When Coyote Bill and Jack had disappeared, and a glance in the direction Henderson had gone showed me that he also had vanished, I began to think about myself. I was alone on the prairie, but I didn’t care for that as much as I did for the safety of Bob Davenport and the men who had gone away with him. I staked out my horse, and while I was thinking about it, it occurred to me that now was the time to find Henderson’s revolver. I had taken particular notice of where it fell; and after half an hour’s looking I had the satisfaction of securing the weapon which had so nearly been the cause of my death. It was silver-mounted, of forty-five calibre, just big enough to take the cartridges intended for his rifle, and on the trigger-guard bore the name of its luckless owner, Clifford Henderson.

“Good!” said I, taking my steps back toward the ranch. “As often as I look at it I shall remember him, and if Bob doesn’t want it, I will always keep it. Let’s see what effect this bullet would have had upon me.”

Sitting on a tree close by was a robin—I knew that the weather was getting cold up North, for the birds had already come down to us—and I tried the bullet on the robin from where I stood, and saw him come down without his head. If Clifford Henderson was as good a shot as I was, he could not well have missed me at that distance.

The next thing was to find something to eat, and then came a pipe, during which I thought the matter over. There was one thing on which I had long ago made up my mind, even before separating from Coyote Bill, and that was that Bob Davenport should not be permitted to stay in that ranch any longer than I could help. Coyote Bill was determined to have that money or drive him from the country. I gained this much from the conversation that Bill had had with some of his men, and how was I to prevent it? I was going to the States, and I was resolved that Bob should go too. I was getting sick and tired of so much pistol-drawing, I did not want to see any more of it, and I would get back among civilized men. There was where I belonged, anyway. And Tom Mason, he must go along too, and relieve the suspense which I knew his aged relative would feel at not hearing from him in so long. He did not know but Tom was dead, and a letter would go far to cheer him up. But how should I go to work upon Bob and Tom and so get them out on the water, where I could tell them everything? Well, there was another day coming, and I would see how it looked after I had slept on it.

The next day passed and still another, and in the meantime I employed myself in bringing order out of the confusion in the ranch and making it look as though somebody lived there, and not a sign did I see of the returning Bob Davenport. I began to think something had happened to them. I did not dare to go out to look for them, for I might run across some men belonging to Coyote Bill’s band, who wouldn’t treat me half as well as their leader did, so I thought I had best stay right where I was. On the evening of the sixth day, when I had got so worked up that I didn’t think I could stand it any longer, I was startled out of a year’s growth by seeing a body of horsemen approaching the ranch.

“Is that Henderson?” I exclaimed, feeling the cold chills creep all over me. “If it is, he has brought men enough with him to complete his work. I will give them as good as I have got.”

I rushed into the house, and when I came out my rifle was in my hands and my revolvers strapped around my waist. The horsemen had by this time approached near the ranch, and I could make out that one of them was Bob Davenport. How I cheered and yelled at them! An answering yell came in response, and in a few minutes I was shaking my friends by the hand. I never hoped to see them looking so well; there wasn’t one of them that had been hurt. To repeat the questions that were propounded to me were impossible, but in a few minutes I gave them to understand that I had escaped from the enemy all right, that I had seen the place where Sam Noble had been knocked in the head, and that I had stayed around outside the ranch for two days before I mustered up courage enough to return to it. Oh, what a lie that was! But it served my purpose very well, and besides I told Bill that I wouldn’t repeat what he said about Bob, where it would do him any harm. When I got him away I could tell him my story. Did I do wrong in keeping the promise I made to an outlaw? Remember he was the man who had placed me where I was that day. If that man had withdrawn his protection from me I would have died an agonizing death.

“Well, you have had a time of it!” said Bob, who pulled up a chair and seated himself beside me. “We have been to Austin twice, and Tom got a letter off to his uncle.”

“Good enough!” said I, feeling that a big load had been removed from my shoulders. “Tom, you and I will go to the States together.”

“Are you going, too?” exclaimed Bob. “Well, I am going, and that will make three. Elam, here, thinks he can’t go.”

