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Where Lexicon and Syntax meet Doris SchÃ¶nefeld
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Doris SchÃ¶nefeld
ISBN(s): 9783110849066, 3110849062
Edition: Reprint 2011
File Details: PDF, 11.32 MB
Year: 2001
Language: english

Where Lexicon and Syntax meet
W
DE
G

Trends in Linguistics
Studies and Monographs 135
Editor
Walter Bisang
Werner Winter
Mouton de Gruyter
Berlin · New York

Where Lexicon and Syntax meet
by
Doris Schönefeld
Mouton de Gruyter
Berlin · New York 2001

Mouton de Gruyter (formerly Mouton, The Hague)
is a Division of Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin.
© Printed on acid-free paper which falls within the guidelines
of the ANSI to ensure permanence and durability.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Schönefeld, Doris, 1953 —
Where lexicon and syntax meet / by Doris Schönefeld,
p. cm. — (Trends in linguistics : Studies and monographs ;
135)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 3-11-017048-5 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Lexicology. 2. Grammer, Comparative and general — Syntax.
3. Linguistic models. 4. Psycholinguistics. I. Title. II. Series.
P326 .S3 2001
413'.028-dc21 2001030401
Die Deutsche Bibliothek — CIP-Einheitsaufnahme
Schönefeld, Doris:
Where lexicon and syntax meet / by Doris Schönefeld. - Ber-
lin ; New York : Mouton de Gruyter, 2001
(Trends in linguistics : Studies and monographs ; 135)
Zugl.: Jena, Univ., Habil.-Schr., 1999
ISBN 3-11-017048-5
© Copyright 2001 by Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, 10785 Berlin
All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechan-
ical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, with-
out permission in writing from the publisher.
Printing & Binding: Hubert & Co, Göttingen.
Cover design: Christopher Schneider, Berlin.
Printed in Germany.

Contents
Chapter One: Introduction 1
1.1. The endeavor 1
Chapter Two: Grounding and definitions 5
2.1. At the core of the language 5
2.1.1. Lexicon 6
2.1.2. Syntax 12
Chapter Three: Theories of language processing 15
3.1. The lexicon-syntax interface in performance
models 15
3.2. Models of language production 20
3.2.1. An overall survey 20
3.2.2. Selected issues: Where lexicon and syntax meet.... 30
3.3. Models of language comprehension 48
3.3.1. An overall survey 48
3.3.2. Syntax and lexicon revisited 55
Chapter Four: Linguistic models under scrutiny 89
4.1. The lexicon-syntax interface in competence
models 89
4.1.1. Linguistic models and the concept of
naturalness 90
4.1.2. General assumptions as to the interrelation
between lexicon and syntax 93
4.2. Functional approaches 97
4.2.1. Dik's model 98
4.2.2. Halliday's model 104
4.2.3. The methodological turn from Halliday to
Sinclair 108
4.3. Generative approaches 120
4.3.1. The Government-and-Binding model 123
4.3.2. The model of Lexical Functional Grammar 132

vi Contents
4.3.3. The model of Lexical-Generative Grammar 138
4.3.4. The model of Head-Driven Phrase Structure
Grammar 142
4.4. Cognitive linguistic approaches 148
4.4.1. Deane's explorations in cognitive syntax 161
4.4.2. Goldberg's Construction Grammar 165
4.4.3. Langacker's Cognitive Grammar 176
Chapter Five: Performance data 187
5.1. Securing and interpreting the evidence 187
5.2. Reformulations/self-repairs 190
5.3. Overlaps 212
5.4. Lexical co-occurrences 227
Chapter Six: In the psycholinguist's laboratory 247
6.1. An experimental test 247
6.2. The experiment 256
6.2.1. Method and procedure 257
6.2.2. Results 261
6.2.3. Discussion 265
Chapter Seven: The finale 279
7.1. Launching the project 279
7.2. Bringing in the harvest 280
7.2.1. The lexicon-syntax interface as reflected in
performance models 280
7.2.2. The lexicon-syntax interface as reflected in
competence models 283
7.2.3. The lexicon-syntax interface as reflected by
performance data 292
7.2.4. The lexicon-syntax interface as reflected by
experimentally elicited data 297
7.1. Evaluating the results - a psychologically
plausible linguistic model 298
References 303
Index of subjects 329

Chapter One
Introduction
1.1. The endeavor
It is common for linguists (myself included) to
describe their own analyses as natural, reserving the
term unnatural for the analyses of other
investigators. From this one deduces that naturalness
is something to be desired in a linguistic description.
Yet the term natural is elusive and largely
unexplicated, having so little intrinsic content that in
practice it easily comes to mean simply "in
accordance with my own ideas". (Langacker 1987:
13)
Linguistic models of the present time claim to be more or less
explanatory, i.e., they claim to be able to explain how a competent
speaker of a language acquires this competence. This also implies -
among many other things - statements about the way the linguistic
subsystems or -components artificially separated in the descriptions of
the language system for methodological reasons actually interact. The
validity of such statements can be measured against the facts revealed
by the research into language processing, and such an evaluation is
exactly what I aim at in the project presented here. It can be roughly
described as the search for a "natural" linguistic model, a model which
is compatible with findings about language use and which can, apart
from defining any "grammatical" (in the sense of grammatically
correct) linguistic product as a result of the language user's
competence, also explain various performance data, in particular those
which seem to be aberrations from "grammatical" or well-formed
constructions.
Since in a project like this, it is hardly feasible to discuss the
assumptions made with regard to the interrelation/interaction of all the
components in linguistic models, I felt the requirement to restrict
myself to some representative subgroup of them. Stimulated by the
growing linguistic interest in the lexicon, by the increasing importance

2 Introduction
attributed to it, and by the centrality of the syntactic component in most
current linguistic models, I have focussed on the relationships specified
for the lexicon and the syntax and how this is reflected in individual
linguistic models. The models I have chosen for an analysis regarding
this are the functional ones by Dik (1989) and by Halliday (1985,
1994), the generative ones by Chomsky (1988, 1993, 1995a and b)
(Government & Binding and Minimalist Program), by Bresnan (1982)
(Lexical Functional Grammar), by Pollard & Sag (1994) (Head-Driven
Phrase Structure Grammar) and by Diehl (1981) (Lexical-Generative
Grammar), and the assumptions made with respect to the functioning of
language by cognitive linguists, such as Deane (1992), Fillmore &
Atkins (1992), Fauconnier (1994), Fauconnier & Turner (1996),
Goldberg (1995), Lakoff (1987), and Langacker (1987, 1991a and b,
1999).
The hypotheses made with regard to the lexicon-syntax interface
vary considerably, with some even being contradictory to one another.
In order to assess which of them are more plausible or "natural", which
of them are not only elegant and supported by theory-internal facts, but
are also in line with the natural procedures involved in speech
processing, I compared the claims made in the respective linguistic
models with those made in psycholinguistic ones.
If one considers the relationship between lexicon and syntax,
linguistic models can basically be divided up into two groups. There are
models which give priority to syntax, and there are models which give
priority to the lexicon in the total arrangement of language.
This means that either the syntax or the lexicon is considered the
central and dominating component of language and the other
components are described as being more or less dependent on it or as
being secondary to it1
.
For psycholinguistic models of language comprehension, language
production, or both (e.g., those developed by Forster (1979), Garrett
(1980), Levelt (1989), Kempen & Hoenkamp (1987) Dijkstra &
Kempen (1993), Dijkstra & de Smedt (1996b), Bock (1982), Handke
(1995) and Frazier (1987, 1989, 1990)), or reflections on the lexicon-
1
This is not to be equated with the debate about autonomy or modularity as it is going
on in the fields of cognition in general and language in particular.

