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The Hilltop Boys on Lost Island by Cyril Burleigh

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The boats were sent back to the yacht, which was put in charge of the
first officer, and followed in the wake of the _Circe_.

In this case she proved to be worthier of trust than her beautiful
namesake of the days of Ulysses, and she not only made her way safely out
through the tortuous channel among the reefs, but led the yacht with the
boys on board to the open water outside.

More than once as Captain Storms saw the waters bubbling and boiling
around them, and saw how close they were to the rocks he thought that they
were doomed, but as he watched the face of the pilot he saw that the man
was to be trusted, and held his peace.

When they were outside, and a great cheer went up from the Hilltop boys,
they proceeded to the end of the island in search of the cutter and at
last saw her smoke in the distance.

Sending her a wireless message they at length had the satisfaction of
seeing her approach, and at last the captain came on board and the _Circe_
and her crew were turned over to him, Storms saying:

"Look out for the pilot. He is not as bad as the rest, and deserves some
consideration on account of getting us out of a bad scrape. Have you
caught Rollins?"

"No, he was too quick for us, and slipped away, but we'll catch him yet."

"I doubt if you do. However, never mind that. I'll put you in charge here
and will go back to my own vessel."

He had been back in his own cabin but a short time, receiving the
congratulations of the doctor and the boys when the man on the lookout
reported a vessel in the offing, which flew the company's flag, and seemed
to be familiar to many of the officers and men.

"That's the ship that Smith has sent to get us out," laughed Storms, "and
we've got ahead of him, and got out ourselves."

He was correct, for in half an hour the newcomer was alongside and in a
moment Mr. Smith himself was over the side and grasping his son, Jesse W.,
in his arms.

"But how is this?" he asked. "I thought you could not get out. Did you do
this for a joke so that you could see me?"

"No, indeed, sir," said young Smith. "We have not been away from the
island more than an hour or two, and it is to Jack Sheldon that you owe
your getting out. Come here, Jack, I want to introduce you to my father."

"I am pleased to see you, sir," said Jack, coming up. "I am afraid that
Jesse W. gives me too much credit, although I am willing to take a little
of it. Captain Storms deserves the greater part of it, however."

Mr. Smith held a consultation with the captain of the revenue cutter, and
an arrangement was shortly made between them whereby the _Circe_ was to be
in the government's custody for a time, and then to be turned over to her
owners.

The whole story was told and Jack, Dick, and many of the boys came in for
their meed of praise from Mr. Smith, as well as from Dr. Wise and the
captain.

Mr. Smith had not found a pilot who could take him through the reefs to
Lost Island, as they all still called it, but his chagrin was greatly
tempered by seeing his son and all the boys safe out of their island
prison, and he complimented Jack on all that he had done, and said:

"My dear boy, I have already promised my son to look after your interests,
and you need have no fear that they will be thoroughly attended to."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," replied Jack, blushing, "but I am glad to
have found such good friends. I want to say a few words in behalf of your
son, and am only expressing the sentiments of the majority of the boys
when I tell you that he is a plucky little chap, and a credit to the
Hilltop Academy. I trust that we may long have him with us."

"Hurrah for Jesse W., boys, give him a rouser!" cried Percival, and they
were given with a will.

Mr. Smith went back to the relief vessel, the cutter took away her prize,
and by night the vessels had all parted company, Jesse W. Smith's father
to return to New York, and the yacht to proceed on her cruise, which,
although somewhat shortened as to route, was to continue until the time
originally set as to its duration.

The cruise was a most pleasant one, and the boys learned much while it
lasted, and were sorry when it ended, and they set out for the north and
the Academy in the highlands.

Later the _Circe_ was turned over to its owners, and a share of the reward
for its recovery put to Jack's account in the bank, much to his surprise,
as well as satisfaction.

The man with the white mustache, who was one of the boldest of the
smugglers, had made his escape, whither he had gone no one could tell, but
Jack's only interest in the man was to hope that he would keep away on
account of his mother, to whom he related nothing concerning his meetings
with the man, either at the Academy or in the tropics.

"I do not wish her to think of him," he said to Percival, "and I do not
wish to think of him myself. Never mention him, Dick."

"You may be sure I won't!" replied Dick with emphasis.

There were some of the boys who did not escape seasickness on the way
back, for all they had been on the water so long, but the run home was, on
the whole, most pleasant, and Jack, Dick, young Smith and some others
enjoyed it thoroughly.