In fact I hadn’t looked toward Elam, but I looked at him now, and his face was as long as you please. He didn’t like it when his friends were talking of going away and leaving him.

“And that isn’t all,” continued Bob. “You know that those soldiers who came by here before you left told us that the savages had made an attack on the paymaster, and made an attempt to secure the thirty-five thousand dollars which he was taking to pay off the garrison at Fort Worth. They tried to shoot the mules, and they got all of them except one, and he ran most all the way to Austin.”

“Didn’t they catch him?” I asked; and I felt that I was going to hear something thrilling. Bill’s men had spoken of this a time or two, and predicted that Tom’s luck would stand him well in hand if he was disposed to look for this mule, too, but somehow I didn’t pay much attention to them; but now I knew that Tom had had a finger in this also. That fellow just beat the world for finding things!

“Has Tom found it?” I continued, so amazed that I could hardly speak.

“Yes, sir! Tom has found it,” said Bob. “We heard about it when we were in Austin, but we had so many other things to think of that we hardly thought of it again; but on our way home we ran across the mule in a little grove of post-oaks.”

“Dead, was he?”

“As dead as a door-nail. But we found the specie all right, and we took it back to Austin, and gave it to a paymaster there. You see the paymaster that had charge of the money was killed in the fight. We told him that we wanted a thousand dollars for giving it up, and he said he would write on to Washington and see what they said about it.”

“I don’t want anything for it,” said Tom.

“That’s what he tried to say when he was in the presence of the paymaster,” said Bob. “The United States is worth more than he is, and I resolved that he should have that amount of money. That was fair, wasn’t it? We’ll stop and get it when we go back.”

“Of course it was. But, Bob, what put it into your head to go up to the States?”

“Well, I think I will be safer there than I will anywhere else,” said Bob. “Those fellows were after my money, I can see that plainly enough, and I will take it and put it in some bank out of their reach. Perhaps then they will let me alone. I have given all my cattle to Lem and Frank to keep for me until I come back. You don’t see many cattle around here, do you?”

I confessed that I had not seen a head of stock since I came to the ranch, and that was six days ago. But I knew where they were. Those that had escaped the clutches of the savages were mixed up with Mr. Chisholm’s cattle, and it would be a week’s job to get them out.

“I am glad you have decided to go, and I didn’t know how I was going to talk it into you,” said I. “You will have to see Mr. Chisholm first. He is your guardian, you know. But what are you going to do with Elam? He must be provided for.”

“He has hired him out to Lem and me,” said Frank.

I looked at Elam, and he didn’t seem to be at all satisfied with the change. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fastened on the floor. Bob got up, moved his chair close to his side, and threw his arm over Elam’s shoulder.

“If this doesn’t suit you, say the word, and you will go North with me,” said he. “Our people up there will be glad to see you.”

“No, I can’t do it,” said Elam. “I’d see so many broadcloth fellers up there that I’d want to get away an’ hide in a belt of post-oaks. I don’t belong up there, anyway.”

“But, Elam, I am coming back.”

“Well, when you come back, I’ll talk to you. Now, go away an’ let me alone. I can bear it best by myself.”

To make a long story short—for we lost no time in getting out of Texas—we made up our minds to start for Mr. Chisholm’s bright and early the next morning. It would take us two days to get there. Bob had all my money, as well as the funds belonging to the cowboys, and we knew that they were safe. I said nothing about my coming back to search for the hidden valuables in the hope of turning them over to Coyote Bill, or about Henderson’s attempts to draw a revolver on me, for that was a part of Bill’s plan to aid me in my escape; and, besides, that was a secret that was locked in my own breast until we got to sea.

“Poor Sam won’t want his money any more,” said I. “I saw the place where he lost his life. But the other two cowboys I didn’t see. I hope they are at Mr. Chisholm’s.”