The endeavour 3
syntax interface as they appear in the research by Shapiro, Zurif &
Grimshaw (1989), Trueswell, Tanenhaus & Garnsey (1994),
MacDonald (1993), MacDonald, Pearlmutter & Seidenberg (1994),
Pearlmutter & MacDonald (1995) and Marslen-Wilson (1989), the
situation is more uniform. For language production, there is general
agreement on the fact that the lexicon plays a central role in the
processing procedures in that the syntactic structure of an utterance is
considered to basically, and at least partially, evolve from the syntactic
information stored in the lexical entries retrieved for its construction.
Models of comprehension, however, differ in the way they assume the
parsing process to work, reflecting the polarity found in linguistic
models: One group of models describes the lexicon as the driving force
in the parsing process, the other attributes priority to syntax in that the
parsing process is initiated on the basis of word-categoiy information
before any other type of information (pragmatic, semantic, thematic)
has been actually accessed.
The present book is meant to trace my search for a natural linguistic
model which can give a plausible answer to the question of where and
how exactly lexicon and syntax are assumed to meet: I analyse the
competence models mentioned above as to what they claim with regard
to the lexicon-syntax interface, and I measure the plausibility of their
claims against findings from psycholinguistics and a number of
performance data.
In particular, I ask and try to answer the following two questions:
1. In what way are the selected linguistic models compatible with
psycholinguistic assumptions about the lexicon-syntax
interaction in language use?
2. How can the performance data I concentrated on, namely self-
repairs, overlaps and lexical patterns, be explained by the
linguistic models under analysis?
For that purpose, I first assemble what psycholinguistic models
assume with regard to the interaction between syntax and the lexicon,
finishing up with a summary of those claims that I strongly support and
adding a few aspects that I consider important to my argumentation.
Secondly, I scrutinize the linguistic models mentioned above,
focussing on what assumptions about the syntax-lexicon interface they

4 Introduction
make or allow for, and considering in what relation that stands to the
psycholinguistic claims.
Then I go on to describe the performance data I drew on in order to
see how they relate to the claims psycholinguists make with regard to
the lexicon-syntax interaction in language processing, and in order to
further evaluate the "naturalness" or "plausibility" of linguistic models:
I analysed reformulations or rather self-repairs to find out what the
mechanisms of their production are, and whether these mechanisms are
provided for by the general design of the linguistic models under
discussion. The data were derived from conversations recorded in the
London-Lund-Corpus (LLC).
Secondly, I analysed overlaps, i.e., moments in a conversation at
which both interlocutors speak simultaneously, as to what they can tell
us about language comprehension and whether the procedures involved
are explicable by linguistic models. These data were extracted from the
British National Corpus (BNC).
A third type of performance data I took from corpus-linguistic research
results, in particular from the discovery of not only syntactic, but also
an impressive number of lexical patterns in language use.
Drawing on what corpus linguists have revealed about lexical
patterning, I once again ask whether the linguistic models under
discussion can sufficiently account for this phenomenon, and which
psycholinguistic claims it can be taken to support.
Since all three types of performance data can give evidence
regarding the lexicon-syntax interaction only via the interpretation by
the analyst, I thought it important and necessary to look for more
"objective" experimental evidence for the claims I make and support.
That is why I designed and carried out an experiment which is meant to
reveal information about the cognitive status of lexical patterns, in
particular of collocations.
The final step in my argumentation is to check and evaluate the
linguistic models discussed in the light of the psycholinguistic findings
and generalizations. They will also be evaluated with respect to their
capability of covering and explaining the phenomena found in the
analyses of performance data, i.e., I will end up discussing which of the
numerous models and assumptions presented assigns to lexicon and
syntax the appropriate places in the total structure of language.

Chapter Two
Grounding and definitions
2.1. At the core of language: lexicon and syntax
Language is commonly understood as simply consisting of a vocabulary
and rules and regularities for the combination of its elements into larger
units, i.e., phrases, clauses and sentences.
This general understanding shows, among others, in the description
of "language" in the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Language (Crystal
1987). Crystal's survey contains a number of definitions, two of which
are presented here for illustration.
(Part o f ) the dictionary definition of language he selected reads as
follows: "the words, their pronunciation, and the methods of combining
them used and understood by a considerable community and
established by long usage." (Gove 1961: 1270)
Chomsky, whose definition (1957: 13) sounds much more technical,
though it actually provides less information than the first, is quoted as
representing the views of one of the specialists dealing with the subject:
"From now on I will consider a language to be a set (finite or infinite)
of sentences, each finite in length and constructed out of a finite set of
elements."
Thus, the "common" view is not only indicative of what the layman
understands a language to be, but also reflects in some very general
descriptions and definitions given by linguists. In the latter, the two
constituents, the words and the combinatory rules, are usually identified
by the terms "lexicon" and "grammar", though there is no general
agreement on this. Since "grammar" can be understood in a narrow and
a broad sense, with the first referring to what can be more specifically
called "morphology" and "syntax" and the latter referring to the
language system as a whole, it is just as common, and perhaps more
exact, to use the term "syntax" for the combinatory component of
language.

6 Grounding and definitions
The use of "grammar" in the former sense is to be found, e.g., in The
Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics (Asher & Simpson 1994),
where Humphreys gives the following definition:
The well-formed utterances or sentences of a language are specified by two
components: the grammar, which is a set of general rules for combining and
ordering word classes in the language, and the lexicon, which lists everything
which is not in itself a general rule. The grammar is about linguistic
generalities; the lexicon is about linguistic singularities." (Humphreys 1994:
2192)
With regard to "grammar" in its wider sense, one could take both
components, lexicon and syntax, to be at the core of a language, with
other components, such as stylistics, pragmatics, sociolinguistics etc.
superimposing on them.
Having in mind that the subdivisions just made are artificial, since
language functions in its totality and is separated into subparts for the
reason of making its analysis and explanation feasible only, I will now
start out to analyse what the interrelation between the two core
components is.
As a prerequisite for finding this out, I shall first comment on what
is generally understood by both the one and the other.
2.1.1. Lexicon
The term "lexicon" will be used here in only one of its common
meanings, namely in the sense of "vocabulary" or "word-stock" of a
language. In this use it is opposed to the second meaning, which is
commonly associated first by the ordinary language user, the sense of
"dictionary", or "vocabulary of a language as it is arranged in a
dictionary", where the arrangement may follow various criteria. These
may be, for example, the alphabet (as in the "typical" dictionaries), the
meanings to be expressed (as in a thesaurus or other onomasiologically
oriented dictionaries), or topics (as in terminological dictionaries), to
name but a few.
The two different, though related, senses of "lexicon" also reflect in
the numerous definitions of the term that have been given from a
linguistic point of view. Naturally, the survey given here cannot be
exhaustive, and, for the sake of brevity, I will have to concentrate on

At the core of language: lexicon and syntax 7
what can be found in some of the relevant linguistic encyclopedias.
Moreover, our selection is also influenced by the perspective adopted
here.
The definitions assembled in the following are meant to list
important characteristics of the sense under investigation, and I
essentially do not disagree with the views represented and the claims
made by them.
Bußmann (1990: 456) defines "lexicon" in a most general way, thus
also allowing for the second reading: "Lexikon ... Im allgemeinsten
Sinn: Beschreibungsebene, die den Wortschatz einer Sprache insoweit
kodifiziert, als seine Formen und Bedeutungen nicht aus allgemeinen
Regularitäten des Sprachsystems ableitbar sind."
Her definition implies that the lexicon contains only those items of
the vocabulary that have idiosyncratic properties with respect to their
forms and/or meanings. This understanding of "lexicon" denies the
motivated word formations as well as the inflectional forms of a lexical
item a place in the lexicon2
. At the same time, it is not explicit about
the particular features that can be taken as specified for each item listed
against the background that the information contained enables the
speaker to use the item correctly once he has acquired it.
This sort of information is to be found in a separate entry in which
Bußmann specifies the term as it is understood in one of the major
paradigms of the last 40 years, in generative (transformational)
grammar: There the lexicon is defined as part of the basic component of
the grammar, and the characteristics that make up a lexical entry consist
2
This agrees with early generative assumptions with regard to the character of the
lexicon, which were revised by Chomsky's lexicalist hypothesis (Chomsky 1970).
With this hypothesis, Chomsky places the establishment of a relationship between a
word and its derivatives into the lexicon, implicitly claiming that syntax is blind to
morphology (cf. Zwicky 1992: 11): Hence, the lexicon contains also derived words,
and the particular form needed for the construction of a sentence is determined by the
phrase type the head of which it is meant to become (see also Sproat 1992: 335). In
the Government-and-Binding Model (Chomsky 1988), lexical items are assumed to
project their syntactic (and semantic) features into the syntax, thus minimizing the
importance of phrase-structure rules (see section 4.3.1). The "extreme" position that
all morphologically complex words are contained in the lexicon is held by Lexical
Functional Grammar (Bresnan 1982) (see also section 4.3.2).

