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TWO GALLANT SONS OF DEVON, BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD.

CHAPTER ONE.

HOW PHIL STUKELY AND DICK CHICHESTER NARROWLY ESCAPED DROWNING.

It was a little after seven o'clock on June 19 in the year of Our Lord
1577, and business was practically over for the day. The taverns and
alehouses were, of course, still open, and would so remain for three or
four hours to come, for the evening was then, as it is now, their most
busy time; but nearly all the shops in Fore Street of the good town of
Devonport were closed, one of the few exceptions being that of Master
John Summers, "Apothecary, and Dealer in all sorts of Herbs and
Simples", as was announced by the sign which swung over the still open
door of the little, low-browed establishment.

The shop was empty of customers for the moment, its only occupants being
two persons, both of whom were employees of Master John Summers. One--
the tall, thin, dark, dreamy-eyed individual behind the counter who was
with much deliberation and care completing the preparation of a
prescription--was Philip Stukely, the apothecary's only assistant; while
the other was one Colin Dunster, a pallid, raw-boned youth whose
business it was to distribute the medicines to his master's customers.
He was slouching now, outside the counter, beside a basket three-parts
full of bottles, each neatly enwrapped in white paper and inscribed with
the name and address of the customer to whom it was to be delivered in
due course. Apparently the package then in course of preparation would
complete the tale of those to be delivered that night; for as Stukely
tied the string and wrote the address in a clear, clerkly hand, the lad
Dunster straightened himself up and laid a hand upon the basket, as
though suddenly impatient to be gone.

At this moment another youth, with blue-grey eyes, curly, flaxen hair,
tall, broad-chested, and with the limbs of a young Hercules, burst into
the shop, taking at a stride the two steps which led down into it from
the street, as he exclaimed:

"Heyday, Master Phil, how is this? Hast not yet finished compounding
thy potions? My day's work ended an hour and more ago; and the evening
is a perfect one for a sail upon the Sound."

"Ay, so 'tis, I'll warrant," answered Stukely, as he deposited the
package in the basket. "There, Colin, lad," he continued, "that is the
last for to-night; and--listen, sirrah! See that thou mix not the