"We shall have enough to think of and to talk about for a long time,"
remarked Jack to Percival when they were at last on the train going back
to the Highlands, "and it is all the better that the trip was not what it
was originally planned to be. The very unexpectedness of our adventures
gave them all the greater charm."

"I suppose so," said Dick, "but I generally like to know what is coming,
and then if I don't like it, I can get out of the way."

"Well, we are all of us richer in experience."

"And you in pocket," laughed Dick. "Don't forget that, my boy."

"Oh, I have something that is worth a good deal more than the money that I
happened to get," said Jack, smiling.

"What is that?" asked Percival.

"The friendship of a lot of good fellows, and of one or two who are a good
deal more than mere good fellows, real friends, in fact."

"Well, that is worth a good deal, of course, but it seems to me that one
always has plenty of friends if he has money."

"If he keeps them when he has no money, then they are friends, indeed,"
said Jack, "and I think that I can count upon mine in any case."

"Then you are lucky, Jack."

For all that they had enjoyed themselves while afloat, the Hilltop boys
were glad to be back at the Academy again among the old familiar scenes,
and the work of the school went on with renewed vigor, Jack, in
particular, giving his entire attention to it so as to be as high as
possible in his classes at the end of the term.

The greater part of the boys at the Academy, as well as the doctor and all
of the professors, were his friends, and the fact that some of the boys
were not, and did all they could to injure him did not worry him, for he
thought little or nothing of it.

At the end of the term he was at the head of his class, and was so close
upon Percival that the latter said with a good-natured grin:

"You'll be up with me next term, Jack, whether I look out for myself or
not."

"Well, we generally have pretty good times together, Dick," Jack replied,
"so I don't think you will be sorry."

"Not a bit of it," said Dick.

Those who have been interested in following the fortunes of the Hilltop
boys may be glad to continue their acquaintance with Jack Sheldon and his
friends and enemies in the next volume, "The Hilltop Boys on the River,"
which, in addition to giving an account of many aquatic sports, contains
also a number of thrilling incidents, which serve to bring out the
characters of the boys to good advantage.

It was at the end of the term, and many of the boys were preparing to go
home when Percival said to Jack:

"The doctor is going to let us have a summer camp for a few weeks. We are
to live on the river, and have all the fun we want with the addition of
some study, just to keep our hands in. What do you say, Jack? Will you
stay over if I do?"

"I may stay in any event, Dick. I want to get on as fast as I can, and
this will give me a chance."

"Then if you stay, so will I," heartily, "and between you and me you will
find a lot more who will do it if they know you are to be here."

"The more the merrier," said Jack.


THE END







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Theatre review: Three Women / Jermyn Street, London
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We do not know the women's names, but their voices are quite distinct. All are pregnant. But while the first woman awaits the birth of her baby with a moon-like serenity, the other two are not so lucky. One, whose previous pregnancies have failed to go to term, is experiencing a heartbreaking late miscarriage; the other is a young student whose accidental pregnancy will end in her child being put up for adoption.

Sylvia Plath's only play was never intended for the stage, being broadcast instead on BBC radio in August 1962. Less than six months later, Plath killed herself, but not before the burst of astonishing creative energy that produced her extraordinary, terrifying Ariel poems.

Anyone who knows Plath's poetry will see the connection between Three Women and Plath's subsequent poems, particularly in the way she talks about the agony of childbirth, the rush of love for this tiny alien being, and both the wonder and wounded rawness of motherhood. It is a beautiful piece, full of startling imagery that draws you in through the sheer intensity of its femaleness, and because it so precisely articulates the emotions that are often thought but seldom voiced by women - certainly not in the early 1960s - about men, motherhood and our relationship to our bodies.

It's been 20 years since there has been an attempt at a professional stage version and - in a theatre world that happily accepts the poetic offerings of Sarah Kane and Debbie Tucker Green, or the staged possibilities of The Waves, one of Plath's own inspirations for the piece, I see no reason why it shouldn't be brought to life. Sadly, it doesn't breathe here, in a production by Robert Shaw that is clearly a labour of love, but which never finds a way to give the internal a physical reality. Plath's poetry, like most babies, is more robust than it appears - and won't break if treated with a little less reverence and considerably more grit.

Instead, what we are offered is tinkling piano music, mournful mood lighting, an innocuous pale setting, as well as three perfectly good but indisputably ladylike performances that capture none of the wounded redness of Plath's poetry, and do her the disservice of making her sound bleached and somewhat prissy. It's a pity. What might have been a wonder ends up a mere curiosity.

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