8 Grounding and definitions
in a list of phonological features to which specific syntactic features are
assigned (cf. Bußmann 1990: 456).
Chomsky (1988: 5) is more specific with regard to the features that
go into each entry: "The lexicon specifies the abstract morpho-
phonological structure of each lexical item and its syntactic features,
including its categorial features and its contextual features."
A similar definition, being as theory-specific as the latter two, is given
by Lyons:
The lexicon lists, in principle, all the lexical items of the language and
associates with each the syntactic, semantic and phonological information
required for the correct operation of the (phrase-structure) rules. (Lyons 1970:
125)
Also Humphreys's definition (1994: 2193) reflects main-stream
linguistics of the last 40 years when he classifies for "Formal
Grammar" that: "...the lexicon is the repository of basic items on which
grammar rules operate (words) together with word-related constraints
on the free operation of those rules (see X-bar syntax...)".
Lewandowski's definition (1976: 674) is meant to be more theory-
neutral and reads as follows:
Lexikon...
Die Gesamtheit der Wörter bzw. der Wortschatz einer (natürlichen) Sprache im
Sinne des internalisierten Wissens des Sprachteilhabers von den lexikalischen
Eigenschaften der Wörter/Lexeme (phonologisch-phonetische, orthographisch-
graphematische, syntaktische und semantische Informationen).
The definitions just quoted attribute quite an amount of information to a
lexical entry, which a speaker is supposed to know as soon as he has
acquired this particular item of the lexicon. The information contained
in a lexical entry covers (almost) every aspect of knowledge needed by
the language user for the verbalization of his intentions and for the
translation of sound into meaning. This is information about:
the meaning (concept(s) designated by the particular item),
its syntactic category (word class),
its grammatical features (e.g., number, person, tense, etc.),
its morphological classification (morpheme structure),
its derivational morphology (i.e., assignment of the compatible
affixes),
its subcategorization (i.e., configurational information),
its predicate-argument structure (i.e., thematic information),

At the core of language: lexicon and syntax 9
- the cases (of its possible arguments), and
- register (style).
Thus, due to the fact that knowing a word also implies knowing
about its use, the speaker/hearer will be heavily constrained as to the
structures and forms he may choose or expect when constructing or
comprehending an utterance.
Certainly, in the course of language acquisition, the native speaker
of a language will also have to find out how all this information of a
lexical entry is "disguised" in this particular language and how it is
used. That means that he will have to generalize and abstract from
experienced particular instances of word usage, almost exclusively
from speech input, what the concept(s) named by a word is/are and
what the combinatory or the appropriateness rules of his native
language are.
So, at a certain age, the native speaker will naturally have semantic,
structural (syntactic), stylistic, pragmatic knowledge as such, perhaps
also in the form of "autonomous" rules, but he does not normally use
this knowledge separately and, what is more, all this knowledge is
present in his mind as soon as a lexical entry is activated from his
mental lexicon.
This amounts to recognizing that it is extremely difficult to draw a
dividing line between lexicon and syntax, and it implies that, for
determining the relationship between the two, it will not be sufficient to
analyse and interpret linguistic models of the language system
("langue") or of the language user's competence ("competence", "I-
language"), but that one will have to consider the assumptions and the
data provided by the research into language processing and language
acquisition as well.
In these areas of psycholinguistics, the lexicon and its component
parts have been a constant object of enquiry, be it with regard to their
acquisition, storage, access, or retrieval, or their processing.
The inclusion of these aspects in the concept of "lexicon" is made
explicit by a more specific term used for the designation of the lexicon,
namely the use of "mental/internal lexicon" instead. The term is also
given separate entries in most linguistic dictionaries. Generally
speaking, the "mental lexicon" can be considered to be the internalized
knowledge of the properties of words.

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and dejection that was painful to see. The furtive glances that they
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whenever any unusual sound was heard, was enough to satisfy Guy
that they were all aware that they had been shipped aboard the very
vessel they had been most anxious to avoid.
“You needn’t be a looking and a listening now, lads,” said the gray-
haired sailor, whose name was Upham, and who had made one
voyage in the ship. “The Santa Maria is as quiet as old Davy’s locker
in the day-time, but wait until midnight, if the wind freshens a bit,
then you’ll hear something.”
“The creaking and groaning of the cordage, most likely,” said Guy.
“I’ve heard it often aboard the Ossipee.”
“You’d better take a sheep-shank in that tongue of yours,” said
Upham sharply. “When you have sailed the blue water till your hair is
as white as mine, you’ll know more than you do now.”
So saying the sailor drew the blankets over him, and with a sigh of
resignation turned his face to the bulk-head and prepared to go to
sleep. The rest of the watch, one after the other, followed his
example, and Guy was left to commune with his own thoughts. He
would have been glad to know just how and when the ghosts of the
Santa Maria were accustomed to appear, so that he might be on the
lookout for them; but Upham did not seem inclined to say more on
the subject, and he had shown himself to be such a gruff, irritable
old fellow that Guy did not care to ask him any questions, being
certain of getting a sharp and unsatisfactory reply. While he was
thinking about it he fell into a deep, untroubled slumber.
Guy that day learned by experience what “hazing” meant, and he
found, too, that Flint’s description of this mode of punishment was
not in the least exaggerated. Long before night came he was so

nearly exhausted that the fear of the rope’s end, with which the
second mate constantly threatened him, was the only thing that kept
him moving.
It was his watch below from six to eight o’clock, but he was too
tired to sleep, and the time was so short that he got very little rest.
He was called on deck again at eight o’clock, and kept busy until
midnight, for the wind which arose at sunset freshened rapidly, and
on several occasions it was found necessary to shorten sail. Of
course Guy could lend no assistance in the execution of this work,
but he bustled about in response to every order that was issued, and
only succeeded in getting himself into trouble by his misdirected
activity and zeal.
Once, when he was sent headlong against the rail by a push from
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resolution in his mind to jump into the waves which were tossing the
vessel so widely about, and put an end to his misery at once, but
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rash.
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half an hour after we are tied up to the wharf I shall be missing. I
am going to desert. I have money enough in my pocket to keep me
in food until I can find something to do. I’d rather be a wood-sawyer
than a sailor.”
Midnight came at last, and the starboard watch was called. Guy
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that there might be something following them. Beyond a doubt the
ghosts had manifested themselves in some way. So thought Guy,
and his opinion was confirmed by some whispered words he
overheard.

“What is it, mate?” asked Flint of the sailor who was the first to
reach the deck. “Your face is as white as a landsman’s Sunday shirt.”
“And maybe your face will be white, too, after you have been
down there a few minutes,” answered the man, who was the gray-
haired sailor’s crony, and who, like him, had made one voyage in the
Santa Maria. “Where’s Upham?”
“Here,” replied the owner of that name. “Have you seen ’em?”
“No; but I’ve heard ’em. He’ll be up directly.”
“He! Who?” asked Flint uneasily.
“Why, the ghost of the man who was lost overboard a few years
ago,” said Upham. “You see, one night, during a gale, some of the
crew were sent aloft to cut away the main topsail, for it was blowing
too hard to furl it. One man was lost overboard—he was blown fairly
off the foot-rope, they tell me—and every night after that his ghost
used to get up on the main-topsail yard and sing out: ‘Stand from
under!’ I never heard him speak, but I’ve seen him often.”
“So have I,” said Upham’s crony. “He looks like a rat.”
“But what did you see in the forecastle?” asked Flint.
“Nothing; but we heard ’em talking and going on. They’re in the
hold now.”
“Go below, you lubbers!” shouted the second mate. “This is the
third time I have spoken to you, and if you don’t pay some attention
I’ll start you down faster than you want to go.”
The men belonging to the port watch ran quickly down the ladder
to avoid the handspike which the officer began to swing about in
close proximity to their heads.
Guy was the last to leave the deck. Tired and utterly discouraged
as he was he would rather have spent the rest of the night in work
than go into the forecastle. He scouted the idea of ghosts, but when
such men as Flint and Upham showed signs of fear, he believed that
it could not be without good reason, and that there must be

something to be afraid of. He trembled violently, and his face was as
pale as those of the rest of the watch.
“Aha! see him now, mates!” exclaimed the gray-headed sailor
pointing to Guy as he came down the ladder. “Here’s the chap that
knows more’n all the rest of us put together!—a regular sea-lawyer.
Now look at him!”
“Listen! listen!” said one of the watch suddenly.
The sailors all held their breath, and a silence deep as that of the
grave reigned in the forecastle. This continued for a few seconds,
and then a low, moaning sound, like the wail of some one in intense
bodily agony, fell upon their ears with startling distinctness. It
seemed to come to them through the bulk-head that separated the
forecastle from the hold.
Guy listened in great amazement. The cold chills begun to creep
all over him, and his face grew a shade paler than ever.
“Don’t be afraid, my son,” said Upham mockingly. “It’s only the
creaking and groaning of the rigging. You’ve heard it often, so it
needn’t scare you.”
“No, it isn’t the rigging,” said Guy; “it’s the boxes of freight
rubbing against one another.”
“Well, I never knew before that boxes of freight could talk,” said
one of the watch. “Just listen to that!”
“Oh, heavens! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” came in muffled
tones from the hold. “Take it off, or I shall die!”
This was followed by a low, murmuring sound, as of several
persons in earnest conversation, and then all was still.
Guy’s philosophy was not proof against such a manifestation as
this. There was something in the hold beyond a doubt, and what
else could it be but the ghostly crew the Santa Maria was supposed
to carry?