I never slept so well in that ranch as I did that night, for I looked upon it as a little short of a miracle that my party had all come back to me. They had travelled all the way to Austin twice, and had never seen an Indian. That was better than I did, for I wanted to tell of the scenes I had witnessed in that camp, but there was no need of it. When morning came, and we started on our way, I kept a close watch of the prairie almost in fear of seeing some of Bill’s band, but they had taken their eight hundred cattle away to be slaughtered, and I never saw them again. Eight hundred cattle, did I say? I believed they had more than that. By separating his band after the attack on the paymaster was made, the chief had been able to attack half a dozen ranches almost at the same moment, and got away with some cattle at each place. I thought that eight thousand head of stock would more nearly fill his bill. In due time we pulled up at Mr. Chisholm’s ranch just at supper time, and there I saw something that made me feel good—a couple of fellows sitting in chairs, who were evidently too badly hurt to move about. The one had an arrow through his foot, the other had something the matter with his arm; but the way they greeted us proved that there was nothing the trouble with their lungs. They were the two cowboys who had been out with Sam Noble herding stock. But they had not seen me when I was captured, they were miles away by that time, and so I breathed easy.

“Well, by gum! if you fellows aint here yet,” said Mr. Chisholm. “Where did you leave the Indians?”

“Didn’t see any while we were gone,” said Bob, who ran up the stairs to the porch and fairly hugged the wounded cowboys. “How do you do, anyway? You have seen some Indians, haven’t you? How did you boys manage to escape?”

It was a story that was soon told. The Indians got after them down at the gully—how well I remembered where it was!—and killed Sam and his horse dead at the first fire. The others threw themselves behind their horses, Indian fashion, and got safely off, if we except the two arrows that went through them.

“But my money is what troubles me,” said the one who did the talking. “My money is what bothers me, dog-gone ’em! They went to our ranch an’ got everything we had.”

“How do you know?” asked Bob. “I slept at the ranch last night, and found something.”

“I guess you dug it up before you went away, didn’t you?” said the cowboy, who was overjoyed to hear that his money was safe. “I can rest easy now. That’s what comes of having a friend.”

That night, after supper, the money which Bob had taken the precaution to carry with him, when running from the Indians, was again paid out to the men with the exception of the thousand dollars due Sam Noble. This was paid to Mr. Chisholm in the hope that some of his heirs might claim it, when it was to be given to them. Then our errand was broached—that we were going to the States—and it threw a damper on all of them, all except Mr. Chisholm. He had been thinking about it ever since the attack was made upon the paymaster, and to our surprise and delight he said:

“Boys, it is the best thing you can do, and the sooner you get about it the better you will suit me. If you were my own boys who were going off I couldn’t feel worse about it. But you don’t say anything about Elam.”

“He doesn’t want to go,” said Bob. “But we are coming back here again, or at least to Denver, and if he will buy some cattle and get back there by next summer, we will see him.”

“I can’t go,” said Elam. “I don’t belong in that country anyway.”

The next thing was to arrange it so that Elam could work for some of the cowboys during the winter, and so be on hand to buy the cattle when spring opened up. Finding the two wounded cowboys there with Mr. Chisholm slightly interfered with our plans, for now we were compelled to divide the stock into four instead of two equal parts; but the cowboys were all in favor of it, and each one agreed to take Elam as long as he was willing to stay with them. But Elam was already satisfied with the arrangements he had made with Lem and Frank, and concluded he would stay with them. When he made this decision he got up and went out of doors. I could see that Bob didn’t like it a bit. He wished he could prevail upon Elam to go North with him.

“It isn’t any use,” said Mr. Chisholm. “He belongs down here, and here he is going to stay. Now let’s go to bed, all of us. In the morning I will have you up at the first peep of day.”

The next morning we ate breakfast by the aid of the light thrown out by the camp fire on the hearth, and before we were fairly done we received the order “catch up.” I tell you it was hard work to part from those wounded cowboys, for we had known them longer than we had anybody else. The one who had the arrow through his arm insisted that he would go to Austin with us, but Mr. Chisholm, like Uncle Ezra in a similar case, “put his foot down,” and said he should stay right there on the ranch and never go out of it until he came back. We waved our hats to them as long as we remained in sight, and when the neighboring swells hid them from view, we felt that we had parted from some of our best friends. In due time we reached Austin and put up at the same hotel we stopped at before, only Lem and Frank didn’t receive orders to sit on the porch and look out for Henderson. We all put away our horses and bent our steps toward the bank. The cashier was there, and he said Mr. Wallace was in his private office. He was busy with his papers,—in fact he always seemed to be busy,—but he laid them down when we came in.

