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 Test Bank for C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to
Program Design, 6th Edition – D.S. Malik
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Chapter 2: Basic Elements of C++

TRUE/FALSE

1. In C++, reserved words are the same as predefined identifiers.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 36

2. The maximum number of significant digits in values of the double type is 15.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 42

3. The maximum number of significant digits in float values is up to 6 or 7.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 42

4. An operator that has only one operand is called a unique operator.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 45

5. If a C++ arithmetic expression has no parentheses, operators are evaluated from left to right.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 46

6. A mixed arithmetic expression contains all operands of the same type.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 49

7. Suppose a = 5. After the execution of the statement ++a; the value of a is 6.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 70

8. The escape sequence \r moves the insertion point to the beginning of the next line.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 78

9. A comma is also called a statement terminator.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 90

10. Suppose that sum is an int variable. The statement sum += 7; is equivalent to the statement
sum = sum + 7;

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 95

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. The ____ rules of a programming language tell you which statements are legal, or accepted by the
programming language.
a. semantic c. syntax
b. logical d. grammatical
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 34

2. Which of the following is a reserved word in C++?

a. char c. CHAR
b. Char d. character
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 36

3. Which of the following is a legal identifier?

a. program! c. 1program
b. program_1 d. program 1
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 36

4. ____ is a valid int value.

a. 46,259 c. 462.59
b. 46259 d. -32.00
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 39-40

5. ____ is a valid char value.

a. -129 c. 128
b. ‘A’ d. 129
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 40

6. An example of a floating point data type is ____.

a. int c. double
b. char d. short
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 41

7. The memory allocated for a float value is ____ bytes.

a. two c. eight
b. four d. sixteen
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 42

8. The value of the expression 33/10, assuming both values are integral data types, is ____.
a. 0.3 c. 3.0
b. 3 d. 3.3
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 43-44

9. The value of the expression 17 % 7 is ____.

a. 1 c. 3
b. 2 d. 4
 ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 43-44

10. The expression static_cast<int>(9.9) evaluates to ____.

a. 9 c. 9.9
b. 10 d. 9.0
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 51

11. The expression static_cast<int>(6.9) + static_cast<int>(7.9) evaluates to ____.

a. 13 c. 14.8
b. 14 d. 15
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 51

12. The length of the string "computer science" is ____.

a. 14 c. 16
b. 15 d. 18
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 54

13. In a C++ program, one and two are double variables and input values are 10.5 and 30.6.
After the statement cin >> one >> two; executes, ____.
a. one = 10.5, two = 10.5 c. one = 30.6, two = 30.6
b. one = 10.5, two = 30.6 d. one = 11, two = 31
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 64

14. Suppose that count is an int variable and count = 1. After the statement count++;
executes, the value of count is ____.
a. 1 c. 3
b. 2 d. 4
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 70

15. Suppose that alpha and beta are int variables. The statement alpha = --beta; is equivalent
to the statement(s) ____.
a. alpha = 1 - beta;
b. alpha = beta - 1;
c. beta = beta - 1;
alpha = beta;
d. alpha = beta;
beta = beta - 1;
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 70-71

16. Suppose that alpha and beta are int variables. The statement alpha = beta--; is equivalent
to the statement(s) ____.
a. alpha = 1 - beta;
b. alpha = beta - 1;
c. beta = beta - 1;
alpha = beta;
d. alpha = beta;
beta = beta - 1;
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 70-71
17. Suppose that alpha and beta are int variables. The statement alpha = beta++; is equivalent
to the statement(s) ____.
a. alpha = 1 + beta;
b. alpha = alpha + beta;
c. alpha = beta;
beta = beta + 1;
d. beta = beta + 1;
alpha = beta;
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 70-71

18. Suppose that alpha and beta are int variables. The statement alpha = ++beta; is equivalent
to the statement(s) ____.
a. beta = beta + 1;
alpha = beta;
b. alpha = beta;
beta = beta + 1;
c. alpha = alpha + beta;
d. alpha = beta + 1;
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 70-71

19. Choose the output of the following C++ statement:

cout << "Sunny " << '\n' << "Day " << endl;
a. Sunny \nDay
b. Sunny \nDay endl
c. Sunny
Day
d. Sunny \n
Day
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 73