“There’s been awful things done aboard this craft,” said Upham,
shaking his gray head solemnly. “Nobody knows how many poor
fellows have been knocked overboard on dark nights by them two
mates.”
“Great Scott!” soliloquized Guy, jumping into his bunk and drawing
the blankets over his head. “I never thought of that. Who knows but
that the first mate may be watching for a chance to knock me
overboard?”
The old sailor’s words had excited a train of serious reflections in
Guy’s mind. A man who could deliberately attack another with the
intention of robbing and throwing him into the harbor, would be
none too good to make an end of the boy who had given evidence
against him. There was but one thing he could do in his helpless
situation, he told himself, and that was to watch the mate closely
and be in readiness to seize the first opportunity to desert the
vessel.
The night wore slowly away, and another miserable day dawned
for the runaway. He was kept very busy, for the mates always found
some work that he could do, but still he had leisure to observe that
there was something unusual going on among the men. They
gathered in little groups to converse when the officers were not
looking at them, and Upham talked privately with every one of the
crew, Guy alone excepted. He seemed to be urging some sort of a
movement among the sailors, but what it was Guy could not find
out, for no one, not even Flint, would enlighten him.
Was it a mutiny? Guy hoped it was, and placed a handspike where
he could seize it at a moment’s warning. If force were resorted to,
he would get in at least a blow or two in return for the barbarous
treatment to which he had been subjected.
Nothing was done until three o’clock, and then the captain came
on deck as usual to smoke his after-dinner cigar. His appearance
seemed to be the signal the sailors were waiting for. They dropped
their work at once and, headed by Upham, marched aft in a body.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE GHOSTS OF THE SANTA MARIA.
ALLOO! what do you want here, you lubbers?” demanded the
captain, as the sailors, headed by Upham, ranged themselves
on the quarter-deck in front of him and took off their caps. “I
don’t allow any such doings as this aboard my ship. Go for’ard where
you belong.”
“We haven’t come for any mischief, cap’n,” said Upham, who had
been chosen to do the talking for his companions. “We’re all sailor
men, and know our duty.”
“Then go for’ard and do it,” said the skipper angrily. “Away you
go.”
“We’re ready to obey orders, cap’n, and you sha’n’t have a word
of fault to find with none of us, if you will only think up some way to
git rid of them other fellows. It’s more than human flesh and blood
can stand to have them aboard here.”
“What other fellows?”
“Why, them in the hold that keeps up such a wailing and groaning
all the while.”
“Get out o’ this!” shouted the captain, looking about the deck as if
he were searching for something to throw at Upham’s head. “I’ve
heard enough. You pulled the wool over the eyes of a lot of soft
Tommys on shore and kept us waiting three days for a crew, but you
can’t talk any of your ghost stories into me. Go to your duty.”

“We’ve done our duty since we’ve been aboard, cap’n,” returned
Upham, “and we’re ready to keep on doing it if you will only get rid
of that other crew, but not a tack or sheet do we touch till this thing
has been looked into. We’ve all made up our minds to that.”
“Oh, you’re going to mutiny, are you?” roared the skipper, his face
growing purple with fury. “I’ll show you how I deal with such men.
Mr. Schwartz, just step down into the cabin and bring up my pistols.”
The second mate started in obedience to the order, but the sailors,
who were drawn up in line across the deck, moved forward as one
man, and stood between him and the companion-way.
Things were getting serious, and Guy, who stood on the outskirts
of the crowd, began edging his way toward the bow. Was he going
after his handspike? No; he intended to dodge into the forecastle,
where he would be safe. If the captain was going to use fire-arms to
bring his crew to their senses, he did not want to be found in the
way of the bullets.
The skipper’s actions indicated that he was in just the right humor
to do something desperate. He stamped about the deck and swore
at the top of his voice, but it was plain that, in spite of all his bluster,
he was cowed by the bold front of his crew. When he paused to take
breath, Upham spoke.
“We don’t want to go agin yer, cap’n,” said he, “and we don’t want
to talk no ghost stories into you, neither. All we ask of you is to
come down into the forecastle and listen to ’em with your own ears.
I’ve heard ’em, and I hain’t a boy to be scared at nothing. I snuffed
salt water before you ever saw daylight.”
The captain seemed on the point of making an angry reply, but
just then the second mate, after holding a short consultation with
the first officer, stepped up and said something to him in a whisper.
The sailors could not hear what it was, but they saw the skipper’s
face brighten at once.
“It may be possible,” said he, aloud. “I did not think of that. Come
on, men; I’ll soon get at the bottom of the matter.”

The captain led the way into the forecastle, and the sailors flocked
down the ladder after him, Guy bringing up the rear.
“Now fetch on your ghosts,” said the skipper, seating himself on
one of the bunks.
“Avast heaving a minute, cap’n, and you’ll see ’em,” said Upham.
The silence that followed continued so long that the sailors began
to get impatient, but not so the captain. The few words the second
mate whispered in his ear had aroused some suspicions in his mind,
and he was resolved that they should either be confirmed or entirely
set at rest before he left the forecastle.
Ten minutes passed, and then the groans that had startled the
crew the night before were distinctly heard, followed by the low
murmur of conversation. The captain seemed very much annoyed.
He arose from his seat, and placing his ear close against the bulk-
head, stood there listening intently until the sounds ceased.
“They’re there sure enough, cap’n,” said Upham. “You see that we
wasn’t complaining of nothing.”
“I am satisfied of it now,” was the reply. “Get lanterns, a couple of
you, and all the port watch come with me into the hold. Bring
handspikes every mother’s son of you.”
“Handspikes won’t do no good,” growled Flint, after the captain
had ascended from the forecastle.
“No,” assented Upham. “I never yet heard of a ghost being
knocked down and put in irons.”
Judging by the expression on the faces of the sailors, there was
not a man in the port watch who did not wish that somebody
besides himself had been called upon to accompany the captain. The
alarm that prevailed among them was contagious, and even Guy
began to give way to it. He believed, with Flint and Upham, that
there was something in the hold that could not be overcome with
weapons, and when he went aft with his watch, armed like the rest
with a handspike, he stationed himself at the heels of the captain

with the determination to keep close to him. He had faith in the
skipper’s courage and prowess, and, moreover, he saw that the
latter carried pistols in his pockets. Pistols were better than
handspikes any day, even in an encounter with ghosts.
In obedience to the orders of the mate, one of the hatches was
opened, and the captain descended into the hold, followed by the
port watch. Slowly they made their way along a narrow passage
toward the place where the water-butts were stowed, and when
they came within sight of them they stopped, astonished by the
scene presented to their gaze. Some of the sailors took just one
look, and then uttered exclamations of alarm and turned to retreat.
Guy would have done the same, only he could not. He was so badly
frightened that he could neither move nor speak.
A portion of the cargo had been broken out, forming a clear space
about six feet square and as many feet deep, and in it were seated
the objects that had excited his alarm—not ghosts, but living men,
who held cocked pistols in their hands, and whose faces denoted
that they were anything but pleased at the discovery of their hiding-
place. In the center of this clear space was a fourth man, lying flat
on his back, and pinned down by a box of goods which had
doubtless been thrown upon him by the lurching of the vessel. The
box was so large and heavy, and his companions had so little room
to work in, that they had not been able to release him; and there
the poor fellow had lain for long hours suffering intense agony,
which was increased by every lurch the vessel gave. He it was who
had given utterance to the groans which had so greatly alarmed the
crew. The men, whoever they were, had come on board prepared
for a long voyage, for they had brought with them a large bag of
provisions, and had tapped one of the butts to get a supply of water.
“Well,” said the captain, as soon as the volley of exclamations
which arose from the sailors had subsided, so that he could make
himself heard, “this thing has turned out just as I expected it would.
You’re the lads that robbed the jewelry store, I suppose.”

