



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 of arrest by the first policeman who should
happen along, and having grand games of "I spy" among the maze of
stores and sheds.

Of course, this kind of life could not go on for ever, and there were
times when Terry paused in his eager quest for amusement long enough to
ask himself what he would like to be and to do for a living.  The
answers to the question were as various as Terry's moods.  He fain
would be a sailor, soldier, fireman, policeman, or coachman, according
as he had been most lately impressed with the advantages and
attractions of that particular occupation.  He even sometimes let his
thoughts aspire as high as the position of clerk in the offices of
Drummond and Brown, the owners of Long Wharf.  But that was only in
moments of exceptional exaltation, and they soon fell back again to
their wonted level.

This last idea, remote as the possibility of its fulfilment might seem,
had especial vigour imparted into it one morning by a few words that
Miss Kate Drummond, the only daughter of the senior partner, happened
to let fall.  She had driven down with her own pony to take her father
home to lunch, and the wharf being such a noisy place, had asked Terry,
who chanced to be lounging near by, wondering if he would ever be the
owner of so fine an equipage, if he would be good enough to hold the
pony's head while she sat in the carriage awaiting her father's coming.

Struck by Terry's prepossessing albeit somewhat dirty countenance, she
thought she might while away the time by asking him some questions
about himself.  Terry answered so promptly and politely that she became
quite interested in him, and finally began to sound him as to his plans
for the future.

"Do you know, Terry," said she, with a winning smile that sent a thrill
of pleasure clear down to the tips of the boy's bare toes, "I believe
something good might be made out of you.  Your face tells me that
you've got it in you to make your way in the world.  Many a rich and
famous man had no better start than you.  Wouldn't you like to try as
they did?"

Terry turned away his head to hide the blushes that glowed through the
tan and freckles on his cheeks, and shifted uneasily from one foot to
the other.

"I don't know, mum," said he at last.  "I'd like to be a gentleman, and
keep a carriage some day."

Miss Drummond gave a pleasant laugh; the answer was so frankly
characteristic.  To be a gentleman and to ride in a carriage seemed to
be the working people's highest ideal of earthly bliss.

"Well, Terry," she responded, taking care that there should be
sympathy, not ridicule, in her tone; "if that is your ambition, the way
is open to you to try to accomplish it.  My grandfather began as a
little office-boy, and he had more than one carriage of his own before
he died."

The look that Terry gave Miss Drummond on hearing these words made her
blush a little in her turn; it was such a curious blending of
bewilderment and joy.  That this radiant creature, who seemed almost as
far removed from him as an angel of heaven, should have had a
grandfather who was a mere office-boy, was a surprising revelation to
him.  At the same time, what a vista of hope it opened up!  If old Mr.
Drummond, whom he remembered seeing years before, had worked his way up
so well, could not others do it also?

Not knowing just what to say, Terry kept silence, and the situation was
presently relieved by the appearance of Mr. Drummond.  As Miss Drummond
gathered up the reins, she gave the boy another of her lovely smiles.

"Thank you very much, Terry," she said; "and you'll think over what
I've been saying to you, won't you?"

Terry pulled off his ragged cap in token of promise to do so, and the
light carriage whirled away, leaving him with thoughts such as had
never stirred his brain before.  Of course he knew that men had made
their way up from humble beginnings to high positions, but the fact had
hitherto never been so closely brought home to him; and it was while
under the excitement of this idea that he so astonished his mother as
related above.




CHAPTER II.

THE WAY OPENS.

The seed thus sown by Miss Drummond began to take root at once.  Terry
now gave more thought to getting a chance to make a start in life than
he did to having a good time.  And here, as it happened, fortune
favoured him in a most unusual way.  On the Saturday morning of the
week after the talk which had set him thinking, he was sitting at the
end of the Long Wharf watching a big steamer making her way slowly up
the harbour.  It being the noon hour, the wharf hands were all away at
dinner, and the place was almost deserted.

