



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]



[Illustration: WITH IT FELL CONAL!  _Page_ 162]




                          Courage, True Hearts

                      Sailing in Search of Fortune



                                   BY

                             GORDON STABLES

           Author of "The Naval Cadet" "For Life and Liberty"
                    "To Greenland and the Pole" &c.



                "I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
                        Through many a weary way;
                      But never, never can forget
                      The love of life's young day."

                         BLACKIE & SON LIMITED

                           LONDON AND GLASGOW




                            The Peak Library

                         _Books in this Series_

Overdue.  Harry Collingwood.
The Dampier Boys.  E. M. Green.
The King's Knight.  G. I. Whitham.
Their London Cousins.  Lady Middleton.
The White Witch of Rosel.  E. E. Cowper.
Freda's Great Adventure.  Alice Massie.
Courage, True Hearts!  Gordon Stables.
Stephen goes to Sea.  A. O. Cooke.
Under the Chilian Flag.  Harry Collingwood.
The Islanders.  Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Margery finds Herself.  Doris A. Pocock.
Cousins in Camp.  Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Far the sake of his Chum.  Walter C. Rhoades.
An Ocean Outlaw.  Hugh St. Leger.
Boys of the Priory School.  F. Coombe.
Jane in Command.  E. E. Cowper.
Adventures of Two.  May Wynne.
The Secret of the Old House.  E. Everett Green.


_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_




                               CONTENTS.

                                BOOK I.

                 IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS.

CHAP.

      I. Hope told a Flattering Tale
     II. Hurrah for "Merrie England"!
    III. The Boys' Life in London
     IV. Wild Sports on Moorland and Ice
      V. A Highland Blizzard--The Lost Sheep and Shepherd
     VI. "The breath of God was over all the land"
    VII. The Parting comes at last

                                BOOK II.

                   THE CRUISE OF THE _FLORA M'VAYNE_.

      I. The Terrors of the Ocean
     II. A Fearful Experience
    III. Bound for Southern Seas of Ice
     IV. On the Wings of the Wind
      V. Johnnie Shingles and Old Mr. Pen
     VI. "Back water all!  For life, boys, for life!"
    VII. "Here's to the loved ones at home"
   VIII. Captain Talbot spins a Yarn
     IX. Tongues of Lurid Fire--Blue, Green, and Deepest Crimson
      X. So poor Conal must Perish!
     XI. Thus Hand in Hand the Brothers Sleep
    XII. Winter Life in an Antarctic Pack
   XIII. A Chaos of Rolling and Dashing Ice
    XIV. "Heave, and she goes!  Hurrah!"
     XV. The Isles of Desolation

                               BOOK III.

                 IN THE LAND OF THE NUGGET AND DIAMOND.

      I. Shipwreck on a Lonely Isle
     II. A Weary Time
    III. Children of the Sky
     IV. Treasure-hunters.  The Forest
      V. Fighting the Gorillas
     VI. An Invading Army--Victory!
    VII. The Mysterious Stone
   VIII. The Battle at the Ford
     IX. The very Identical Bird
      X. The Welcome Home




                                 BOOK I

                  IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS




CHAPTER I--HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE


Had you been in the beautiful and wild forest of Glenvoie on that bright
and blue-skied September morning--on one of its hills, let us say--and
heard the music of those two boys' voices swelling up towards you,
nothing that I know of could have prevented you from joining in.  So
joyous, so full of hope were they withal, that the very tune itself, to
say nothing of the words, would have sent sorrow right straight away
from your heart, if there had been any to send.

    "Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow,
      Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way;
    Hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow,
      Let us forget the dangers of to-day."


There was a pause just here, and from your elevated situation on that
rocky pap, looking down, you would have rested your eyes on one of the
prettiest rolling woodland scenes in all broad Scotland.

It was a great waving ocean of foliage, and the sunset of autumn was
over it all, lying here and there in patches of crimson, brown, and
yellow, which the solemn black of pine-trees, and the funereal green of
dark spruces only served to intensify.