“Why, so they are!” exclaimed Guy, who now comprehended the
matter perfectly; “I knew they couldn’t be ghosts.”
“Who and what we are is no business of yours,” answered one of
the men gruffly.
“It isn’t, ’eh?” exclaimed the captain. “I am master of this ship, if
you only knew it. Come up out of that.”
“No, we’ll not go up, and if you know when you are well off you’ll
not come down to us, either. We are all armed, as you see, and the
first man who makes a move to lay a hand on us will get a bullet
through his head.”
“Cap’n,” said Flint, who was brave enough now that he knew they
had live men and not dead ones to deal with, “just say the word and
I’ll jump down there and toss that fellow out before he knows what
is the matter with him.”
“No, no,” said the captain. “Stay where you are. I know how to
deal with ’em. Where are you lads going?” he added, holding one of
the lanterns over the robbers’ hiding-place and taking a good survey
of it.
“We’re going wherever the ship goes,” was the surly reply.
“Well, you’ll have a good long ride. This cargo will not be broken
out under seven or eight months. Have you got provisions enough to
last you that long?”
“You needn’t lose no sleep in worrying about that.”
“I won’t, for it’s your lookout, not mine. Hadn’t you better let me
rig a whip and hoist that box off that man? It’s a pity to keep him in
that fix.”
“And after you get it hoisted off you would try to come some of
your sailor tricks over us,” said the robber. “We ain’t quite so green
as that. You just go off and attend to your own business. We’ll take
care of him.”

“All right. Mark you now, my fine lads, I’m going to close and
batten down my hatches, and they sha’n’t be opened again until we
reach port, no matter what happens. If the ship goes to the bottom
you go with her, and without a chance to save yourselves.”
The skipper turned and crawled back toward the hatchway as he
said this, and the watch followed him. They found their companions
on deck impatiently awaiting their return, and when they heard what
the captain had to say to his mates, and learned that the men in the
hold were not ghosts, as they had supposed, but a gang of burglars,
who, in spite of the vigilance of the watch, had succeeded in
smuggling themselves on board before the ship left port, their
surprise knew no bounds. Their faces, too, as well as the long, deep
sighs which came up from their broad chests showed that their relief
was fully as great as their astonishment.
Guy and the four men he had found on board the Santa Maria
when he first joined her, knew more about the matter than anybody
else, except the officers, they having been on deck while the
policeman was talking with the captain about the burglars. They
were obliged to repeat all they had heard over and over again, first
to one and then to another, and Guy always wound up by declaring
that that was the way all ghost stories turned out—they could be
explained easily enough if people would only take the trouble to look
into them.
“Avast there!” said Upham, who happened to overhear this last
remark. “You ain’t done with the old Santa Maria yet. You hain’t seen
the ghost who gets up on the main-topsail yard every night during a
gale and says:
“Stand from under!”
By the time the hatches had all been closed and securely
fastened, the captain came up out of his cabin, where he had been
busy with his chart. A few rapid orders, which Guy, as usual, failed
to comprehend, were issued, and the ship stood off on another
course.

“The old man isn’t letting grass grow under his feet,” said Flint to
Guy, as he came down out of the top. “He’s going to get rid of them
fellows.”
“What is he going to do with them?” asked Guy.
“He’s going to put ’em ashore. We’re heading for some port now.”
“Are we?” exclaimed Guy, highly delighted at this piece of news. “I
wish we were there now,” he added, sinking his voice to a whisper,
and looking all about to make sure that there was no one within
hearing. “You wouldn’t see me in half an hour from this time. I am
going to desert.”
“And I don’t blame you,” said Flint.
“You will go with me, won’t you?”
“What are you going to do?” asked the sailor; “find another ship?”
“No, sir,” said Guy emphatically. “If I ever put my foot on the deck
of another vessel as a foremast hand, I hope she will go to the
bottom with me. I am going to stay ashore; you may depend upon
that.”
“Then I don’t see what good it will do me to go with you, Jack. I’d
have to ship again at once, for I’ve got no money, and I couldn’t find
any work to do ashore, not being a landsman. I might as well stay
here. Now that I know we’ve got no ghosts aboard I shall like the
Santa Maria as well as any other ship.”
“Then I shall have to go alone, I suppose,” said Guy. “I don’t like
to leave you, Flint, but I can’t stand this any longer. I am black and
blue all over from the poundings I have received.”
“And you’re getting as thin as the royal yard,” said Flint. “You’ll be
bait for the crows if you stay aboard this craft till we reach the
Sandwich Islands, and that’s where we’re bound.”
“The Sandwich Islands!” repeated Guy. “I thought we were going
up the Mediterranean.”

“Oh, that’s only one of the pack of lies that shipping agent told
you,” said the sailor, with a laugh. “If you had looked at the articles
you signed, you would have found out all about it. We’re going to
discharge our cargo at San Francisco, take another from there to
Honolulu, and fill up again for New Orleans. Where we shall go after
that I don’t know.”
“We’re going round the Horn, I suppose?”
“Of course. They don’t take ships over the isthmus yet.”
“Then I understand why Smith made me buy so many thick
clothes. He said perhaps I’d see some cold weather.”
“And so you will,” said Flint. “I’ll help you to get off if I can, but I
don’t see the use of going with you. I’d have to leave you again,
unless you would go to sea in some other vessel.”
“And that I’ll never do. I’ll starve on shore first.”
“And I’ll stay aboard the Santa Maria. Have you got any money?”
“Yes, I have sixty dollars and a little over. Do you want some of
it?”
“No, I don’t,” said the sailor quickly. “I sha’n’t need any while I am
at sea, but you’ll need it ashore. Here,” he added, taking off his
monk-bag and handing it to Guy, “keep this to remember me by. Put
your money in it, and tie it around your neck, and you won’t be
likely to lose it. You can’t take your bundle with you, of course, so
when we reach port you had better put on another suit of clothes
under those you’ve got on now, and stow away all the dunnage
about you that you can without making yourself look too fat. If you
put on too much you might as well try to leave the ship with a chest
on your shoulder, for the mates will know in a minute what you’re up
to. They’re posted in all sailor tricks. We sha’n’t be long in port, so
you had better be in a hurry. Whatever you do, don’t be caught, or
you’ll sup sorrow with a spoon as big as a water-butt.”
This made Guy open his eyes. He had not expected to find any
serious obstacle in his way. If the ship came to anchor in the harbor

to which they were bound, especially if they arrived there during the
night, it would be but little trouble for him to drop overboard from
the fore-chains and swim ashore, provided the distance were not too
great; and if she were made fast to the dock, it would be still less
trouble to leave her. But now he knew that the officers would be on
the watch, that they well understood every device that could be
resorted to by deserters, and that if he were caught in the act of
leaving the vessel, the treatment he had hitherto received would be
mild in comparison with the punishment that would be inflicted upon
him. The thought almost took Guy’s breath away, but it did not
discourage him. He had fully made up his mind to desert the vessel
if it were within the bounds of possibility, and was not to be easily
frightened from his purpose.
He conferred with Flint at every opportunity, and made all
necessary preparations, selecting the clothes he intended to take
with him, and tying them up in a separate bundle together with the
“Boy Trappers,” the book that belonged to Henry Stewart. This book
Guy had carefully preserved. It was the only thing he had left of the
hunting outfit which he had brought with him from home.
On the third day after the discovery of the robbers in the hold,
land was in sight once more, and at nine o’clock in the evening the
Santa Maria entered the port toward which the captain had shaped
her course, and was made fast to the wharf.
Guy did not know what the name of the town was or what country
it was in, and he did not think to inquire. All he cared for was to get
safely off the vessel; he could get his bearings afterward.
As soon as the ship touched the dock the captain jumped ashore,
and hurried away in the darkness—he was going after some officers
to arrest the men in the hold, Flint said—and Guy ran into the
forecastle to make ready for his attempt at desertion. He hastily
pulled on the clothes he had selected, secured the “Boy Trappers”
about his person, and having examined his monk-bag to make sure
that his money was safe, presented himself before his friend, who
nodded approvingly.

“It’s all right,” said the sailor. “You’ll pass in the dark. Now stand
here by the side, and I’ll go aft and keep an eye on the mates.
When I see that they are not looking toward you, I’ll cough this way
—here Flint gave an illustration—and do you jump ashore, and run
as if Old Nep was after you with his three-pronged pitchfork. I can’t
shake hands with you for fear they’ll see me and suspect something;
but you won’t forget me, will you, Jack?”
“Never,” replied Guy. “You have been very kind to me, and I
wouldn’t leave you under any other circumstances.”
Flint, who did not care to prolong the interview, walked leisurely
aft, and Guy leaned over the side and impatiently waited for the
signal.

CHAPTER XVIII.
ON SHORE AGAIN.
OR TEN minutes—it seemed an hour to him—Guy stood there
with his hands on the side waiting for the signal which was to
tell him that the moment had arrived for him to make a strike
for his liberty; but Flint did not give it.
Guy began to get impatient. He looked about the deck, but
although the crew were in sight, none of them seemed to be paying
any attention to him or his movements. The first mate was standing
at the head of the companion ladder, gazing toward the light-house
at the entrance of the harbor, and the second mate, the one he most
feared, was nowhere to be seen. But for all that, he was close by,
and on the watch, too. Flint saw him, and that was the reason he
did not give the signal for which Guy was so impatiently waiting.
The vigilant officer, who seemed to see everything that took place
on board the vessel, knew Guy’s plans as well as he knew them
himself, for he had crouched at the head of the ladder and looked
down into the forecastle while Guy was preparing for his attempt at
escape.
The mate’s first thought was to seize him as he came on deck and
shake him out of his superfluous clothing; but after a little reflection
he decided to adopt another mode of punishment. He would wait
until Guy was about to leave the ship and then give him a lesson
that he would remember as long as he lived.

