apapiu/simple_text_files · Datasets at Hugging Face

"A perfectly splendid wedding, don't you know!" lisped William Philander Tubbs. "Why, I really couldn't run it off better myself!"

"It was all to the merry!" was Stanley's comment. "She's a dandy girl, too -- wish I had one half as good."

"Dick Rover deserves the best girl in the world," was Songbird's conclusion. "He is the finest fellow I know, barring none."

"I suppose you'll get up a poem about this, Songbird," suggested one of the other students.

"Perhaps," was the answer, and the would-be poet smiled in a dreamy fashion.

"It seems only yesterday that the Rover boys came to the Hall," remarked Captain Putnam, to one of his friends. "My, how the years have flown!"

"But they are still boys -- at least Tom and Sam are," was the ready reply. "And Tom is just as full of sport as he ever was -- I don't believe he'll ever settle down."

"Time will tell. But with all his fun he is a good lad at heart -- and that is what counts."

"Right you are, Captain Putnam. I wouldn't give a rap for a lad who didn't have some fun in his make-up."

"All of them had plenty of fun while they were at my school. They cut up a good deal sometimes. But I liked them all the better for it, somehow," concluded the captain, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Carriages and automobiles were in waiting, and Dick and his bride, along with their relatives and many friends, were quickly whirled away to the Stanhope home. Here followed numerous congratulations, interspersed with not a few kisses. Mrs. Stanhope's eyes were still full of tears, but she smiled at her newly-made son-in-law.

"It's all right, Dick!" she whispered. "I'm not a bit sorry. But -- but a woman can't help crying when she sees her only girl getting married."

"You are not going to lose Dora," he answered, tenderly. "You are going to get a son, that's all."

A long table had been spread, from the dining-room to the sitting-room, with another table in the library, and soon a grand wedding dinner was in progress. Dora sat at her husband's side, and never did a pair feel or look more happy. Close at hand was Tom, paying his attentions to Nellie, and at the smaller table Sam was doing his best to entertain Grace. Mr. Anderson Rover sat beside Mrs. Stanhope, and not far away were the others of the families.

"Well, they are married at last," said Mr. Rover to Mrs. Stanhope. "I, for one, am well satisfied. I think they will get along well together."

"Yes, Mr. Rover, I think they will get along finely," answered Mrs. Stanhope. "I liked Dick from the first time I met him -- and Dora -- well, there was nobody else after he came into view," and she smiled faintly. Then her eyes traveled over to where Tom and Nellie were talking earnestly, and his followed. "I think that is another pair," she whispered.

"I shouldn't wonder," was the reply. "But they can wait a while. Tom is rather young yet."

"He looks rather pale."

"Yes, that blow he received on the head was a severe one. I am worried about it," went on Mr. Rover, soberly.

It had been arranged that Dick and Dora should depart on a honeymoon trip to Washington late that afternoon. The dinner over, the rooms were cleared, and the young folks enjoyed themselves in dancing, an orchestra having been engaged for that purpose.

"How perfectly happy they all seem to be!" remarked Aunt Martha to Anderson Rover, as they sat watching the dancing.

"Yes," he answered. "I trust that nothing happens to make it otherwise after this."

"Oh, something is bound to happen to those boys!" murmured the aunt. "You simply can't hold them in!" And something did happen, and what is was will be related in the next volume of this series, to be entitled: "The Rover Boys in Alaska; Or, Lost in the Fields of Ice." In that book we shall learn how Tom suddenly lost his mind and wandered away from home, and what strenuous things happened to Dick and Sam when they went after their brother.

But for the time being all went well. The young folks danced to their hearts' content, and Tom kept them roaring over the many jokes he had saved up for the occasion. His head ached a good deal, but he refused to let anybody know about it.

Then came the time for Dick and Dora to depart. An auto was at the door, gaily decorated with white ribbons, and bearing on the back a sign painted by Tom which read, "We're Just Married." Another auto was in the backyard, to take some of the guests to the steamboat dock.

"Good-bye!" was the cry, as the pair came down the stairs, ready for the trip. "Good-bye and good luck!" And then came a generous shower of rice and several old shoes. Dora kissed her mother for the last time and she and Dick hurried to the auto. Away they went, and the other auto after them, Tom and Sam and some others tooting horns and the girls shrieking gaily.

"To the steamboat dock, I suppose," said the driver of the auto, to Dick.

"Not much!" cried the newly-married youth. "Here is where we fool them. Straight for Ithaca, and as fast as the law allows!"

"I get you," replied the chauffeur, grinning.

"We want to catch the seven-forty-five train for New York," went on Dick.

"We'll do it, sir," was the answer, and then the auto driver turned on the speed, made a whirl around a corner of the road, and in a minute more was on the way to Ithaca, with the second car far behind.

"Hello! he's given us the slip!" cried Sam, in dismay.

"Never mind, let them go!" whispered Grace.

"Yes, we've had fun enough," added Nellie. "Oh, what a grand wedding it has been!" she added, with a sigh. And then, when Tom squeezed her hand, she blushed.

In the other automobile, Dora and Dick sat close together on the back seat. Under the robe her hand, the one with the wedding ring upon it, was clasped tightly within his own.

"Glad?" he whispered.

"Perfectly," she answered.

<eob>

The Lone Ranche: A Tale Of The Staked Plain

By

Thomas Mayne Reid

Chapter One.

A Tale Of The Staked Plain.

"Hats Off!"

Within the city of Chihuahua, metropolis of the northern provinces of Mexico -- for the most part built of mud -- standing in the midst of vast barren plains, o'ertopped by bold porphyritic mountains -- plains with a population sparse as their timber -- in the old city of Chihuahua lies the first scene of our story.

Less than twenty thousand people dwell within the walls of this North Mexican metropolis, and in the country surrounding it a like limited number.

Once they were thicker on the soil; but the tomahawk of the Comanche and the spear of the Apache have thinned off the descendants of the Conquistadores, until country houses stand at wide distances apart, with more than an equal number of ruins between.

Yet this same city of Chihuahua challenges weird and wonderful memories. At the mention of its name springs up a host of strange records, the souvenirs of a frontier life altogether different from that wreathed round the history of Anglo-American borderland. It recalls the cowled monk with his cross, and the soldier close following with his sword; the old mission-house, with its church and garrison beside it; the fierce savage lured from a roving life, and changed into a toiling peon, afterwards to revolt against a system of slavery that even religion failed to make endurable; the neophyte turning his hand against his priestly instructor, equally his oppressor; revolt followed by a deluge of blood, with ruinous devastation, until the walls of both mission and military cuartel are left tenantless, and the redskin has returned to his roving.

Such a history has had the city of Chihuahua and the settlements in its neighbourhood. Nor is the latter portion of it all a chronicle of the olden time. Much of it belongs to modern days; ay, similar scenes are transpiring even now. But a few years ago a stranger entering its gates would have seen nailed overhead, and whisked to and fro by the wind, some scores of objects similar to one another, and resembling tufts of hair, long, trailing, and black, as if taken from the manes or tails of horses. But it came not thence; it was human hair; and the patches of skin that served to keep the bunches together had been stripped from human skulls! They were scalps -- the scalps of Indians, showing that the Comanche and Apache savages had not had it all their own way.