Flap-flap-flap! huge wood-pigeons arise in the air and go sailing over
the woods.  They are frightened, as well they may be, for a moment
afterwards two guns ring out almost simultaneously, and so still is the
air that you can hear the dull thud of fallen game.

"Hurrah, Conal!  Why, that was a splendid shot! I saw you take aim."

"No, Duncan, no; the bird is yours.  You fired first."

"Only at random, brother.  But come, let us look at him.  What a
splendid creature!  Do you know, Conal, I could almost cry for having
killed him."

"Oh! so could I, Duncan, for that matter, but the capercailzie[1] is
game, mind, and won't father be pleased. Why do they call it a wild
turkey?"


[1] The letter "z" not pronounced in Scotch.


"Because it isn't a turkey.  That is quite sufficient reason for a
gamekeeper.  The capercailzie is the biggest grouse there is, you know,
and sometimes weighs very many pounds."

"And didn't we find the nest of one in a spruce tree last spring."

"Ay, and six eggs that we didn't touch; and I've never put any faith
again in that ignoramus of a book, that would have us believe the birds
always build on the bare ground."

"Written by an Englishman, no doubt, Duncan, who had never placed a foot
on our native heath.  But now let us get back to breakfast.  I wonder
where our little sister Flora is."

"I heard her gun about ten minutes ago; she can't be far off.  Besides
Viking is with her, so she is safe enough.  Give the curlew's scream and
she'll soon appear."

    "Like the wild scream of the curlew,
    From crag to crag the signal flew."


Duncan threw down his gun beside the dead game, and, placing his fingers
in his mouth, gave a perfect imitation of this strange bird's cry:

"Who-o-o-eet, who-o-o-eet (these in long-drawn notes, then quicker and
quicker), who-eet, who-eet, wheet, wheet, wheet, wheet, who-ee!"

The boys did not have long to wait for an answer. For Duncan, the elder,
who was about sixteen, with a stalwart well-knit frame, and even a
budding moustachelet, had hardly finished, when far down in a dark
spruce thicket sounded the barking of a dog, which could only belong to
one of a very large breed.

He entered the glade in which the brothers stood not many seconds after.
He entered with a joyous bound and bark, his great shaggy coat, black as
the raven's wing, afloat on his shoulders and back; his white teeth
flashing; and a yard or two, more or less, of a red ribbon of a tongue
hanging out of his mouth.

Need I say he was a noble Newfoundland.

He stopped short and looked at the 'cailzie, then snuffed at it, and
immediately after licked his master's cheek.  To do so he had to put a
paw on each of Duncan's shoulders, and his weight nearly bore him to the
ground.

But see, here comes little Flora herself--she is only twelve; her
brothers are both dressed in the kilt of hill tartan, and Flora's frock
is but a short one, showing to advantage a pair of batten legs encased
in galligaskins; fair hair, streaming like a shower of gold over her
shoulders; blue eyes, and a lively very pretty face.  But across that
independent wee nose of hers is quite a bridge of freckles, which
extends half-way across her cheeks.

Now a child of her tender years would, in many parts of England, be
treated quite as a child.  It was quite the reverse at Glenvoie.  Flora
was in reality a little model of wisdom, and many a bit of good advice
she gave her brothers--not that they bothered taking it, though both
loved her dearly.

Flora carried a little gun--a present from her father, who was very
proud of her exploits and worldly wisdom, and across her shoulders was
slung a bag, which appeared to be well filled.

"Hillo, Siss!" cried Duncan.  "Any cheer?"

"Oh, yes, three wild pigeons!  But what a lovely great wild turkey!  I'm
sure, Duncan, it was a pity to kill him!"

"Sport, Sissie, sport!" said Duncan.

Yet as he looked at the splendidly plumaged bird which his gun had laid
low in death, he smothered a sigh.  He half repented now having killed
the 'cailzie.

Homeward next, for all were hungry, and in the old-fashioned hall of the
house of Glenvoie breakfast would be waiting for them.  Through the
forest dark and deep, across a wide and clear brown stream by
stepping-stones, a stream that in England would be called a river, then
on to a broad heathy moorland, with here and there a cottage and little
croft.

