to be an Irishman. "Be's ye going to wait
till six?"

"Yes," answered the corporal. "But no longer."

Then they began talking about the British fleet that was cruising in
Long Island Sound, and about the ship on which they were temporarily
quartered until they could join the main body of the army, and how a
neighbor of Brinton's father's and mother's had been down at the store
when a ship's boat had put in for water, and how he had told the officer
in charge that Major Hall, Brinton's father, was expected home for a few
hours that day, and what a fine opportunity it would be to make an
important capture.

The clock struck half past five.

"H'm!" grunted the corporal. "It doesn't seem that late; but, you know,
you can't tell anythink about anythink in this blaisted country."

Brinton now began to be very much afraid that his father would come
before the soldiers left. He wanted to move the pendulum faster and
faster, but after what the corporal had said he did not dare to. Then,
when the men lapsed into silence, it suddenly came over Brinton how
dreadfully weary he was, how all his bones ached, and how much, how very
much, he wanted to cry. But he felt that his father's only chance of
safety lay in his keeping the pendulum swinging to and fro, to and fro.

At last, however, came the welcome sound of the corporal's voice bidding
the men get ready to start.

Whang-whang-whang-whang-whang-whang!

"Fall in!" ordered the corporal. "Forward, march!"

As the sound of their footsteps died away, Brinton, all of a tremble,
opened the door of the clock and stumbled out. He knelt at the window
and watched the retreating forms of the redcoats. As they disappeared
down the road he heard a noise behind him, and jumped up with a start.

There stood his father!

The next instant Brinton was sobbing in his arms.

Brinton's mother came into the room. "Dear me!" she said; "what ever can
be the matter with the clock? It's half an hour fast."

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.[1]

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

BIG AMOOK AND THE CHILKAT HUNTERS.

"A goat is a good thing so far as it goes," remarked Phil, gravely, "but
one goat divided among one man, two boys, a little chap, and three
awfully hungry dogs isn't likely to last very long. With plenty of goats
ready to come and be killed as we wanted them, we might hold out here,
after a fashion, until the arrival of a tourist steamer. Wouldn't that
be fun, though? And woul