



Produced by Al Haines









[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: "_Down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the
spar-deck._"  Page 96.]





TERRY'S TRIALS

AND

TRIUMPHS



BY

J. MACDONALD OXLEY



Author of "In the Wilds of the West Coast," "Diamond Rock,"
  "Up Among the Ice-Floes," "My Strange Rescue,"
  &c., &c.




T. NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York

1900




CONTENTS.


    I.  A POOR START
   II.  THE WAY OPENS
  III.  UNEVEN GOING
   IV.  PERILS BY THE WAY
    V.  ON BOARD THE "MINNESOTA"
   VI.  IN HAMPTON ROADS
  VII.  THE GREAT NAVAL COMBAT
 VIII.  ADVENTURES ASHORE
   IX.  FROM FRIEND TO FRIEND
    X.  REINSTATED
   XI.  IN A STRAIT BETWIXT TWO
  XII.  ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL



ILLUSTRATIONS


"Down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the spar-deck."

"On being lifted carefully in, Miss Drummond fainted for the moment."

"Terry, attired as never before, set out for Long Wharf."

"The whole ship had the appearance of being in readiness for an
expected foe."

"He succeeded in ingratiating himself with the driver of the train."




TERRY'S TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS.


CHAPTER I.

A POOR START.

"Give it to him, Terry--that's the style!" "Punch his head!" "Hit him
in the face, Mike!" "Good for you, Terry--that was a daisy!" "Stick to
him, me hearty; ye'll lick him yet!"

The shouts came from a ring of ragged, dirty youngsters, who were
watching with intense excitement a hand-to-hand and foot-to-foot fight
between two of their own kind--a rough-and-tumble affair of the most
disorderly sort.

They were not well-matched combatants, the one called Terry being much
inferior in size and weight to the other; but he evidently had the
sympathy of the majority of the spectators, and he displayed an amount
of vigour and agility that went far to make up for his deficiencies in
other respects.

In point of fact, he was not fighting his own battle, but that of
little Patsy Connors, whose paltry, yet to him precious, plaything had
been brutally snatched away from him by Mike Hoolihan, and who had
appealed to Terry to obtain its return.

The contest had waged but a few minutes, and the issue was still
uncertain, when a shrill cry of, "The peelers! the peelers! they're
comin' up the street!" caused a dispersion of the crowd, so speedy and
so complete that the boys composing it seemed to vanish like spirits;
and when the big blue-coated, silver-buttoned policemen reached the
spot, there was nothing to arrest but a woebegone puppy, who regarded
them with an expression that meant as plainly as possible,--

"Please, sirs, it wasn't me; and I don't know where they've gone to."

So the guardians of the peace were fain, after giving an indignant
glance around, to retire in good order, but with empty hands.

      *      *      *      *      *

A life divided between Blind Alley and the Long Wharf could hardly have
had a hopeful outlook.  Blind Alley was the most miserable collection
of tumble-down tenements in Halifax.  It led off from the narrowest
portion of Water Street, in between two forbidding rows of filthy,
four-storied houses, nearly every window of which represented a family,
and brought up suddenly against the grim and grimy walls of a brewery,
whence issued from time to time the thick, oppressive vapours of
steaming malt.

The open space between the rows of houses was little better than a
gutter, through which you had to pick your way with careful steps if
you did not wish to carry off upon your boots and clothing unsavoury
reminders of the place.

Little wonder, then, that so soon as the children of Blind Alley were
big enough to walk they hastened to desert their repulsive playground,
in spite of the shrill summons back from their unkempt mothers, who,
though they made no attempt to keep them clean, loved them too much to
think with composure of their being exposed to the many dangers of
busy, bustling Water Street.

It is safe to say that you could not peer into Blind Alley during any
of the hours of daylight without hearing stout Mrs. M'Carthy, or
red-haired Mrs. Hoolihan, or some other frowsy matron with no less
powerful lungs, calling out from her window,--

"Patsy!  Norah! where are ye now, ye little villains?  Ye're the plague
of my life wid yer always gettin' out of me sight.  Come back wid ye
now, or I'll beat the very life out o' ye."

And if the poor little urchins had not managed to get around the corner
so as to be out of sight, they would slink dejectedly back to wait for
a more favourable opportunity.

Terry Ahearn's home, if so sweet a name could rightly be given to such
wretched quarters, was in the last house on the left-hand side, the two
squalid rooms which served all the purposes of kitchen, parlour, and
bedrooms being on the second floor, and right against the brewery wall.
Here he had been born, and had grown up pretty much as the weeds
grow--according to his own devices.  Although the only survivor of
several children, his father, who bore the unprepossessing nickname of
"Black Mike," hardly ever noticed him, unless it was to swear at him or
cuff him.  When sober, Black Mike was sulky, and when drunk,
quarrelsome, so that Terry had many excuses for not loving him.  As
most of Mike's earnings went over the bar at the Crown and Anchor, his
wife was obliged to go out scrubbing in order to provide the bread and
molasses which, with a few potatoes and an occasional bit of meat,
formed the staple of Terry's diet.