As Flint turned away after taking leave of his young friend, he saw
the mate crouching behind the long boat, holding in his hand a stick
of wood which he had caught up as he passed the galley.
The sailor knew in an instant why he was there, and would have
turned back to warn Guy, but the officer, divining his intention, made
an impatient gesture with his hand, and Flint was obliged to pass on.
Guy waited and listened, growing more and more impatient, until
at last he could no longer control himself. The wharf was almost
within reach of him, and if his feet were once firmly planted upon it,
his escape could be easily accomplished. A few quick bounds would
carry him out of sight in the darkness, and if he were followed, he
could creep into some alley or door-way and remain there until the
danger was past. He resolved to try it.
He put one leg over the rail, paused an instant to make sure that
the movement had not attracted attention, then threw the other
over, and lowered himself slowly toward the wharf. His feet had
almost touched it, and Guy was already congratulating himself on his
escape, when a stick of stove-wood, propelled with all the force of a
sinewy arm, whistled through the air, and striking the rail within an
inch of his head, bounded off, and fell into the water. Had it struck
him, as the mate fully intended it should when he sent it flying from
his hand, it would have knocked him senseless.
While Guy was looking all around to see where the missile came
from, the officer arose from his concealment and showed himself.
“That was a pretty good shot,” said he, “but the next one will
come closer than that. Crawl back, you lubber. Now,” he added, as
the boy tremblingly obeyed, “go below, and stay there till I call you.”
As Guy started off in obedience to the order, the mate hastened
his movements by aiming a blow at him with his fist, and following it
up by a vicious kick with his heavy boot; but the boy, having learned
to be always on the lookout for these favors, nimbly eluded them
both.

“I wish I were a man for a few minutes,” thought Guy, as he ran
down the ladder into the forecastle and began pulling off his extra
clothing; “I’d settle with you, Mr. Schwartz, and pay you back in your
own coin. I’ve failed once, but I’ll not fail the next time I try it. I’ll
have more time at San Francisco, for Flint says we’re going to
discharge our cargo there. Perhaps it is just as well, after all,” he
added, determined, to look on the bright side, if there was any,
“because when I reach San Francisco I shall be but a short distance
from the Rocky Mountains, and can begin the life of a hunter as
soon as I please. Don’t I wish I was there now with a good horse
and gun, and such a dog as the boy trappers had? Never mind, I’ll
have them one of these days, if I only live to get off this vessel.”
About the time Guy was ordered below by the second mate, the
captain returned, accompanied by three or four policemen. Guy
heard them open the hatch and go into the hold, and remembering
that the robbers had promised to make a desperate resistance, he
listened to their movements with no little anxiety, momentarily
expecting to hear the sounds of a fierce struggle going on among
the freight, but nothing of the kind happened.
The sight of the locusts and badges borne by the officers of the
law took all the courage out of the burglars, who quietly passed up
their weapons and allowed handcuffs to be slipped on their wrists.
The box was then hoisted off the other burglar, and he was placed
upon a stretcher and carried ashore. It was all done in five minutes,
and when Guy was ordered on deck to assist in getting the vessel
under way—or rather to stand by and look on while the others did it
—the policemen and their prisoners had disappeared in the
darkness.
This was the last incident worthy of record that happened while
Guy remained on board the Santa Maria. Nothing occurred to break
the monotony of the voyage, which continued two hundred and ten
days, and which our runaway afterward looked back upon as the
dreariest part of his existence.

With the robbers disappeared all traces of that “other crew” of
which the sailors stood so much in fear. The most superstitious
among them kept a close watch for a few nights, starting at every
unusual sound; and when the wind freshened during the mid-watch,
casting anxious glances toward the main-topsail yard, where the
ghost who shouted “Stand from under!” was accustomed to station
himself. But nothing startling was ever seen or heard, and the men
finally ceased to speak or think of the matter.
Flint came in for some slight punishment for assisting Guy in his
attempt to desert the vessel, and Upham and his crony were hazed
for a day or two for keeping the ship waiting in port for a crew; but
the mate’s ill-will seemed to wear itself out at last, and then things
went on smoothly with everybody except the runaway.
Mr. Schwartz could not forget that Guy had tried to impose upon
him by rating himself as able seaman, when he scarcely knew the
maintruck from the kelson, and he did not intend that Guy should
forget it either. He never allowed him a moment’s peace while he
was on duty, and sometimes, when he felt particularly vindictive, he
would keep him on deck long after the rest of the watch had gone
below. Guy’s life almost became a burden to him. The only pleasure
he found was in looking at the pictures in the “Boy Trappers,” and
dreaming of the easy, glorious existence he would lead when once
he became a hunter.
When he tumbled into his bunk he would lie awake for hours
building his gorgeous air-castles. Under the influence of his lively
imagination the walls of his dingy quarters would seem to widen out
and loom up until they became lofty, snow-capped mountains; the
dreary forecastle, smelling of tar and bilge-water, would become a
beautiful glade decked with flowers and embowered with trees; the
smoky lantern would grow into a cheerful camp-fire; the weather-
beaten walls would change into tall, broad-shouldered hunters and
trappers; the chests, which were ranged on one side of the
forecastle, would take the shape of horses staked out to graze; and

the clothing hanging about would be transformed into buffalo humps
and juicy haunches of venison.
Then Guy would imagine himself stretched out on his blanket
among these wild, congenial spirits, wearing a coonskin cap and
dressed in a full suit of buckskin, gaudily ornamented (he couldn’t be
a full-fledged hunter without a coonskin cap and a suit of buckskin,
especially the latter, which, according to the cheap novels he had
read, always set off the wearer’s “slender, well-knit frame to such
good advantage”), his “deadly rifle, with which he could drive a nail
or snuff a candle at sixty yards’ distance,” lying by his side; his
tomahawk, hunting-knife and lasso hanging from a tree over his
head, his fierce wolf-dog that could pull down a buck or throttle an
Indian with all ease, reposing at his feet, and his horse, an animal
which had carried him safely through many a desperate fight with
savages and wild beasts, and which for speed and endurance was
never equaled, grazing a little apart from the others and rendered
conspicuous by his great size and exceeding beauty.
“And suppose this horse was the celebrated white pacer of the
plains,” soliloquized Guy, carried fairly up to the seventh heaven of
happiness by his wild dreamings; “a horse that no living man had
ever ridden until I caught him with my own lasso and tamed him
with my own hands! Ah! And suppose these men were government
scouts and I was the chief of them? ‘The Boy Chief of the Rough
Riders of the Rocky Mountains!’ Whew! Wouldn’t that be a sounding
title, though? Oh, I’m bound to make myself famous before I am ten
years older. Dear me, I wonder if this miserable vessel will ever
reach San Francisco?”
When Guy dropped to sleep at last it would be to revel in such
scenes as this, until the hoarse voice of the second mate brought
him back to the realities of earth again. He lived in this way just
seven months—how careful he was to count the days as they
dragged slowly by—and when at last he was beginning to despair
and to believe that the voyage never would have an end, Flint one
day pointed out something in the horizon which looked like a cloud,

but which he said was land, adding that he had heard the first mate
say that if they had no bad luck they would pass the Golden Gate in
about three days.
Guy had been waiting most impatiently for this announcement,
and now he could not have told whether he was glad or sorry to
hear it. He longed to feel the solid ground under his feet once more,
but there was an obstacle in the way of his getting there that he
dreaded to encounter.
That was the second mate, whose eyes followed every move he
made while he was on deck. Since he detected the boy in his
attempt to desert the vessel, the officer had been more brutal than
he was before; and he had promised, too, that if he caught Guy in
any more tricks of that kind he would knock him overboard the very
first good chance he got.
Guy believed that the mate fully intended to carry it out. Flint
thought so, too, and advised extreme caution. He and Guy held
many a long consultation, but could decide upon no definite plan of
operations. The only thing the boy could do was to be governed by
circumstances, and this time be careful not to act in too great a
hurry.
On the afternoon of the fourth day after land was discovered the
Santa Maria entered the harbor of San Francisco and came to
anchor, where she was to remain a day or two—so Guy heard—
before she was hauled into the wharf. No sooner had she swung
round to her anchor than one of the boats was put into the water,
and when it had been manned the captain came on deck carrying a
basket on his arm.
“Pass the word for Thomas,” said he.
Guy heard the call, and was hurrying aft in response to it when he
was met by the second mate.
“Look here, my hearty,” said the officer, “you’re to go ashore to
carry the captain’s basket. But listen now—no nonsense. I know
every hole and corner in ’Frisco, and if you don’t come back with the

