



Produced by Annie McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVI.--NO. 825. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

BRADDY'S BROTHER.

BY JULIANA CONOVER.


[Illustration: Decorative I]

t was the ending of the ninth inning; the score stood 8 to 7 in
Princeton's favor, but Harvard had only one man out, and the bases were
full.

Was it any wonder that the Freshmen couldn't keep their seats, and that
the very air seemed to hold its breath while Bradfield, '98, twisted the
ball?

In the centre of the grand stand, where the orange and black was
thickest, but the enthusiasm more controlled, stood a boy, his whole
body quivering with nervous excitement, his eyes glued--as were all
others--to the pitcher's box.

"Come in, now! look out! lead off!" the Harvard coach was saying, as the
umpire's "one strike, two balls, two strikes, three balls," raised and
dashed again the hopes of Princeton. Then came a moment of horrible
nerve-destroying suspense, and then the umpire's calm and
judicial--"striker out."

Above the cheers, which literally tore the air, the shrill discordant
note of the boy's voice could be heard, yelling like mad for Princeton
and '98.

"Who is that little fellow?" said a girl, just behind him to her
companion. The boy turned like a flash.

"I'm Braddy's brother," he said, his chest still heaving, and his cheek
glowing. "He's struck out _seven_ men!"

The girl smiled, and an upper classman, who was next to him, patted him
on the back.

"It's a proud day for Braddy's brother," he said, "and for '98 and
Princeton, that is, if Harvard doesn't--" For a moment it looked as if
Harvard would, for the regular thud of the ball against the catcher's
glove was interrupted by the ominous crack of the bat, and the men on
bases ran for their lives on the bare chance of a hit, or possibly an
error.

But '98 was not going to let a hard-earned victory slip between her
fingers like that; the short-stop fielded the swift grounder
beautifully, and the runner was out at first.

There was a short cheer, then a long wordless, formless burst of triumph
swelling out from a hundred throats. The crowd swarmed on the diamond,
the Freshman nine was picked up and carried off the field, "Braddy"
riding on the crest of a dangerous-looking wave which was formed by a
seething, howling mob.

"Well," said the Senior, turning to his small neighbor, "how does
'Braddy's brother' feel now?"

But "Braddy's brother's" feelings were too deep for utterance; besides,
he was trying to remember just how many times the Princeton Freshmen had
won from Harvard in the last six years.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hullo, Dave! Dave Hunter!" called Bradfield, as a small boy passed near
the group on the front campus. "Don't you want to take my brother off
for a little while, and show him the town?"

Dave came up blushing with pleasure at having the man who had just
pitched a winning game single him out.

"This is Dave Hunter, a special friend of mine, Bing," Braddy continued,
turning to the little chap who was lying stretched out on the grass
beside him, and who felt by this time as if he owned the whole campus
and all the college buildings, for hadn't he been in the athletic
club-house, the cage, and the 'gym.'? and wasn't he actually going to
eat at a Freshman club, and sleep up in a college room? It was the
greatest day of his life, his first taste of independence; and the glory
of being "Braddy's brother" seemed to him beyond compare.

"Don't keep him too long, Dave," said Bradfield, as the two boys started
off; "we'll have to get through dinner early if we want to hear the
Seniors sing."

Young Bingham Bradfield nodded and blushed and smiled all the way down
to the gate, as men in the different groups which they passed called
out:

"There goes 'Braddy's brother,'" or, "Hullo, little Brad," or, "What's
the matter with '98?" and one who knew him at home sang out,
"B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!" It was awfully exciting.

"They're going to have a fire to-night," Dave said, as they walked up
Nassau Street. "I heard some of the Freshmen say that they would begin
and collect the wood as soon as it was dark."

"Where do they get it?" asked Bingham.

"Oh, just take it," Dave answered, carelessly. "They take fences and
gates, and boards and barrels, and, oh, anything they can find. That
would be a dandy one," pointing to a half-broken-down rail fence which
divided an orchard from a newly opened road.

"It wouldn't let any cows or horses out, you see. They stole our barn
gate once, and the horses got loose on the front lawn and tore up all
the grass. We didn't mind, though," with true college spirit, "for we'd
beaten Yale."

