r, and he split a roller with his
white nose.

With a dull chug, a resonant thump, and an impetuous splash the dory
entered its accustomed element, lifting some three gallons of salt water
neatly over the bows. Lank ducked. The unsuspecting Stashia did not,
and the flying brine struck fairly under her ample chin.

"Ug-g-g-gh! Oh! Oh! H-h-h-elp!" spluttered the startled bride, and tried
to get on her feet.

"Sit down!" roared Captain Bean. Vehemently Stashia sat.

"W-w-w-we'll all b-b-be d-d-drowned, drowned!" she wailed.

"Not much we won't, Stashia. We're all right now, and we ain't goin' to
have our necks broke by no fool horse, either. Trim in the sheet, Lank,
an' then take that bailin' scoop." The Captain was now calmly confident
and thoroughly at home.

Drenched, cowed and trembling, the newly made Mrs. Bean clung
despairingly to the thwart, fully as terrified as the plunging
Barnacles, who struck out wildly with his green legs, and snorted every
time a wave hit him. But the lines held up his head and kept his nose
pointing straight for the little beach on Sculpin Point, perhaps a
quarter of a mile distant.

Somewhat heavy weather the deep-laden dory made of it, and in spite of
Lank's vigorous bailing the water sloshed around Mrs. Bean's boot-tops,
yet in time the sail and Barnacles brought them safely home.

"'Twa'n't exactly the kind of honeymoon trip I'd planned, Stashia,"
commented the Captain, as he and Lank steadied the bride's dripping bulk
down the step-ladder, "and we did do some sailin', spite of ourselves;
but we had a horse in front an' wheels under us all the way, just as I
promised."

BLACK EAGLE

WHO ONCE RULED THE RANGES

Of his sire and dam there is no record. All that is known is that he was
raised on a Kentucky stock farm. Perhaps he was a son of Hanover, but
Hanoverian or no, he was a thoroughbred. In the ordinary course of
events he would have been tried out with the other three-year olds for
the big meet on Churchill Downs. In the hands of a good trainer he might
have carried to victory the silk of some great stable and had his name
printed in the sporting almanacs to this day.

But there was about Black Eagle nothing ordinary, either in his blood
or in his career. He was born for the part he played. So at three,
instead of being entered in his class at Louisville, it happened that he
was shipped West, where his fate waited.

No more comely three year old ever took the