uld here caution the reader--especially the youthful reader--
against supposing that from this point our hero was engaged in
rescue-work, and continued at it ever after without intermission. Like
Samson, with his great strength, he exercised his powers only now and
then--more than half unconscious of what was in him--and on many
occasions without any definite purpose in view.

His first act of heroism was exercised, when he had reached the age of
nine, in behalf of a kitten.

It was on a magnificent summer day, soon after he had been sent to the
village school, that the incident occurred. Charlie was walking at the
time with one of his school-fellows named Shank Leather.

Shank was a little older than himself, and a good enough fellow in his
way, but much given to boasting, and possessed of very few of the fine
qualities that characterised our hero. The two were out for a
holiday-ramble, a long way from home, and had reached a river on the
banks of which they sat down to enjoy their mid-day meal. The meal was
simple, and carried in their pockets. It consisted of two
inch-and-a-half-thick slices of bread, with two lumps of cheese to
match.

"I wish this river was nearer home," said Shank Leather, as they sat
down under a spreading oak to dine.

"Why?" asked his companion, with a felicitous brevity and
straightforwardness which occasionally marked his conversation.

"Because then I would have a swim in it everyday."

"Can you swim?" asked Charlie, a slight elevation of the eyebrows
indicating surprise not unmingled with admiration--for our hero was a
hero-worshipper. He could not well have been a hero otherwise!

"Of course I can swim," returned Shank; "that is to say, a little; but I
feel sure that I'll be a splendid swimmer some day."

His companion's look of admiration increased.

"What'll you take to drink?" asked Shank, drawing a large flask from the
pocket in which he had concealed it up to that moment with the express
purpose of giving his companion a pleasant surprise.

It may be well to add that the variety of dunks implied in his question
was imaginary. Shank had only one flask, but in the exuberance of
convivial generosity he quoted his own father--who was addicted to "the
bottle."

"What is it?" asked Brooke, in curious expectancy.

"Taste and see," said his friend, uncorking the flask.

Charlie tasted, but did not "see," apparently, for he looked solemn, and
tasted again.

"It's liqu