“Hello, Chisholm,” said he. “What’s up?”

“These boys here have made up their minds to go to the States, and I want to sign Bob’s papers,” said he. “Get ’em all out so’t I can have them off’n my mind.”

“Ah, yes! sit down,” said the banker. “Bob, how are you? You see, you didn’t go through any forms the last time you were here, and I must have some now. If this boy is going to take his money away from me and deposit it in some Northern bank, I must have a paper which authorizes me to give up the money. It was all right before, but it has got to be changed now,” he added, when he saw Mr. Chisholm double up his huge fist and move it up and down over the table. “Sit down, and I’ll send for a lawyer to come right here.”

It was all very easy for the banker to say “sit down,” but Mr. Chisholm preferred to stand, seeing that none of his men could be seated at the same time. Mr. Wallace sent for a lawyer, giving some instructions which I did not understand, and in a few minutes the gentleman made his appearance with a roll of papers in his hand. He received some orders from Mr. Wallace, and in less time than it takes to tell it the document was ready for his signature. Mr. Chisholm protested, but he signed his name, and then the money was ready for Bob; the banker presenting him with the box which contained his stocks and bonds, and with a check drawn on a bank on New Orleans for the rest of his funds.

“Now, Bob, good-by,” said the banker, rising to his feet and extending his hand. “I hope you will get through with your money safe. Don’t let anybody steal it from you.”

“Steal it?” echoed Bob.

“Certainly. You will find plenty of people on the road who will gladly relieve you of that box. Put it in your trunk, and stand guard over it day and night.”

“By George! I never thought of that,” said Bob, looking distressed. “Elam, you come with me. Mr. Chisholm and Tom will have to go with the rest to call upon that paymaster.”

Tom Mason knew where to find the paymaster’s office, and with the distinct understanding that he was to ask for one thousand dollars for returning that money, we left the banker, and Bob pursued his way to his hotel. We found the paymaster there, and he recognized Tom the moment he came in.

“You’re back already, aint you?” said he. “Well, I haven’t heard from Washington yet, but I tell you plainly that I don’t think you will receive more than one-tenth of the sum you returned to us. Five hundred dollars will more than pay you for that.”

“These boys have made up their minds to go to the States,” said Mr. Chisholm.

“Very well. You have a power of attorney, I suppose?”

“No, I haven’t got that,” said Mr. Chisholm, wondering what new “form” he would have to go through.

“You will have to go to an attorney to get it,” said the paymaster. “Of course, if he is going away, I shall have to have authority to pay the money to somebody.”

“By gum! Bring on the paper,” said Mr. Chisholm, looking around for a chair in which to seat himself.

“But I haven’t got the paper here. You will have to go to a lawyer to get it.”

Mr. Chisholm slowly went out of the paymaster’s office, and we all followed him. He kept on without saying a word, and finally he stopped in the office of the surrogate—the same man who had looked into his pistol when he was here before. In a few words he made known to him the situation.

“Why, certainly; you must have a power of attorney if you want to get the money,” said the surrogate. “I will make you out one in five minutes. But, mind you, you needn’t show it until you see a chance of getting the money.”

This new “form” was complied with, and Mr. Chisholm paid the surrogate the sum of ten dollars for his paper. In fact, I noticed that he didn’t charge less than ten dollars for anything. On the way back to the hotel Tom offered him the money, but Mr. Chisholm waved it aside.

“I am willing to pay ten dollars to have my eyes opened,” said he. “If anybody ever gets me to sign any papers again, I want to know it. I am done probating wills.”