"Yale Freshmen?" eagerly.

"No," with great scorn: "the 'Varsity. Nobody's much stuck on Freshmen
in Princeton," he continued, "except, of course, your brother. He's
great; he'll make the 'Varsity next year, sure."

Bingo's feelings were soothed. _He_ thought all the Freshmen "great,"
but was satisfied if others only appreciated Braddy.

They grew very chummy, the two boys, and Braddy's brother had learned a
great deal about college life by the time he was brought back to the
campus.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the middle of Senior singing, when the shadows from the tall
old elms were being swallowed up in the gathering darkness, and the
groups in white duck trousers scattered about the grass were beginning
to be indistinguishable, that slim figures were seen hurrying
mysteriously to and fro, and the peace of the evening was rudely broken
into by the preparations for a "Freshman fire."

The victory had already been celebrated on Old North steps, for had not
Bingo himself heard the Seniors sing, as an encore to a favorite solo,
these never-to-be-forgotten lines, composed for the occasion:

      "The Freshmen nine came from Harvard for to show
        How they played the game of ball;
      But found when Bradfield got in his finest curves
        They couldn't hit the ball at all.
      The game stood in our favor 8 to 7
        When they came to the bat once more.
      Their Captain said, ''Tis the ending of the 9th,
        We've got to tie the score.'
  _Chorus._--Then when he saw the bases full
              His sides with laughter shook.
                But when he heard the umpire shout
                'Two strikes'--then'striker out!'
              He wore a worried look--
              He wore a worried look."

That brought even a finer glow to the boy's cheek than when the familiar
"Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!--'way down on the Bingo farm!" had drawn the
attention of his brother's friends to him, and made him feel for a
moment as though he were a college hero.

The singing had ceased with "Old Nassau," and the campus was alive now
with hurrying groups. The usual night cries filled the air: "Hullo,
Billy Appleton!" "Hullo, Benny Butler!" "Come over here!" "See you
later," etc., and the Freshmen were shouting and rushing wildly about.
"Where's Porter?" "Where's Tommy?" "Where's Dad?" was heard on all
sides. "'98 this way, '98 this way!"

"Stick to me, Bing," said Braddy, as he started over to his room in
Witherspoon; "stick close to me, or you'll surely get lost."

"We haven't half enough wood, Park," said a '98 man, coming up to the
class president, who was standing near Bradfield; "it won't make any
sort of a fire."

"Can't you get more? We must have a good one," answered Porter, "Get a
fence, or a house--any old thing will do. I've got to find Runt and
Bunny now, and see about a wagon for the nine. Will meet you later."

"Come on, Bingo," said Braddy.

He, Braddy, ought not to stay round and hear all the arrangements for a
celebration which was to be in his honor. The nine was supposed to keep
modestly out of the way, and know nothing whatever about it.

"Come on, Bing!"

But Bingo didn't "come on," he has business of his own to transact. The
Freshman fire, his first fire, _must_ be a success, and he knew where a
good fence was. Quick as thought he dropped behind his brother, and was
soon lost in the crowd, then he made a break for the street. At the
corner he met Dave Hunter.

"Hullo! where you going?"

It was a secret, but he told, and Dave, like "Ducky Daddies,"
"Cocky-locky," etc., in the old Grimm fairy-tale of _Henny-Penny_, said,
"Then I'll go too."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a full hour later, and the Freshmen were crowding about the old
cannon, round which a pile of boards, fence rails, barrels, etc., were
stacked, all ready to light. The resources of the town had been about
exhausted, and the raiders were returned "bringing their sheaves with
them." Roman candles and fire-crackers still went off at intervals in
different parts of the campus, but they were only a side issue, the fire
was the real business of the evening. The college was there almost to a
man, and the cheering for and by '98 was "frequent and painful and
free," or would be to one whose nerves were below par; to a healthy
enthusiast it was soul-stirring and exhilarating.