old man I’ll be after you with a sharp stick, and if I catch you—well,
you know me.”
The mate finished with a peculiar nod of his head, which had a
peculiar meaning in it.
Guy picked up the captain’s basket in obedience to a gesture from
that gentleman, and followed him into the boat. His mind was in
such a whirl of excitement and uncertainty that he took no note of
what was going on around him. Here was a chance for liberty, but
he did not know whether to improve it or not. He had nothing with
him except his money, and that he always carried in his monk-bag,
which was slung around his neck. The blankets and extra clothing
which he would probably need before he could have time to earn
others, were in his bundle in the forecastle, and so was that book of
Henry Stewart’s, which was to him what chart and compass are to
the mariner.
Guy set great store by that book. It would, he thought, be of as
much service to him as the blankets and extra clothing, for he knew
nothing about hunting and trapping; in fact, he had never fired a
gun half a dozen times in his life, and he could make but poor
headway until he had received instructions from some source.
Having no mind of his own and knowing next to nothing outside of
school books, he had leaned upon somebody ever since he had been
away from home—Bob Walker first, and then Flint—and he had
expected when he left the vessel to have the book for a counselor. It
told how to build camps, how to cook squirrels and venison on spits
before the fire, how to travel through the thickest woods without the
aid of a compass or the sun, and how he ought to conduct himself in
all sorts of terrible emergencies, such as fights with Indians and
grizzly bears. It would be a rather risky piece of business for him to
depend on his own judgment and resources, and it would be equally
risky to wait for another opportunity to desert, for it might never be
presented.

Guy did not know what to do, and there was no one to whom he
could go for advice.
“Thomas, you stay here till I come.”
These words aroused Guy from his reverie. He looked up and
found himself standing at the foot of a long, wide stairway leading
up into a building which looked like a warehouse. The Santa Maria
was hidden from his view by the masts and rigging of the vessels
lying at the wharf, the boat in which he had come ashore was out of
sight, and so was the captain, who went quickly up the stairs and
disappeared through a door, which he slammed behind him. Now or
never was the thought that passed through Guy’s mind, and without
stopping to dwell upon it an instant, he dropped the basket and
darted away as fast as his legs could carry him, turning down every
street he came to, and putting as many corners as possible between
himself and the harbor.
Guy had learned at least one thing during the eight or nine
months he had been on the water, and that was that in all seaport
towns the sailors’ quarters are located near the docks, hence his
desire to leave that part of the city behind him in the shortest
possible space of time. He never wanted to meet a sea-faring man
again—he had learned to despise the name as well as the calling.
Besides, he knew that if the second mate fulfilled his threat of
searching the city for him, that part of it to which the sailors most
resorted would be the very first place he would visit. Guy wondered
if there was a hunters’ boarding-house in town. The officer would
never think of looking for him there.
The deserter made remarkably good time for a boy who had been
worn almost to a shadow of his former self by hard fare and harder
treatment, settling down in a rapid walk at intervals, and then
breaking into a run again when he reached a street in which there
were but few people to observe his movements, and was finally
brought to a stand-still by a sign which caught his eye—J. Brown,
gunsmith.

The words drove all thoughts of the mate out of his mind, and
suggested to him a new train of reflections. He was out of danger
for the present—he had been running fully half an hour, as nearly as
he could guess at the time—and had leisure to ponder upon a
question which just then arose in his mind. Here was a chance to
provide himself with as much of a hunter’s outfit as his limited
supply of money would purchase. Should he improve it, or wait until
some future day? It was a matter that could not be decided on the
spur of the moment, so Guy seated himself on a dry-goods box in
front of a store opposite the gunsmith’s, and thought about it.
After he had recovered a little of his wind, and got his brain in
working order, Guy walked across the street and looked in at the
gunsmith’s window. He saw there everything a hunter could possibly
need—rifles, shotguns, hunting-knives, revolvers, game-bags, traps,
and fishing-tackle—such a variety, in fact, that Guy could not at once
make up his mind what he wanted most. The window on the other
side of the door was filled with saddles, bridles, blankets, spurs and
ponchos. As Guy looked at them a second question arose in his
mind.
“Now, how am I going to get my horse?” he asked himself. “I
must have one, for I never heard of a hunter traveling about on foot.
It wouldn’t look well. Besides, what if I should happen to get into a
fight with Indians or grizzly bears? Why, I’d be rubbed out sure. And
if I can think up some way to get a horse, how am I going to earn
the money to buy a saddle and bridle for him? Great Scott! there’s
always some drawback to my plans.”
And this seemed to be a serious drawback, too. Whenever Guy
had indulged in his day-dreams, he had always imagined himself a
prosperous and famous hunter, with all the comforts and luxuries of
his calling at his command. The question had sometimes forced itself
upon his mind, how was he to get all these things? But it was always
an unwelcome one, and was dismissed with the comforting reflection
that it would be time enough to worry about such little matters when

he stood in need of them. That was the way he disposed of the
horse question now.
“I’ll get my gun and other things I need, and think about a horse
some other time,” he thought. “Perhaps I can buy one already
trained from some friendly Indian for a plug or two of tobacco; and,
by the way, I guess I had better get some tobacco for that purpose.
Or, I may find a hunting-ground so well stocked with game that I
can trap and shoot enough beaver and otter in a few days to pay for
a good horse. But the mischief of it is, I don’t know how to hunt and
trap those animals, and there’s that book I need so much on board
the Santa Maria. No matter, I’ll wiggle through some way. What I
want just now is a shooting-iron.”
So saying, Guy opened the door and went into the gun-shop.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE RANCHMAN.
D LIKE to look at a rifle,” said Guy to the gunsmith, who came
up behind the counter to attend to his wants.
“Something pretty nice?” asked the man.
“No, sir. I can’t afford anything fancy.”
“You want a squirrel-rifle, I suppose?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Guy. “I don’t waste time on such small game.
I want one carrying a ball large enough to knock over a buffalo or a
grizzly bear.”
“Oh!” said the gunsmith. He looked curiously at Guy for a
moment, and then opening a glass door behind him, took out a
plainly finished rifle, and handed it over the counter. “There’s one
carrying fifty to the pound,” said he, “and I’ll warrant it to shoot two
hundred yards with accuracy. Only fifteen dollars.”
Guy took the weapon, and it was so much heavier than he
expected to find it that he came very near dropping it on the floor.
The gunsmith said it weighed twelve pounds, but his customer
thought he meant to say forty, for when he lifted it to his shoulder
and glanced along the barrel as if he were taking aim at something,
it was all he could do to hold it, and the muzzle “wobbled” about so
violently that it was doubtful if he could have hit the side of a barn
at twenty paces. He noticed, too, that the weapon was provided with
two triggers and two sights, and he did not see what use they could

possibly be; but of course he could not ask questions without
showing his ignorance.
“I want something I can depend upon in any emergency,” said
Guy after he had looked the rifle over with an air of profound
wisdom. “A man who follows the business of a hunter sometimes
finds himself in a tight place.”
“Why, I thought you were a sailor,” said the gunsmith. “You look
like one.”
“A sailor!” repeated Guy contemptuously. “Well, I have been, that’s
a fact,” he added, suddenly recollecting that he had not yet donned
his coonskin cap and suit of buckskin; “but I’m a hunter now. Did
you never hear of the Wild Rough Riders of the Rocky Mountains?”
This was the name Guy intended to give to his band when he got
it organized, and he thought he might as well begin to let people
hear of it.
“No,” said the man, looking at Guy as if he were on the point of
laughing outright, “I never did.”
“Well, I am one of them, and I want a good rifle.”
“This is a weapon I can recommend,” said the gunsmith. “Here are
the molds that go with it. You can see that it carries a large ball. If a
bear gets one of them in his head, it will be the last of him.”
“I’ll take it,” said Guy. “Now I want some other things to go with
it.”
The gunsmith, who was all attention, handed out the other articles
as Guy called for them—a game-bag, a powder-horn (which he filled
with rifle-powder), a box of caps, a hunting-knife, two pounds of
bullets to fit the rifle, as many pounds of bar lead and a ladle to melt
it in, and also a poncho and a Mexican blanket, which he tied up in a
bundle so that Guy could carry them over his shoulder. The trading
was all done in twenty minutes, and when Guy walked out of the
store he had thirty-five dollars less in his purse, and his first hunter’s
outfit on his back.

