The Black-Bearded Barbarian | Page 3

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THE BLACK BEARDED BARBARIAN
FOREWORD
This is a very little story of a very great man. It contains only a few of the wonderful adventures he met, and the splendid deeds he did. Most of them may never be written. Perhaps they may be lived again in the lives of some of the readers. Who knows?
Even this brief account of Dr. Mackay's life could not have been written had it not been for the help of many kind friends. The Rev. R.P. Mackay, D.D., of Toronto, Canada, who visited Formosa, and met many of the people mentioned in this story, gave me great assistance. Mr. Alexander Mackay, brother of the hero of this book, was very kind in telling many interesting tales of boyhood in Zorra. My most untiring and painstaking assistant has been the Rev. J. B. Fraser, M.D., of Annan, Ontario, formerly of Formosa. You will find him among the many heroes of this story. To his kind and careful oversight is due much that gives this little book any value as a history. The life of Dr. Mackay in Far From Formosa, compiled by Dr. J. A. MacDonald, editor of the Toronto Globe, has been my chief source of information. Indeed this story has been taken almost entirely from its pages, and owes Dr. MacDonald much thanks.
And now there is just one more favor it asks, that you who read it may in some measure strive to catch the great spirit of its hero.
Marian Keith. Toronto, Canada, April 24, 1912.

THE BLACK BEARDED BARBARIAN[1]
[1] The name by which George Leslie Mackay was known among the Chinese of north Formosa.
CHAPTER I.
SPLITTING ROCKS
Up in the stony pasture-field behind the barn the boys had been working all the long afternoon. Nearly all, that is, for, being boys, they had managed to mix a good deal of fun with their labor. But now they were tired of both work and play, and wondered audibly, many times over, why they were not yet called home to supper.
The work really belonged to the Mackay boys, but, like Tom Sawyer, they had made it so attractive that several volunteers had come to their aid. Their father was putting up a new stone house, near the old one down there behind the orchard, and the two youngest of the family had been put at the task of breaking the largest stones in the field.
It meant only to drag some underbrush and wood from the forest skirting the farm, pile them on the stones, set fire to them, and let the heat do the rest. It had been grand sport at first, they all voted, better than playing shinny, and almost as good as going fishing. In fact it was a kind of free picnic, where one could play at Indians all day long. But as the day wore on, the picnic idea had languished, and the stone-breaking grew more and more to resemble hard work.
The warm spring sunset had begun to color the western sky; the meadow-larks had gone to bed, and the stone-breakers were tired and ravenously hungry--as hungry as only wolves or country boys can be. The visitors suggested that they ought to be going home. "Hold on, Danny, just till this one breaks," said the older Mackay boy, as he set a burning stick to a new pile