Suddenly he was startled out of his reverie by the sound of hoofs
beating with alarming rapidity upon the resounding planks, and turning
round he saw what caused him to spring to his feet with every nerve and
muscle athrill.  Thundering down the wharf in blind and reckless flight
came Miss Drummond's pony, while in the carriage behind sat the owner,
tugging desperately upon the reins, her face white and set with terror.

Acting upon the first impulse of the moment, Terry ran forward,
shouting and waving his cap.  Then, seeing that to be of no avail, he
sprang at the maddened creature's head, hoping to seize the reins.  But
by a quick swerve the pony eluded him, and the next moment plunged
headlong off the end of the wharf, dragging the carriage and its
helpless occupant after her.  There was a piercing shriek, a splash, a
whirl of seething foam, and then the clear green depths closed over all!

For the first moment, Terry, overcome by the startling suddenness of
the accident, knew not how to act.  Then the impulse to rescue welled
up mightily in his breast, and at once he leaped into the disturbed
waters, which closed over his curly head.

Rising almost instantly to the surface, he looked eagerly about him,
and caught sight of a hand thrust up in the agony of a struggle for
life.  A few quick strokes brought him to it, and then, taking in the
situation intuitively, he swerved round so as to grasp Miss Drummond at
the neck.  He had not spent his life about a wharf without learning
something of the difficulty of dealing with drowning persons, and that,
strong, expert swimmer as he was, he must not suffer those hands to
fasten their frantic grip upon him, or it would mean death for both.

So, deftly avoiding the girl's wild clutch, he took good hold of her
from the back, and saying beseechingly, "Keep ye still now, ma'am, and
I'll save ye all right," shoved her through the water in the direction
of the wharf.  Happily she was a young woman of rare self-possession.
As soon as she felt Terry's firm hand her terror gave way to trust.
She ceased her vain strugglings, and committed herself to her rescuer.
Otherwise, indeed, the poor boy could hardly have been equal to the
task.  As it was, his strength just lasted until he reached the first
row of barnacle-covered spiles; pressing Miss Drummond up to which he
hoarsely directed her--"Take good hold of that now, ma'am, and I'll
yell for somebody."

But he did not need to yell twice.  Already helpers had gathered above
them, and were shouting down words of encouragement; and a moment later
a boat darted round the corner of the wharf, propelled by eager oarsmen.

On being lifted carefully in, Miss Drummond, yielding to the reaction,
fainted for the moment; whereat Terry, who had never seen a woman faint
before, set up a wail of grief, thinking she must be dead.

[Illustration: "_On being lifted carefully in, Miss Drummond fainted
for the moment._"]

"Oh, the dear lady's dead!" he cried.  "Ye must be getting a doctor
quick."

But the others reassured him, and to his vast delight the blue eyes
opened again to give him a look of inexpressible gratitude ere the boat
touched the landing-steps.

Here Mr. Drummond, pale and trembling, the first thrill of numbing
horror having just given place to ecstatic joy, awaited them.  The
instant the boat was within reach he sprang into it, and, regardless of
her dripping garments, clasped his daughter to his breast, kissing her
again and again, while his quivering lips murmured, "My darling, my
darling!  God be thanked for your rescue!"

Releasing herself gently from his arms, Miss Drummond reached out her
hand for Terry, who was just scrambling awkwardly ashore.

"Don't forget to thank him too, father," she said, with a meaning smile.

Thus reminded, Mr. Drummond, blushing at the excess of feeling which
had caused him to forget everything save that his only daughter, the
joy and pride of his life, had been saved from death, laid hold of
Terry, and drew him back into the boat, where, taking both the boy's
hands in his, he said in tones of deep emotion,--

"My boy, you have done my daughter and me a service we can never
adequately repay.  But all that grateful hearts can do we will not fail
to do.  Tell me your name and where you live."

Poor Terry was so abashed at being thus addressed by the great Mr.
Drummond that his tongue refused its office.  But one of the bystanders
came to his relief.

"Sure and he's Black Mike's son, sur, and he lives up Blind Alley," was
the information volunteered.

Accepting it as though it came from Terry himself, Mr. Drummond, giving
the boy's hands another grateful shake, said,--

"Thank you.  You will hear from me before the day ends."