“Now I begin to feel like somebody,” thought the boy, as he lifted
his rifle to his shoulder and hurried down the road. “Mr. Schwartz
has laid a rope’s end over my back for the last time. Don’t I wish I
could see him just now? I’d show him how we rough riders are going
to clean out the Indians. I’ll turn into the first hotel I find, get a
square meal, and go to bed, knowing that there’ll be no one to
awaken me with, ‘All you port watch, ahoy! Roll out lively, Thomas,
or I’ll be down there after you.’ But after to-night I shall live in the
open air altogether. I wish I had a horse. Those mountains seem a
long way off. I shall find my first hunting-grounds among them.”
Guy trudged along the dusty road for the next two hours indulging
in such thoughts as these, and very pleasant traveling companions
he found them. Now and then he would be aroused by the sound of
wheels, when he would wake up long enough to step out of the way
of some passing vehicle, and then he would go on with his dreaming
again.
At last he found what he was in search of—a hotel, the existence
of which was made known to him by a faded sign swinging from the
top of a high post, and which conveyed to those who passed that
way the information that entertainment for man and beast was there
furnished by Tom Davis. The hotel itself was a weather-beaten,
tumble-down sort of a building, and was better calculated to repel
than to attract customers; but Guy did not stop to look at it. If it
could furnish him with plenty to eat and a bed to sleep in, that was
all he cared for.
Attracted by the sound of voices, he turned the corner of the
building where the principal entrance seemed to be, and found
himself in the presence of a dozen or more men who were
congregated on the porch, some lounging on benches, and others
sitting with their chairs tipped back against the side of the house
and their feet elevated on the rounds. They were all taking loudly,
and the appearance and actions of some of them indicated that they
had had something besides water to drink. They raised their eyes as

the boy appeared among them, and after giving him a good looking
over, went on with their conversation.
The landlord was among them, and he made himself known to
Guy by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder toward the open
door—an invitation for him to enter and make himself at home. At
any rate Guy took it as such and acted upon it. In the bar-room he
found another rough-looking individual, who relieved him of his rifle
and pack and asked what he could do for him.
“I want a room and something to eat,” said Guy.
“I don’t know how it’ll be about a room,” replied the man. “We’re
pretty full—we always are—but I can give you a shake-down
somewhere. Grub is plenty, and you look as though you needed a
good tuck-out.”
“So I do,” said Guy. “I am almost starved to death. I haven’t eaten
anything but salt horse and hard-tack for the last seven months.”
The man showed some curiosity to know where Guy had been
that he was obliged to live on such fare, and the latter told him as
much of his history as he cared to have him know. He did not tell
him, however, where he was going and what he intended to do, for
fear the man might laugh at him. He had a suspicion that the
gunsmith laughed at him when he was buying his outfit. Indeed,
everybody who knew that he wanted to be a hunter thought the
notion a wild one—they looked it if they did not say it—and Guy
could not bear to have his grand idea made sport of.
Guy passed a comfortable night at the hotel in spite of its
unpromising exterior, enjoyed a good sleep, which was something he
really needed, ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, and felt
more like himself than he had felt for many a long day. Having
settled his bill he stood for a moment on the porch with his rifle in
his hand and his pack over his shoulder, looking down the long,
straight road before him and wondering how many steps it would
take to bring him to his hunting-grounds, when he was accosted by

one of the guests of the house who sat on a heavily loaded wagon
with his whip and reins in his hand.
“I say, stranger, if you’re travelin’ my way, you might as well get
up an’ ride,” said he.
“Are you going to the mountains?” asked Guy.
“Wal, I’m goin’ down to the San Joaquin.”
“Is there any hunting there?”
“Huntin’! Now you’re talkin’. Thar’s bars an’ antelope till you can’t
rest.”
“Then that’s the place I’m looking for, and I’ll ride.”
So saying Guy handed up his rifle and pack and mounted beside
the man, who cracked his whip and drove off.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the man’s name, was an old miner, having
immigrated in ’49. Like many others of his class, he believed that
California was completely “petered out,” now that the placer diggings
had failed, and he had taken to farming, not because he liked it or it
was a profitable business, but because he had to do something for a
living, and nothing else offered. He did not own an acre of land, but
he raised any number of fine horses and cattle for market, and had
one of the best paying stores in the San Joaquin valley. He had been
to ’Frisco for supplies, and was now on his way home.
Guy learned this much from two hours’ conversation with his new
acquaintance, and during that same time Mr. Wilson had heard all
about Guy’s history and intentions. He must have had a high opinion
of the boy, too, if he believed all he said, for Guy, like everybody else
who tries to make himself appear something better than he really is,
was a great boaster. The stories he told of the wonderful feats he
had performed with his rifle, and his skill in catching and breaking
wild horses, were enough to make one open his eyes.
Guy should have known better than this. He had received a lesson
that ought to have broken him of his propensity to boast. He had

induced Smith, the shipping agent, to rate him on the articles as an
able seaman, and that one act, performed in five minutes’ time, had
brought him seven long months of hazing. But Guy never thought of
it now. The privations he had undergone, and the cruel treatment he
had received while he was on board the Santa Maria, seemed to him
like a troubled dream. Besides, Mr. Wilson would never have an
opportunity to catch him in any of his falsehoods, for in a few days
Guy expected to leave him, never to meet him again.
“So you’re a hunter,” said the ranchman at length. “You don’t look
to me like you was made of the right kind of stuff fur that business.
It takes them who has been born in it to foller it. I don’t know
nobody about here who makes a livin’ at it. Even the Injuns don’t.”
“They don’t?” exclaimed Guy. “How do they make a living then?”
“Why, they work on the ranches—herd cattle an’ sheep, an’ raise
garden truck. If I was goin’ to be a hunter I’d go at it right.”
“That’s just what I intend to do,” said Guy. “I am going to hunt
about here till I get a horse and find a companion, and then I’m
going to strike for the plains.”
“Then my man Zeke is jest the feller you want to see,” said the
ranchman. “He’s a reg’lar hunter, an’ you’d know it the minute you
sot eyes onto him, fur you have to get a tree in line with him when
he’s movin’ to see if he’s goin’ ahead any. He’s the laziest man I ever
see, an’ I’ve seed a heap. He b’longs out on the prairy, kills buffaler
fur a livin’. Last season he shot two thousand an’ better. Got a dollar
apiece fur the hides, an’ come down to ’Frisco to see the elephant.
He seed him, too, I reckon, fur when I found him he was flat busted,
an’ as hungry as a wolf. He’s herdin’ cattle fur me now to get a hoss
an’ a new outfit, an’ when he gets ’em he’s goin’ back to the plains.”
“Did you say he was working for a horse?” asked Guy.
“Wal, he’s arned the hoss already, an’ now he’s workin’ fur a kit—a
rifle, blankets an’ so on. He takes ’em outen my store, you know.”
“Have you any other horse you’d like to sell?”

“Wal, I dunno,” said the ranchman with a smile.
“I’ve got a matter of six or seven hundred, mebbe, an’ might spar’
one more.”
“What do you ask for them?”
“All prices—twenty-five to seventy-five dollars.”
“I should like to get one,” said Guy, “and I am willing to work for
it.”
“Wal, I’ve got plenty that you can do—I never yet heard that work
was scarce in this country—an’ if you’ve a mind to set in with me, I’ll
give you twenty dollars a month an’ find you.”
“Find me?” repeated Guy. “Am I going to get lost?”
“Eh? Lost! No. I mean I’ll give you twenty dollars a month an’ all
the grub you want to eat an’ all the hosses you need to ride. I give
Zeke thirty dollars, but you don’t know nothin’ about herdin’ cattle.
You talk like a high larnt boy. Did you ever have any schoolin’?”
“Oh, yes,” said Guy. “I’ve been to school all my life—that is almost
all my life. I’ve been a hunter five years, you know.”
“Then mebbe you’re jest the feller I want to tend store fur me. Did
you ever do anything of the kind?”
It would not be safe to boast now, for there a was a chance of
being found out, so Guy gave a truthful answer.
“No, I never did,” said he, “but I know I could learn.”
“Sartin you could. It’s easy larnt. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If
you’re a mind to work about the ranch on week days an’ tend store
on Sundays, I’ll give you what I told you an’ let you have your pick
of my hosses, an’ I’ve got some good ones, too. Only you must
promise one thing—if you want to leave me you must give me a
month’s notice, so that I can get somebody to fill your place. I make
that bargain with all my hands.”
“All right,” said Guy, “I’ll do it.”

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