart; For 'e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin' dignified, It seemed a kind o' liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do.

But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.

'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay, 'E wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew 'twas in 'im; we knew as 'e could fly; But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try.

We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day, We got the last yard out of 'm in a most amazin' way.

It was all along o' master; which master 'as the name Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an' always acts the same; But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one, An' 'e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick-- A greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.

You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop, For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith's shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom, It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room.

Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day, Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there, A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisenin' the air.

'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor!--what _did_ 'e know, Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An' then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country lane.

It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?

So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car, We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar, And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side, While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed, And 'e seemed to say, "Well, bli' me! wot _will_ they ask me next?

I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far, To be a.s.sistant engine to a crocky motor car!"

Well, master, 'e was in the car, a-fiddlin' with the gear, An' the 'orse was meditatin', an' I was standin' near, When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know-- But it sort o' spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

"'Old 'ard, old gal!" says master, and "Gently then!" says I, But an engine wont 'eed coaxin' an' it ain't no use to try; So first 'e pulled a lever, an' then 'e turned a screw, But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.

And first it went quite slowly, and the 'orse went also slow, But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go; For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and b.u.t.tin' 'im along, An' in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.

At first 'e walked quite dignified, an' then 'e had to trot, And then 'e tried to canter when the pace became too 'ot.

'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't mind, And all the time the motor-car was pushin' 'im be'ind.

Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop, And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an' somethin' else went pop, An' somethin' else went fizzywig, an' in a flash or less, That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.

Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an' kept the road all right, And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! it was a sight.

'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far, For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.

'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew, But it b.u.mped an' shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do; It b.u.t.ted 'im and boosted 'im an' spanked 'im on a'ead, Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.

The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.

Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss, But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.

You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! no more do we, Which really ain't surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see; That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop, And all the road was litter'd like a bloomin' barber's shop.

And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day, And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.

And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far, Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motorcar.

THE HARDEST PART I EVER PLAYED.

BY RE HENRY.

I come of an acting family. We all took to the stage as young ducks take to the water; and though we are none of us geniuses,--yet we got on.

My three brothers are at the present time starring, either in the provinces or in America; my two elder sisters, having strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage, are married to respectable City men; I, Sybil Gascoigne, have acted almost as long as I can remember; the little ones, Kate and d.i.c.k, are still at school, but when they leave the first thing they do will be to look out for an engagement.

I do not think we were ever any of us very much in love with the profession. We took things easily. Of course there were some parts we liked better than others, but we played everything that came in our way--Comedy, Farce, Melodrama. My elder sisters quitted the stage before they had much time to distinguish themselves. They were each in turn, on their marriage, honoured with a paragraph in the princ.i.p.al dramatic papers, but no one said the stage had sustained an irreparable loss, or that the profession was robbed of one of its brightest ornaments.

I was following very much in my sisters' footsteps. The critics always spoke well of me. I never got a slating in my life, but then before the criticism was in print I could almost have repeated word for word the phrases that would be used.

"Miss Gascoigne was painstaking and intelligent as usual."

"The part was safe in the hands of that promising young actress, Sybil Gascoigne."

With opinions such as these I was well content. My salary was regularly paid, I could always reckon on a good engagement, and even if my profession failed me there was Jack to fall back upon, and Jack was substantial enough to fall back upon with no risk of hurting oneself. He was six feet two, with broad, square shoulders, and arms--well, when Jack's arms were round you you felt as if you did not want anything else in the world. At least, that is how I felt.

Jack ought to have been in the Life Guards, and he would have been only a wealthy uncle offered to do something for him, and of course such an offer was not to be refused, and the "something" turned out to be a clerkship in the uncle's business "with a view to a partnership" as the advertis.e.m.e.nts say. Now the business was not a pretty or a romantic one--it had something to do with leather--but it was extremely profitable, and as I looked forward to one day sharing all Jack's worldly goods I did not grumble at the leather. Not that Jack had ever yet said a word to me which I could construe into a downright offer. He had looked, certainly, but then with eyes like his there is no knowing what they may imply. They were dark blue eyes, and his hair was bright brown, with a touch of yellow in it, and his moustache was tawny, and his skin was sunburnt to a healthy red. We had been introduced in quite the orthodox way. We had not fallen in love across the footlights. He seldom came to see me act, but sometimes he would drop in to supper, perhaps on his way from a dinner or to a dance, and if I could make him stay with us until it was too late to go to that dance, what a happy girl I used to be!

My mother, with the circ.u.mspection that belongs to mothers, told me that he was only flirting, and that I had better turn my attention to somebody else. Somebody else! As if any one were worth even looking at after Jack Curtis. I pitied every girl who was not engaged to him.

How could my sisters be happy? Resigned, content, they might be; but to be married and done for, and afterwards to meet Jack--well, imagination failed me to depict the awfulness of such a calamity.

It was quite time he spoke--there can be no doubt of that; although Jack Curtis was too charming to be bound by the rules which govern ordinary mortals. Still, I could not help feeling uneasy and apprehensive. How could I tell how he carried on at those gay and festive scenes in which I was not included? A proud earl's lovely daughter might be yearning to bestow her hand upon him. A d.u.c.h.ess might have marked him for her own. Possibly my jealous fears exaggerated the importance of the society in which he moved, but it seemed to me that if Jack had been bidden to a friendly dinner at Buckingham Palace it was only what might be expected.

Well, there came a night when we expected Jack to supper and he appeared not. Only, in his place, a few lines to say that he was going to start at once for his holiday. A friend had just invited him to join him on his yacht. He added in a postscript: "I will write later." He did _not_ write. Hours, days, weeks pa.s.sed, and not a word did we hear. "It is a break-off," said my mother consolingly. "He had got tired of us all, and he thought this the easiest way of letting us know. I told you there was an understanding between him and Isabel Chisholm--any one could see that with half an eye."