Bob was considerably disappointed when he found that Tom wasn’t going to get his money, but of course he saw that it was all right. The next day we spent in buying clothes, and devoted the next to the purchase of souvenirs to remind Tom of his cattle life in Texas. On the next day Tom’s letter came. Some parts of it were brief and to the point, and ran as follows:

Tom Mason was in dead earnest to go home after receiving that letter. He never expected to receive a letter like that from Joe Coleman, but then Joe wasn’t down on him any more than the rest of “Our Fellows” were. The very next day we brought our trunks down, all ready to take the stage to Houston by way of Clinton, six miles from the sea. Mr. Chisholm was there as well as the cowboys, but I couldn’t see anything of Elam. I had already given him my horse, and the way he received it told me that he considered that a good-by.

“Well, boys, if I don’t see you again, hallo,” said Mr. Chisholm, hastily drawing his hand across his eyes. “You are going far away, and there’s no knowing what will happen to you. So-long.”

We got aboard, the driver cracked his whip, and we were whirled away from some of the best friends a man ever had. Bob was very lonely after that, and it was only when he reached Clinton and saw the steamer that was to carry him across the Gulf to New Orleans, that he recovered his usual spirits. Tom Mason now assumed charge—he was more at home in that line of business than we were—and in less than half an hour after we reached Clinton we were aboard the ship, our passage paid, and we were sitting on the deck watching the stevedores at their labor. This I thought to be a good time for my story, and I brought out the revolver with Clifford Henderson’s name on the trigger guard, and for an hour those fellows scarcely interrupted me. They listened spellbound. When I was through they drew a long breath of relief.

“You have kept your word, if it was made to an outlaw,” said Bob. “Now, what do you suppose his object was? He has always seen something about you that took his eye.”

“I am as much in the dark as you are,” I replied. “I only know that he saved me from death.”

For a long time after this Coyote Bill was our principal subject of conversation, until the steamer got under way, and then we had other topics to talk about. In due time we arrived in New Orleans and there we spent just one day, in order to deposit our money in the bank. We did not know how long we should remain at Tom Mason’s home, and we thought that would be the best place for it. At four o’clock we took passage on a steamer from which we were not to get off until we reached Tom’s destination. The torches were lighted when we drew up to the landing, but we saw there a carriage and an old gray-headed man leaning on a cane. I knew it was General Mason before Tom spoke.

“There’s my uncle!” he exclaimed, almost wild with delight. “My goodness, how he has changed!”

Tom ran down to the forecastle and cleared the long jump of ten feet to reach the bank, and hastened up to where the old man stood. We turned away, for we did not care to see that meeting between uncle and nephew, and when we got our luggage ashore, and the steamer was backing out to continue her journey up the river, Tom came down to us. It was the first time I had seen him cry, but he blew his nose with a blast like a trumpet.

“These are the boys who stood up for me when I was friendless and alone,” said he. “Bob Davenport and Carlos Burnett. I really wish Elam was here, so that you could shake him by the hand, for he is the one who took me up when I was starving.”

“Where is he?” ejaculated the old gentleman, who tried not to show how delighted he was. “Go and get him. I want to see him.”

As it was somewhere near a thousand miles to the place where we had left Elam, we didn’t say anything about going after him. We passed it off in some way, and followed the old man into the carriage. We didn’t go to sleep at all that night, for the general was anxious to hear where we had been, and what we had been doing, since Tom went away. When day broke I went on the porch and looked around. There was a splendid plantation; everything was in apple-pie order, and a host of servants ready to do his bidding, and what Tom could make by running away from a home like that, I didn’t see. I expressed as much to him when he came out there later.

“Because I was a fool,” said he. “Nobody could make anything by running away from a home like this, but I tell you it has opened my eyes. I feel as if I had got among friends from whom I have long been separated.”

That day I made the acquaintance of “Our Fellows,” who rode down to see us, and I tell you I found them good fellows, every one. Tom Mason was getting up on a par with Sandy Todd now, for with this exception he was head and shoulders above every one of them. His sleeping in the open air for almost a year had done wonders for him.

We haven’t been to the plains yet to settle up with Uncle Ezra and to see Elam, but we are going as soon as spring opens. After that Tom will settle down as he used to be before, only he will have the management of the plantation. I have been hunting on several occasions with “Our Fellows,” and if you could see Tom when he was toasting his shins in front of our camp-fire and telling his stories, you would say that none of his adventures ever had so great an effect on him as those that befell him in Texas.

