bones just then than he had with his almost heart-broken master, and Tim, who dared not stay away too long from the cabin, was obliged to let him partake of the feast at last.

When Tim returned from feeding the dog, Mr. Rankin said all he could to prevent him from becoming discouraged on the first day of service; but he concluded with these words: "I can't advise you to stay here any longer than you can help, for you ain't stout enough to bear what you'll have to take from the Captain. It'll be hard work to get off, for he always looks sharp after new boys, so they sha'n't run away; but when we get back here again, you'd better make up your mind to show your heels."

These words frightened Tim almost as much as what the Captain had said to him, for he had never thought but that he could leave whenever he wanted to. Now he felt doubly wretched, for he realized that he was as much a captive as he had ever been when he lived with Captain Babbige, whose blows were not nearly as severe as this new master's.

The Pride of the Wave made but two trips a week, and each one occupied about two days and a half. This second day after Tim had come on board was the time of her sailing, and everything was in such a state of confusion that no one had any time to notice the sad little boy, who ran forward to pet his dog whenever his work would permit of such loving act.

Among his duties was that of answering the Captain's bell, and once, when he returned from a visit to Tip, Mr. Rankin told him, with evident fear, that it had been nearly five minutes since he was summoned to the wheel-house.

While the steward was speaking, the bell rang again with an angry peal that told that the party at the other end was in anything but a pleasant mood. It did not take Tim many seconds to run to the wheel-house, and when he arrived there, breathless and in fear, Captain Pratt met him at the door.

"So the lesson I gave you this morning wasn't enough, eh?" cried the angry man, as he seized Tim by the collar and actually lifted him from his feet. "I'll teach you to attend to business, and not try to come any odds over me."

Captain Pratt had a stout piece of rope in one hand, and as he held Tim by the other, nearly choking him, he showered heavy blows upon the poor boy's back and legs, until his arm ached.

"Now see if you will remember that!" he cried, as he released his hold on Tim's collar, and the poor child rolled upon the deck almost helpless.

Tim had fallen because the hold on his neck had been so suddenly released, rather than on account of the beating; and when he struggled to his feet, smarting from the blows, the Captain said to him, "Now bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you're back in five minutes, or you'll get the same dose over again."

Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as though they were on fire, and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done from the worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him with. He entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and sobs choking his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart that he made no other sign of suffering.

Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt's method of dealing with boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the boy got the water, "Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you'll come out all right."

Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from there to Tip.

The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside him: "Don't, Tip—don't play now; I feel more like dyin'. You think it's awful hard to stay here; but it's twice as hard on me, 'cause the Captain whips me every chance he gets."

Tip knew from his master's actions that something was wrong, and he licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that Tim's tears came in spite of his will.

He was lying by Tip's side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose, the cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.

"Wha-wha-wha's de matter, honey? Wha' yer takin' on so powerful 'bout?"

Tim paid no attention to the question, repeated several times, nor did he appear to feel the huge black hand laid so tenderly on his head.

"Wha's de matter, honey? Has Cap'en Pratt been eddercatin' of yer?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued: "Now don' take on so, honey. Come inter de kitchen wid ole Mose, an' let him soothe ye up a little. Come, honey, come wid me, an' bring de dorg wid yer."

While he spoke the old colored man was untying the rope which fastened Tip, for he knew the boy would follow wherever the dog was led. And in that he was right, for when Tip went toward the little box Mose called a kitchen, he followed almost unconsciously.

Once inside the place where the old negro was chief, Mose took his jacket off, and bathed the ugly-looking black and blue marks which had been left by the rope, talking to the boy in his peculiar dialect as he did so, soothing the wounds on his heart as he treated those on his body.

"Now don' feel bad, honey; it's only a way Cap'en Pratt has got, an' you must git used to it, shuah. Don' let him fret yer, but keep right on about yer work jest as ef yer didn't notice him like."

Mose bathed the wounds, gave Tip such a feast as he had not had for many a day, and when it was done, Tim said to him: "You're awful good, you are; but I'm afraid the Captain will make you sorry for it. He don't seem to like me, an' he may get mad 'cause you've helped me."

"Bress yer, chile, what you s'pose ole Mose keers fur him ef he does git mad? The Cap'en kin rave an' rave, but dis niggar don' mind him more'n ef he was de souf wind, what carn't do nobody any harm."

"But—" Tim began to say, earnestly.

"Never mind 'bout any buts, honey. Yer fixed all right now, an' you go down in de cabin an' go ter work like a man; ole Mose'll keep keer ob de dorg."

Tim knew he had already been away from his post of duty too long, and leaving Tip in the negro's kindly care, he went into the cabin, feeling almost well in mind, although very sore in body.

[to be continued.]

NOT UP IN HIS PART.—Drawn by Sol Eytinge, Jun.

PHIL'S BURGLAR.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

I am Phil Morris, fourteen years old, and the youngest clerk in Covert Savings-Bank. The cashier is my uncle Jack, and he began at the bottom, where I am, when he was a boy. He says that a boy had better grow up with a country bank than go West and grow up with the country. He thinks there's more money in it.

"If there's anything in you," he said one day, "you'll work your way up to be bank president some time." And I guess it's better to be president of a country bank than to be President of the United States. Anyway, you wouldn't have to be shot before folks began to find out that you were doing your level best to keep things straight. Uncle Jack says and does such queer things sometimes that people say he's odd. They tell about his being so wrapped up in our bank that he never had time to hunt up a wife. I notice, though, that when father and mother died, and left me a wee little baby, Uncle Jack found time to bring me up, and give me a good education to boot. Oh, he's as good as gold or government bonds, Uncle Jack is.

We live in rooms over the bank, where old Mrs. Halstead keeps house for us. Underneath, we do the business. There's heaps of money in our two