Poor enough these were in all conscience, but they afforded meal and
milk to the owners and their children. Chubby-cheeked hardy little chaps
these were.  They ran to gate or doorway to greet our young heroes with
cheers shrill and many, and Flora smiled her sweetest on them.  Neither
stockings nor shoes nor caps had they, winter or summer, and when they
grew up many of them would join the army, and be first in every bayonet
charge where tartans would wave and bonnets nod.

Laird M'Vayne himself came to the porch to meet his children.  These
were all he had, and their mother was an invalid.

An excellent specimen of the Highland laird was this Chief M'Vayne.  As
sturdy and strong in limb as a Hercules, broad in shoulder, and though
sixty years and over, as straight as an arrow.  His was a fearless face,
but handsome withal, and he never looked better than when he smiled.
Smiling was natural to him, and came straight from the heart, lighting
up his whole face as morning sunshine lights the sea.

"Better late than never, boys.  What ho! a capercailzie!"

Then he placed his hand so kindly on Duncan's shoulder.

"It was a good shot, I can see," he said, "and now we won't kill any
more of these splendid birds.  I want the woods to swarm with them."

"No, father," said Duncan, "this is the last, and I shall send to
Glasgow for eyes, and stuff and set him up myself."

Then the Laird hoisted Flora, gun, game-bag and all, right on top of his
broad left shoulder and carried her inside, while Viking, enjoying the
fun, made house and "hallan" ring with his gladsome barking.

Ever see or partake of a real Highland breakfast, reader?  A pleasure
you have before you, I trust. And had you been at Glenvoie House on this
particular morning, the very sight of that meal would have given you an
appetite, while partaking of it would have made you feel a man.

That was real porridge to begin with, a little lake of butter in the
centre of each plate and creamy milk to flank it.  Different indeed from
the clammy, saltless saucers of poultice Englishmen shiver over of a
morning at hotels, making themselves believe they are partaking of
Scotia's own _own_ dish.

All did justice to the porridge, and Viking had a double allowance.
There was beautiful mountain trout to follow, cold game, and fresh
herrings with potatoes.  Marmalade and honey with real oat-cakes
finished the banquet.

About this time, gazing across the lawn from the great window, Duncan
could see the runner bringing the post-bag.  Runner he might well be
called.  He had come twenty miles that morning with the mails, trotting
all the way.

Duncan threw open the window, and with a smile and order for postie to
go round to the kitchen for a "piece" and a "drink", he received the
bag.

The arrival of the runner was always one of the chief events of the day,
for the Laird "let" his shootings every season, and had friends in every
part of the kingdom.

So had the boys.

"Ah!" said their father, opening a letter which he had reserved to the
last.  "Here is one from our distant relative, Colonel Trelawney."

"Oh! do read it out," cried Flora impulsively.

Her father obeyed, as all dutiful fathers do when they receive a command
from juvenile daughters.


"_Maida Vale, London._

"_My dear 42nd cousin,--I think that is about our relationship.  Well, I
was never good at counting kin, so we must let it stand at that.
Heigho!  That is my 42nd sigh since breakfast time, and it isn't the
luncheon hour yet.  But I couldn't quite tell you what I am sighing for;
I think it must be for the Highland moors around you, on which I enjoyed
so glorious a time in August.  Heigho!  (43rd).  Your hills must still
be clad in the crimson and purple glory of heath and heather whence
scattered coveys or whirring wings spring skywards (Poetry!)._

"_Well now, I've got something to propose.  Since his poor mother died,
my boy Frank--fifteen next birthday, you know--has not seemed to thrive
well.  He is a capital scholar, and is of a very inventive turn of mind.
He delights in the country, and when he and I bike away down into the
greenery of fields and woods he always looks better and happier.  But at
home he has nothing to look at that is natural--a few misshapen trees
only, a shaven lawn, evergreens, and twittering sparrows._

"_He is lively enough, and plays the fiddle charmingly.  He is only a
London lad after all, and his pale face bears witness to the fact._

"_Well, cousin, fair exchange is no robbery.  Send me your two boys up
here to spend the winter, and then I'll send the whole three down to you
to put in the spring and summer.  Expected results?  Is that what you
ask, cousin mine?  Well, they are these.  A little insight into London
life will assist in toning down the fiery Highland exuberance of your
brave lads, and will help to make them young men of the world.  While a
spell among your Highland hills shall put more life-blood into my boy,
and make him stronger, braver, and heartier._"


"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duncan.  "He is going to civilize us, is he, daddy
dear?  We'll have to wear frock-coats, long hats and long faces, and
carry umbrellas.  What do you think of that, Conal?"

