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It was about twenty-five miles across the Sound to Crooked Inlet, and the schooner covered this distance in four hours. Of course Captain Beardsley's buoys had been lifted and carried away long before this time, and the only safe way to take the vessel into open water was to pull her through with the skiff which was towing astern.

He had reached personal expression in a new medium in a month or so, and apparently without effort. It was Beardsley's writing that first won Oscar to recognition of his talent, and for a while he seemed vaguely interested in what he called his "orchid-like personality." They were both at lunch one day when Oscar declared that he could drink nothing but absinthe when Beardsley was present.

At seventeen or eighteen this auburn-haired, blue-eyed, fragile looking youth had reached maturity with his astounding talent, a talent which would have given him position and wealth in any other country. In perfection of line his drawings were superior to anything we possess. Beardsley's precocity was simply marvellous.

Ain't that a pretty looking arm for a white boy to carry around with him? It makes me hate them Yankees wusser'n I did before." The wounded arm was already becoming inflamed, and it was painful, too; and although Beardsley's assistants were as careful as they could be, Marcy winced while they were helping him off with his coat and vest and rolling up his sleeve.

"If we go to Beardsley's we may be sorry we didn't go to town; and if we call on Colonel Shelby, to see if he can tell us anything about that light, we may be sorry we didn't go somewhere else. What do you say?" "I say, let's ride over to Beardsley's in the first place, and to Marcy Gray's in the next." "And so follow up that squad of thieving Yankees and see what damage they did?

That he had shot close to the mark was made evident to Marcy before ten minutes more had passed over his head. A short distance farther on was the gate which gave entrance to the carriage-way that ran by the ruins of Beardsley's home. It was wide open, and as he rode up he saw a horseman passing through it.

However, Conder is going to do me a couple. He was here yesterday to see me about them. Of course you know him. What a wonderful man! The only really cosmopolitan artist in England, I say, now Beardsley's dead. I've got a Siegfried drawing by Beardsley. He was a great friend of mine. I adored him."

"No, I don't think anything about it," Jack interposed. "I know that that is Captain Beardsley's schooner. I wish from the bottom of my heart that she had been sunk or captured before she ever caught us here; but it is too late to get away from her. She will go by within less than twenty yards of us."

But if such a thought came into Beardsley's mind he did not speak it aloud. Just then he was called to another part of the deck and Marcy picked up his valise and went below. "Beardsley doesn't mean to let me go," he soliloquized, as he tossed the valise into his bunk and opened the locker in which he had stowed his bedding for safe-keeping.

Through the score of "Parsifal" there seem to pass angelic forms and wings dainty and fragile and silver-shod as those of Beardsley's "Morte d'Arthur." But the debt we owe him will always give him a vast importance in our eyes. The men of to-day, all of them, stand directly on his shoulders.