Even the upper classmen added their thunder from well-trained iron lungs
when the old wagon containing the victorious nine came up, dragged by a
lot of wild, reckless, muscular Freshmen. Only true heroes could so
calmly have imperilled their lives, for these bold young spirits were
actually standing up and singing, as the wagon lurched and pitched and
wobbled over curbstones, and down into gutters, and up again. But
fortune favors the brave, and they reached the fire without a single
accident, and were halted at the cannon's mouth in the front row.
Everything was ready, yet there seemed to be some hitch. The crowd began
to get impatient.

"What's the matter?" they cried. "Why don't you light her up?"

"We're waiting for Braddy," came back the answer.

"Where is he?"

"Give it up."

"He's hunting his brother," said one. "He's down on the Bingo farm,"
cried another.

This was rather "fresh," but there was a general laugh, which turned
into a cheer as Braddy, wearing a worried look, pushed his way through
the crowd.

"I can't find the kid," he said, anxiously.

"Oh, he will turn up all right," said the others; "he's sure to come to
the fire. Brace up and light her, Jennings."

Just then there was a shout from behind, and the closely packed mass
opened up to let a fence come in, which two small flushed and panting
boys were dragging after them.

"Great Scott, it's Braddy's brother!" said the Senior who had sat next
to him at the game. "Where in the world did you get all that fence, and
how did you manage to drag it here?"

Bingo was far too breathless to answer, but Dave spoke up.

"A lot of fellows helped us," he said. "We brought it round a back way,
but Brad and I brought it through the campus alone."

"Give them a cheer, fellows," cried the Senior, "and start the fire."

"Here's to Braddy's brother," sang the Freshmen, as they threw the
lighted matches into the pile, "drink her down! Here's to Braddy's
brother, and--"

"Dave Hunter!" shouted Bingo, who had found his voice.

"--and Dave Hunter he's the other; drink her down, drink her down,
drink her down, down, down!" etc., ending up with a rousing
B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!

Then the fire began to crackle and sizzle and blaze up and roar, and the
Freshmen cheered and sang and shouted, and the bright light revealed
groups of girls with brothers and friends who had come to see the
celebration, and myriads of small boys who had come to see the fun.

It was a beautiful sight. The wood had been piled up in pyramid form,
and the flames rose red and yellow almost to the tops of the tall elms,
those still sentries of the campus. How it spluttered and hissed and
crashed and roared! and not even the Freshmen could drown the mighty
voice, which spoke in so many different tongues, though they did their
best; and as Braddy's brother, standing near the wagon which held the
nine, watched the shooting, dancing, devouring flames his heart thumped
so that it almost broke out of bounds, and he drew long, very long
breaths.

The fire had died down somewhat, the cheering was more spasmodic and
subdued, the time for speeches had come. Every one crowded closer, and
the wagon, not the burning pile, became the centre of attention.

"Speech! speech!" cried '98. "A speech, Braddy."

Bradfield was not only the pitcher, but the Captain of the Freshman
nine. So they forced him upon the high seat, and yelled for quiet.
Braddy looked down upon the densely packed mass, hushed for the moment
into something like stillness, and his nerve completely deserted him.
There he stood, fair and boyish, a target for all eyes, but he could not
say a word. He opened his mouth, he even gestured, but no sound came. It
was a case of pure stage-fright, and the awkwardness increased with
every second. "Fellows," he managed to stammer out--"fellows--"

But there he stopped. Suddenly the painful pause was broken by a high
excited voice. "Tell 'em Princeton's the biggest college in the world,
Tom, and that '98 can beat any Freshman nine in the country!"

It broke the spell. Long and loud were the cheers that followed this
outburst, and "Braddy's brother," covered with confusion, was hoisted by
a dozen hands into the wagon beside the nine. By the time that quiet had
once more been restored Tom Bradfield had recovered his "nerve," and his
speech on that memorable occasion will go down to posterity as one of
the best on record. All the speeches were good, _splendid_, Bingo
thought, for he heard, and understood, and thrilled with every word.
When the final sentence had been delivered, and '98 had once more
dragged the nine in triumph round the now visible cannon, and cheered
them hoarsely for the last time, and when the crowd had begun to
disperse, leaving the smouldering embers, and shouting and singing as
they went, Braddy turned to his brother with a smile and said,

"Well, Bing, ready for bed?"

And Bingo answered with a sigh, "I suppose a fellow has to go to bed
even after a Freshman fire."