THE END.

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FAMOUS STANDARD
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ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY AT $1.00 PER VOLUME

(Except the Sportsman’s Club Series, Frank Nelson Series and Jack Hazard Series.)

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HORATIO ALGER, JR.

The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger’s books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear.

Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, “Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger’s treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. “Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold.

—Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls.

A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A boy’s heart opens to the man or writer who understands him.

—From Writing Stories for Boys, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

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JED, THE POOR-HOUSE BOY.

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HARRY CASTLEMON.

HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK.

When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out “What a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland.” My heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: “Some of you will make your living by writing one of these days.” That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid’s works which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: “No visible change was observable in Swartboy’s countenance.” Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, “The Old Guide’s Narrative,” which was sent to the New York Weekly, and came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the sheets but I didn’t know that this was against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he didn’t know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard Saturday’s work—the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond—I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: “Why, do you think you could write a book like that?” That settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the “Young Naturalist” was all complete.

—Harry Castlemon in the Writer.

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EDWARD S. ELLIS.

Edward S. Ellis, the popular writer of boys’ books, is a native of Ohio, where he was born somewhat more than a half-century ago. His father was a famous hunter and rifle shot, and it was doubtless his exploits and those of his associates, with their tales of adventure which gave the son his taste for the breezy backwoods and for depicting the stirring life of the early settlers on the frontier.

Mr. Ellis began writing at an early age and his work was acceptable from the first. His parents removed to New Jersey while he was a boy and he was graduated from the State Normal School and became a member of the faculty while still in his teens. He was afterward principal of the Trenton High School, a trustee and then superintendent of schools. By that time his services as a writer had become so pronounced that he gave his entire attention to literature. He was an exceptionally successful teacher and wrote a number of text-books for schools, all of which met with high favor. For these and his historical productions, Princeton College conferred upon him the degree of Master of Arts.

The high moral character, the clean, manly tendencies and the admirable literary style of Mr. Ellis’ stories have made him as popular on the other side of the Atlantic as in this country. A leading paper remarked some time since, that no mother need hesitate to place in the hands of her boy any book written by Mr. Ellis. They are found in the leading Sunday-school libraries, where, as may well be believed, they are in wide demand and do much good by their sound, wholesome lessons which render them as acceptable to parents as to their children. All of his books published by Henry T. Coates & Co. are re-issued in London, and many have been translated into other languages. Mr. Ellis is a writer of varied accomplishments, and, in addition to his stories, is the author of historical works, of a number of pieces of popular music and has made several valuable inventions. Mr. Ellis is in the prime of his mental and physical powers, and great as have been the merits of his past achievements, there is reason to look for more brilliant productions from his pen in the near future.

DEERFOOT SERIES.

3 vols. By Edward S. Ellis. $3.00

LOG CABIN SERIES.

3 vols. By Edward S. Ellis. $3.00

BOY PIONEER SERIES.

3 vols. By Edward S. Ellis. $3.00

THE NORTHWEST SERIES.

3 vols. By Edward S. Ellis. $3.00

BOONE AND KENTON SERIES.

3 vols. By Edward S. Ellis. $3.00

IRON HEART, WAR CHIEF OF THE IROQUOIS.

1 vol. By Edward S. Ellis. $1.00

THE SECRET OF COFFIN ISLAND.

1 vol. By Edward S. Ellis. $1.00

THE BLAZING ARROW.

1 vol. By Edward S. Ellis. $1.00

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J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity.

The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late Our Young Folks, and continued in the first volume of St. Nicholas, under the title of “Fast Friends,” is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time. Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable, Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The picture of Mr. Dink’s school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little Stephen Treadwell, “Step Hen,” as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school.

On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.—Scribner’s Monthly.

JACK HAZARD SERIES.

6 vols. By J. T. Trowbridge. $7.25

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ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY.

For Boys and Girls.

(97 Volumes.) 75c. per Volume.

Complete lists and net prices furnished on application.

HENRY T. COATES & CO.
1222 CHESTNUT STREET
PHILADELPHIA

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