was not the faintest ripple in the dead silence. But hark! there suddenly boomed on the night the sweet muffled notes of a ship's bell, and with it there was a dim flicker to starboard, as of a light shining through a port-hole. Luck was with them, after all, and now the time was close at hand. A denser black loomed against the darkness, vaguely outlining the ship's hull, and the head-boat grated on the long hawser holding the after anchor, thrown out to take up the swing of the ebb-tide. And hark again! Through the cabin windows, suddenly thrown open as if for a breath of fresh air, floated the sounds of laughter and singing, the chorus of a Bacchanalian catch. Captain Askew and his subs, late as it was, were still making merry with song.

"Gad! 'tis dark as Erebus," said one of the voices at the grating. "What a night for a cutting-out party!"

A dozen strokes parted the boats to port and starboard, and they dashed for the ship's sides. Up they swarmed into the chains and clambered aboard, though not with the sailor's light foot. The watch on deck were asleep or dozing in sheltered nooks. They sprang to arms with a shout, but were speedily killed or disabled. A dozen lanterns flashed over the decks as the crew tumbled up out of the fo'c's'le hatch, for all others had been spiked down. Half naked, and scarcely awake, they yet fought doggedly. The Captain and his officers trooped out of the cabin, flustered with wine, but loaded to the muzzle with pluck, and fell to with sword and pistol. Colonel Lockett had detailed a dozen picked men with bags of slugs and powder-canisters to make ready and wheel around fore and aft a couple of the deck-carronades. The assailants were in the waist of the ship, and the fury of the assault had begun to drive men-o'-war's men under hatch, for the ship was undermanned, and the crew somewhat outnumbered. Scythe and pitchfork did their work well. It was at this moment that one of the carronades sent its rain of buckshot into the thick of the British sailors and completed the rout.

Instantly they had boarded, Jack, swinging his hatchet, looked about for his father, and pressed forward to his side, though the Colonel did not see him, thinking him at home watching with his mother. When Captain Askew made the dash from the cabin the two leaders instinctively knew each other and crossed blades, for Colonel Lockett had snatched a cutlass from a fallen sailor. They cut and parried fiercely on the half-lit deck for a few moments, when the Colonel's foot slipped on the wet wood. That second would have been his last, but Jack's uplifted hatchet fell like lightning on Captain Askew's shoulder, and smote him flat to the deck. With this the battle was ended.

Colonel Lockett looked on the lad's panting flushed face with amazement. "Why, Jack, I ordered you not to come. What does this mean? You deserve a good horsewhip— Why, Jack, Jack, you disobedient young villain, you've saved your father's life!" and with tears rolling down his face he clasped the brave lad in his arms. The Tartar was taken up to New Haven, and the Captain, who was only severely wounded, with the other prisoners, delivered over to the Continental officer in charge of the post.

When Colonel Lockett returned to Valley Forge, which he did without delay, Washington thanked him in general orders for his brave feat. Jack got his heart's wish, and the last year of the war actually served on the staff of the Commander-in-Chief, young as he was.

QUILL-PEN, ESQUIRE, ARTIST.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

Jimmieboy had been looking at the picture-books in his papa's library nearly all the afternoon, and as night came on he fell to wondering why he couldn't draw pictures himself. It certainly seemed easy enough, to look at the pictures. Most of them were made with the fewest possible lines, and every line was as simple as could be; the only thing seemed to be to put them down, and in the right place.

"Why don't you try?" said somebody.

"Eh?" asked Jimmieboy, with a sudden start, for he had supposed he was alone.

"I say why don't you try?" replied the strange somebody.

"Try what?" queried Jimmieboy, who, not having spoken a word on the subject of drawing pictures, was quite sure that the question did not apply to that matter—in which certainly he was very much mistaken, as the strange somebody's next remark plainly showed.

"Try drawing pictures yourself?" said the voice.

"I can't draw," said Jimmieboy, peering over into the corner whence the voice came, to see who it was that had spoken.

"You can't tell unless you try," said the voice.

"A man might do a million things
If he would be less shy,
That all his life he never does,
Because he will not try.

"Why don't you try?"

"Who are you, anyhow?" asked Jimmieboy. "Tell me that, and maybe I will try."

"Why, you know me," said the voice. "I am the Quill-pen over here on your mamma's table. Don't you remember how you nearly drowned me in the ink yesterday?"

"I didn't want to drown you," said Jimmieboy, apologetically. "I wanted you to write a letter for me to my Uncle Periwinkle, asking him to send me everything he thought I'd like as soon as he could."

The Pen laughed. "I'll do it some time—along about Christmas, perhaps," he said. "But about this picture business. I think you could make pictures."

"Can you make 'em?" queried Jimmieboy.

"I never tried, so I don't know," answered the Pen.

"Then you try, and let's see how trying works," suggested Jimmieboy. "I'll get a piece of paper for you."

"I'm afraid we can't," said the Pen. "I'm very dry, and don't think I could make a mark, unless you get me a glass of ink.

"For just as skates are not much use
Without a skating rink,
So pens—of steel or quills of goose—
Are worthless without ink."

"Oh, I'll get plenty of ink," returned Jimmieboy, "though I think water would be saferer. Water would look pleasanter on the carpet if we upset it."

"I can't make a mark with water," laughed the Pen.

"How do you know?" asked Jimmieboy. "Did you ever try?"

"No, I never tried. Because why? What's the use?" replied the Pen.

"I do not try to touch the sky
Or jump upon the stars;
I do not try to make a pie
Of rusty iron bars;
I do not try to change into
A baby elephant,
Because I know—and always knew—
'Tis useless, for I can't."

"That's all very good," retorted Jimmieboy; "but a minute ago you were saying that

"'A man might do a million things,
If he would be less shy,
That all his life he never does,
Because he will not try.'"

"You've got me there," said the Pen, with a smile. "Perhaps we had better use water. Now that I think of it, I have enough dried ink on me to make a mark if I am moistened up a bit with water. You get the water and the paper, and I'll see what I can do."

Jimmieboy ran into the dining-room and brought a glass brimming over with water to the Pen, and in another minute he had a large pad of paper ready.

"NOW," SAID THE PEN, "LET US BEGIN."

"Now," said