"THE OLD-FASHIONED LAWYER."


Laura's cousins were coming to stay overnight, so she asked mamma if she
might not invite some other school friends, and some of brother Will's,
to spend the evening. And as these friends were pretty sure to come,
mother and daughter held a conference as how best to entertain them.

"Why not have games?"

"The very thing! What would I do without your help, mother dear," was
the impulsive answer.

"And the best game I know to start with would be The Old-fashioned
Lawyer. That will rub away all shyness, and all will feel as though they
were friends for a year."

Laura was delighted, and contentedly ran off to tell her brother. But
Will did not know the game, and Laura had to explain.

"We'll need an odd number of players. But that can be arranged by you or
I dropping out.

"The odd one must be Judge, to settle disputed points.

"The players must sit opposite each other in two rows, and the Lawyer is
to stand in the centre between the rows. The Judge can sit in the big
green chair, because it is high; for he must keep all the players in
full view.

"The game begins by the Lawyer putting a question to the person at
either end of one of the rows. But the one to answer is not the one
addressed. And there, Will, is where the fun comes in."

"Who is to answer?"

"The person at the extreme end of the opposite row. And should he not
correctly answer before the Lawyer counts five, he must change places
with the Lawyer. And the Lawyer begins to count slowly out loud as soon
as he asks the question."

"What if the person addressed replies.'"

"Then he must pay a forfeit.

"After the first question is answered, the Lawyer may address whomever
he pleases, but the party addressed must remain silent; it is the
opposite one who must answer. The Lawyer must of course ask questions
that are possible to answer. If he should take advantage, there's the
Judge to keep him in order."

"What kind of questions _would_ you ask?"

"Why, ordinary ones. Whether or not a person paints from nature? Who is
your favorite musician? Which do you prefer, rowing or sailing, tennis
or golf? All kinds of questions like that. I don't believe one of us
could tell the date of the first crusade, or who invented ink and when.

"And another thing, never look at the individual you intend next to
question. For both he and his opposite neighbor would then be prepared.
You must play very rapidly or it's no fun. And if any question or
discussion occurs, the Judge must decide."

"That will be right jolly, Laura. Do you think the folks will all
come?"




CORPORAL FRED.[1]

A Story of the Riots.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.


CHAPTER V.

For a mile after leaving its armory the regiment had marched through the
beautiful residence portion of the city, cheered and applauded to the
skies. Turning "column right," it had then threaded a narrow street,
shop-lined and less sympathetic, had tramped in cool disregard through
half a mile of railway property where, in groups of twenty or thirty,
strikers and sympathizers recoiled, but scowled and cursed them, yet
prudently refrained from further violence. Once in a while some street
arab let drive a stone, then dove under the nearest car, and scurried
away into hiding. Then came the lumber district, the swaying bridges
where they broke their cadenced stride, and crossed at route step. Then
in the gathering darkness the head of the column reached the outlying
wards. Square upon square, section on section of frame two-story houses,
the homes of citizens of only moderate means, and here, too, people
clustered on door-steps or ran to gather at street corners and murmur
God-speed and blessing, for less than a mile away now the western sky
was lighting up with the glare of conflagration, and the direful word
was going round that the mob was firing the freight-cars, and that,
despite the efforts of fearless and devoted firemen, the flames were
spreading to warehouses and factories along the line. Only a few minutes
after sundown the first summons had banged on the gongs of the engine
and truck houses of the west side. Then every fire-box for four miles
along the lines of the Great Western seemed to have been "pulled," and
in a wild confusion of alarms assistant chiefs were driving their
clanging buggies, followed by rushing hose-wagons and steamers, all over
the outlying wards, unreeling their hose only to have it slashed and
ruined by swarming rioters, and they themselves, the fire-fighters of
the people, men whose lives were devoted to duty, humanity, and mercy,
brutally clubbed and stoned by overpowering gangs of "toughs" bent on
mad riot and destruction. For hours from every direction the vicious,
the desperate, the unemployed of the great city had been swarming to the
scene, and the police force that, properly led and handled at the
outset, could easily have quelled the incipient tumult, was now as
powerless as the firemen. Oh, what if a prairie gale should rise