Then taking his daughter by the arm, he continued,--

"Come now, darling; we must make all haste up to my office, and see
what can be done for you."

Not until she stepped upon the wharf did Miss Drummond remember her
pony.  Then the question as to what had become of it flashed into her
mind, and she turned to look down the wharf, exclaiming,--

"Oh, but my pony!  Poor, dear Dolly!  What's become of her?"

"Never mind the pony, dear," said Mr. Drummond; "the men will look
after her.  Come, come; you'll catch your death of cold staying out
here in your dripping clothes."

Somewhat reluctantly Miss Drummond obeyed.  Reassuringly though her
father had spoken, she had misgivings as to her pony's fate--misgivings
which were in fact only too well founded; for, dragged to the bottom by
the weight of the carriage, the poor creature had been drowned in spite
of its desperate struggles.

When the Drummonds disappeared, Terry found himself the centre of a
circle of admirers, each of whom sought in his own way to give
expression to his admiration and envy.

"Sure and your fortune's made this day, Terry, me boy," said the
storeman, who wished in his heart that he had been lucky enough to
rescue his employer's daughter.  "Mr. Drummond's not the man to forgit
his word; and didn't he say he'd do anything in the world for ye?"

But Terry's triumph was complete when the appearance of his father
lounging sullenly back to work, with a short clay pipe between his
teeth, was hailed with shouts from the crowd of,--

"Mike!  Mike! come here wid ye, till we tell ye what yer boy's been
doin'.  Oh, but you're the lucky man to have a boy like Terry!"

Without a change in his dark countenance, or a quickening of his step,
Black Mike drew near, and silently awaited explanations.  When the
matter was made clear to him, his face did brighten a little; but
whether it was with pride at his son's achievement, or selfish pleasure
at the prospect of the benefits that might accrue from it, the keenest
observer would have been puzzled to say.

He managed, however, to get out something that more closely approached
praise than anything Terry had ever heard from his lips before, and
this delighted the boy so that he had to execute a few steps of his
favourite clog dance to relieve his feelings.  Then, bethinking himself
that he had stayed long enough inside his uncomfortably wet clothing,
he raced up the wharf, and made for his home in Blind Alley.

Here his mother received him with a shower of questions, in the
answering of which he found rare delight.

"Me blessed boy!" the excited woman exclaimed, her feelings strangely
divided betwixt horror at the thought of the risk her son had run and
joy at its successful issue.  "It's proud I am of you this day.  No
doubt but ye'll be your mother's comfort."

"And make ye ride in a carriage with glass sides, eh, mother?" said
Terry with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Ah! now don't be talking such foolishness, Terry," returned Mrs.
Ahearn, in a tone that implied to do so was tempting Providence
perchance.  "If your old mother has only a bit and sup sure to the end
of her days, and a decent gown to put on, she'll be content enough
without the carriage."

That afternoon Mr. Drummond picked his way carefully through the perils
of Blind Alley to the grimy tenement where the Ahearns abode, and
inquired for Terry.  The latter, having exchanged his wet garments for
the only others his scanty wardrobe contained, had gone down again to
Long Wharf; so, after exchanging a few kind words with his mother, Mr.
Drummond followed him thither, saying to himself, as he cautiously
stepped from stone to stone, for the alley was little better than a
mere muddy gutter, "The boy must be detached from these surroundings if
anything is to be made of him.  And he has a bright face.  He ought to
have good stuff in him.  Certainly he shall have a fair trial at my
hands, for I owe him more than money can repay."

On reaching his office, Mr. Drummond sent one of the clerks out to hunt
Terry up, and presently he returned with the lad in tow, looking very
bashful and ill at ease.  He was attired in his "Sunday best," and
boasted a face and hands of unwonted cleanliness.  The merchant gave
him a warm greeting, and made him sit down in a chair in front of him,
while he scanned his countenance closely.