With anything like a fair chance, poor Peggy Ahearn would have made a
tolerably good mother.  But her married life had been one long
martyrdom, which had broken her spirit and soured her temper.  She
loved Terry with all her heart, and he loved her in return; yet an
observer of their mutual relations might well have thought otherwise.
He was very apt to be saucy to her if his father was not near, and she
rarely addressed him in terms of affection or gentleness.

From such surroundings Terry, naturally enough, was only too glad to
escape.  Even the public school was more endurable, especially during
the long cold winter.  In the bright long days of summer there was the
Long Wharf, on which his father worked, and where Terry's companions
gathered every day, rain or shine, from the beginning of May to the end
of October.

In Terry's general appearance there was nothing at first sight to
distinguish him from any of the other "wharf rats" who were his
constant companions.  They all wore battered hats, ragged clothes, and
dirty faces.  They all had a fine capacity for shirking work, and for
making a great deal of noise when they were enjoying themselves.

If you had occasion to talk with Terry, however, you would be a dull
observer if you did not notice certain qualities of character indicated
in his face and form which suggested the thought that there was good
stuff in the lad, and that if he had a chance he might turn out to be
of some use despite his unpropitious surroundings.

He had a bright, pleasant countenance of the genuine Irish type,
thickly dotted with deep-tinted freckles; a pair of frank, brown eyes;
a mop of hair with a decided tendency towards curls and redness; and a
well-knit, full-sized frame, whose every muscle was developed to its
utmost capacity, and within which there beat a big warm heart, although
that might seem to be doubtful sometimes when its owner was in a
particularly mischievous mood.

"Sure, an' I don't know what's ever to be the end of ye," said Mrs.
Ahearn one day, in a more thoughtful tone than was usual with her,
after scolding her son for one of his pranks which she had just found
out.  "Ye've got wits enough to be a gentleman, if ye only had a mind
to it; but never a bit do ye seem to care, so long as there's a bite
for ye to eat."

Terry's response was so surprising that it fairly took his mother's
breath away; for, drawing himself up to his full height, and putting on
a look of the utmost determination, he exclaimed,--

"And it's a gentleman I mean to be some day, and then it's yourself
that will ride in a carriage with glass sides, as fine as Miss
Drummond's."

Mrs. Ahearn's eyes and mouth opened wide with astonishment.  What had
come over her boy that made him talk in that style?  Ride in a carriage
indeed!  Faith, the highest expectation she ever permitted herself to
entertain was of deliverance from the drudgery of the wash-tub.  If
that could only be accomplished in some other way than by dying, she
would be well content.

"Listen to him!" she cried.  "It's crazy the boy is.  Me ride in a
carriage!  Sure the only ride I'll ever get in a carriage with glass
sides will be when I'm going to the cimitry."

Then Terry did a still more remarkable thing.  Whether it was his
mother's reference to the hearse, or something in his own mind that
stirred him, can only be conjectured, but running up to Mrs. Ahearn he
caught her round the waist and gave her a hearty hug, saying,--

"Ye'll have many a ride in a carriage, and with glass sides too,
mother, before that."

Then he darted off down the stairs, whistling "St. Patrick's Day in the
Morning" with all his might, while his mother fell into a chair in
sheer bewilderment at her boy's utterly novel behaviour.

Certainly there had been nothing in Terry's past record to give ground
for hope of his ever attaining the status of a gentleman owning a
carriage.  To do as little work and to have as much play as possible
seemed to be his ideal of life.  More than once a situation as
errand-boy had been obtained for him; but he soon forfeited them by
neglect of duty, and returned rejoicing to his friends on Long Wharf.
Unless a decided change of disposition took place, he bid fair to turn
out nothing better than one more recruit for the wretched regiment of
"street loafers" that is characteristic of every maritime city.

Long Wharf, Terry's "happy hunting ground," so to speak, it must be
admitted, possessed a multitude of attractions for boys of his kind.
It held an unquestioned pre-eminence among the wharves of Halifax for
size and superiority of position, thrusting itself out prominently from
their midst into the heart of the harbour, while the rest curved away
on either hand in undistinguishable monotony.  From the foot of Long
Wharf you could comfortably command the whole water-line as from no
other vantage-ground.  Hence, in addition to being one of the busiest
places in the city during the day, it was in the summer evenings the
favourite resort of the whole neighbourhood--men, women, and children
gathering there to enjoy the cool breezes, and to watch the
pleasure-boats gliding past with their merry occupants.

The wharf was the centre of bustling activity all summer long.  From it
sailed lines of steamers to the bleak rugged coasts of Newfoundland and
to the fascinating fairy-land of the West Indies, while others voyaged
across the ocean to the metropolis of the world.  When they returned
laden with costly cargoes, the schooners and other sailing-vessels
gathered round with gaping holds that had to be filled, and what they
did not carry off went into the huge warehouses which stood in opposing
rows clear up to the street.

By virtue of his relationship to Black Mike, Terry had the freedom of
the wharf.  It was about the only benefit his father conferred upon
him, and he made the most of it, scraping acquaintance with the
sailors, especially the cooks of the steamers, running occasional
errands for the storekeeper, who might order him off the premises at
any time he saw fit, fishing for perch and tomcods, bathing in the
north dock at the risk