"Why," said Conal disdainfully, "umbrellas are only for old wives and
Sassenachs.  The plaid for me."

"And me!"

"Well, but listen," said the Laird laughing.


"_Your boys,_" says the colonel, "_must come to us dressed in their
hill-tartan kilts, and have dress tartans to wear at evening parties.
The English are fond of chaffing the Scot, but, mind you, they love him
all the same, and can quite appreciate all the deeds of derring-do he
accomplishes on the field of battle, as well as his
long-business-headedness on the Stock Exchange.  Heigho! (sigh the
44th), had I been a Scot I'd have been a richer man to-day instead of
having to maintain a constant fight to keep the wolf from the door.  But
you, dear cousin, must be fairly wealthy._"


It was Laird M'Vayne's turn to sigh now, for alas! he was far indeed
from rich, and, young as they were, both his boys knew it.  And between
you and me and the binnacle, reader, the lads used to pray every night,
that Heaven might enable them when they came to man's estate, or even
before, to do something for the parents who had been so good to them.


"_Well,_" the letter ran on, "_I sha'n't say any more, only you will let
the laddies (that is Scotch, isn't it?) come, won't you, cousin? and if
we can only find out the time of the boat's arrival, Frank and I shall
be at the dock waiting for them._"


"Hurrah!" cried Duncan,

"Hurrah!" cried Conal.

"And you won't be sorry to leave me and the old home, will you?" said
M'Vayne.

"Oh, indeed, indeed we will, daddy," cried Duncan, "and we'll think
about you all and pray for you too, every day and night.  Won't we,
Conal?"

"Of course we will."

Then the younger lad went and threw his arms round his father's neck,
leaned his cheek against his breast, in truly Celtic fashion, and there
were tears in his eyes.

"Besides," said Duncan, "the change will do us such a heap of good, and
by all we read London must be the grandest place in the whole wide
world."

"Streets paved with gold, eh?  Houses tiled with sheets of solid silver
that glitter daily in the noonday sun.  No poverty, no vice, no crime in
London.  Is that your notion of London, my son?"

"Well," replied Duncan laughing, "it may not be quite so bright as all
that, daddy, but I am sure of one thing."

"Yes?"

"If the streets are not paved with gold, nor the houses tiled with
silver, there is money to be made in the city by any honest business
Scot who cares to work and wants to win."

"Bravo, Duncan!

    "In the lexicon of youth which fate reserves
    For a bright manhood, there is no such word as Fail."

                                  ----

For the next two or three weeks, although the boys with their plucky
little sister went every day either to the hill or woods to shoot, or to
the burn to fish, there was very little talked about except the coming
excursion to the great city of London.

Mrs. M'Vayne was at present confined to her room, and, being nervous,
the thought of losing her boys even for a short four or five months made
her heart feel sad indeed, and it took them all their time to reassure
her.

"No, no, lads," she would cry almost petulantly; "I cannot be happy
until I see you in the glen once more, safe and sound!"

Two weeks passed--oh, ever so quickly--away, and the last week was to be
devoted wholly and solely to the packing of trunks, a very pleasurable
and hopeful employment indeed.

Duncan was _facile princeps_ at this work, and he kept a note-book
always near, so that whenever he thought about anything he might need,
he wrote it down--just as if it had not been possible to get every
article he might require in great London, from a needle to an anchor.

Only, as he told his brother Conal, "It is far better to be sure than
sorry."

Well, the last day--the last sad day--came round at last and farewells
had to be said on both sides.

Mrs. M'Vayne kept up as well as she could, and so did the boys.
_Noblesse oblige_, you know, for although their father was but a
Highland la