"My dear boy," said he after a pause, and seeming well satisfied with
the result of his inspection, "as I have already told you, I feel that
I am indebted to you for a service the worth of which cannot be put
down in money; and it is not by offering you money that I would prove
my gratitude.  The money would be soon spent, leaving you no better,
and possibly worse, than before it was given you.  No; you have saved
my daughter's life, and in return I want to save yours, though in a
somewhat different way.  Look me straight in the eyes, please."

For the first time since he had entered Mr. Drummond's presence Terry
lifted his big brown eyes, and looked full into his face, his freckles
being submerged in the warm flush that swept over his face as he did so.

"Ah!" said Mr. Drummond, "I was not mistaken.  Your face gives warrant
of many good qualities that you've had small chance to develop thus
far.  It will be my privilege and pleasure to give you the opportunity
circumstances have hitherto denied you.  How would you like to go to a
nice school?"

Terry had been listening with eager attention and brightening
countenance; but at the mention of the word "school" his face suddenly
fell, and from the restless twitching of his body it was very evident
that the idea had no attraction for him at all.

Mr. Drummond's keen eye did not fail to note the effect of his
question, and without stopping to argue the point he promptly put
another.

"Well, then, how would you like to be taken into my office and taught
to be a clerk?"

Instantly the boy's face burst into bloom, so to speak, and giving the
merchant a look which said as plain as words, "I hope you really mean
it," he exclaimed,--

"Sure, sir, an' it's now ye're talkin'."

Mr. Drummond could not suppress a smile at Terry's quaint phrase that
went so straight to the mark.

"You shall have your own way then," he responded in his pleasantest
tone, "and you may begin as soon as you like.  Let me just say this to
you, my boy," he continued, drawing Terry towards him with one hand,
and placing the other on his shoulder.  "I want to be your friend for
life.  You can always rely upon that.  But I cannot do for you what you
alone can do for yourself.  You will meet with many trials and
temptations that you will have to fight all by yourself.  I will at all
times be glad to give you the best counsel I can.  But in the end you
must make your own way.  No one else can make it for you.  By being
faithful to my interests, Terry, you will most surely advance your own.
Never forget that.  And now, good-bye for the present.  Mr. Hobart in
the outer office has some business to do with you right away, and I
will look for you bright and early on Monday morning."

Rather relieved at the interview being over, and feeling as though he
would have to go prancing and shouting down the whole length of Long
Wharf to give vent to his delight at what Mr. Drummond had said, Terry
slipped out of the merchant's sanctum, and found a pleasant-looking
young man evidently awaiting him in the office.

"Come in here, Terry," said he, "and tell us your good-luck."

In the fulness of his heart Terry was only too glad to find a
confidant, and without reserve he related all that had been said, as
well as he could remember it.

"Phew!" whistled the clerk.  "You've got on the right side of the old
man, and no mistake.  No putting you off with a sovereign and a
paragraph in the papers.  Whatever he says goes, I can tell you.  Come
along now; I'm to have the pleasure of making a swell out of you."

In some bewilderment as to Mr. Hobart's meaning, Terry obediently
accompanied him up to Granville Street, where they entered a
gentleman's outfitting establishment, before whose broad plate-glass
windows the boy had often stood in covetous appreciation of the fine
things so dexterously displayed therein.  With an air of easy
self-possession that Terry profoundly admired, Mr. Hobart called upon a
brilliantly-arrayed clerk to show them their ready-made clothing.  They
went into the rear part of the shop, and then the purpose of their
coming was made clear.

"You're to have a complete outfit of good clothes, Terry," said Mr.
Hobart.  "And Mr. Drummond, knowing my good taste in such matters, has
put the business in my hands, so you'll please be good enough to
entirely approve of my selections."

His manner was so kind and pleasant that Terry felt as though there was
hardly anything on earth that he would not have been willing to do for
him, let alone approving of the benefactions he was the instrument of
bestowing.

"Indeed that I will, sir," he responded, with a warmth that made the
clerk smile in such a patronizing way that Mr. Hobart cut him short by
saying curtly,--

"Well, then, let me see something in the way of pepper-and-salt tweeds."

So the work of fitting Terry out began.  Mr. Hobart seemed no less