20. Which of the following is the newline character?

a. \r c. \l
b. \n d. \b
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 73

21. Consider the following code.

// Insertion Point 1

using namespace std;

const float PI = 3.14;

int main()
{
//Insertion Point 2

float r = 2.0;
float area;
area = PI * r * r;

cout << "Area = " << area <<endl;

 return 0;
}
// Insertion Point 3

In this code, where does the include statement belong?

a. Insertion Point 1 c. Insertion Point 3
b. Insertion Point 2 d. Anywhere in the program
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 80

22. ____ are executable statements that inform the user what to do.
a. Variables c. Named constants
b. Prompt lines d. Expressions
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 91

23. The declaration int a, b, c; is equivalent to which of the following?

a. inta , b, c; c. int abc;
b. int a,b,c; d. int a b c;
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 92

24. Suppose that alpha and beta are int variables and alpha = 5 and beta = 10. After
the statement alpha *= beta; executes, ____.
a. alpha = 5 c. alpha = 50
b. alpha = 10 d. alpha = 50.0
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 94

25. Suppose that sum and num are int variables and sum = 5 and num = 10. After the
statement sum += num executes, ____.
a. sum = 0 c. sum = 10
b. sum = 5 d. sum = 15
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 95

COMPLETION

1. ____________________ is the process of planning and creating a program.

ANS:
Programming
programming

PTS: 1 REF: 28

2. A(n) ____________________ is a memory location whose contents can be changed.

ANS: variable

PTS: 1 REF: 33

3. A(n) ____________________ is a collection of statements, and when it is activated, or executed, it

accomplishes something.
 ANS:
subprogram
sub program
sub-program
function
modlue

PTS: 1 REF: 34

4. ____________________ functions are those that have already been written and are provided as part of
the system.

ANS:
Predefined
predefined
Standard
standard

PTS: 1 REF: 34

5. ____________________ rules determine the meaning of instructions.

ANS:
Semantic
semantic

PTS: 1 REF: 34

6. ____________________ can be used to identify the authors of the program, give the date when the
program is written or modified, give a brief explanation of the program, and explain the meaning of
key statements in a program.

ANS:
Comments
comments

PTS: 1 REF: 34

7. The smallest individual unit of a program written in any language is called a(n)
____________________.

ANS: token

PTS: 1 REF: 35

8. In a C++ program, ____________________ are used to separate special symbols, reserved words, and
identifiers.

ANS:
whitespaces
whitespace
white spaces
white space
 PTS: 1 REF: 37

9. The ____________________ type is C++ ’s method for allowing programmers to create their own
simple data types.

ANS: enumeration

PTS: 1 REF: 38

10. The memory space for a(n) ____________________ data value is 64 bytes.

ANS: long long

PTS: 1 REF: 39

11. The maximum number of significant digits is called the ____________________.

ANS: precision

PTS: 1 REF: 42

12. When a value of one data type is automatically changed to another data type, a(n)
____________________ type coercion is said to have occurred.

ANS: implicit

PTS: 1 REF: 51

13. A(n) ____________________ is a sequence of zero or more characters.

ANS: string

PTS: 1 REF: 53

14. In C++, you can use a(n) ____________________ to instruct a program to mark those memory
locations in which data is fixed throughout program execution.

ANS:
named constant
constant

PTS: 1 REF: 55

15. A data type is called ____________________ if the variable or named constant of that type can store
only one value at a time.

ANS: simple

PTS: 1 REF: 57
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “Hello there, Courage,” rang back Larry's cheery answer, as
leaning hard against the tiller, he swung his boat into place with the
skill of a long-time sailor.
“I knew you'd find out somehow that I was coming,” he called,
and then in another second he was ashore and had Courage's two
hands held fast in his, and was gazing gladly into her face. But
instantly the look of greeting in her eyes faded out of them. She
could find no words for the sad news she had to tell. Larry was quick
to see her trouble, and his voice trembled as he asked, “Why,
Courage, child, what has happened?” and then he drew her to a seat
beside him on a great beam that flanked the wharf.
 It was easier to speak, now that she could look away from Larry's
expressive face, and she said slowly, “The saddest thing that could
happen, Larry. Papa——” and then she could go no further.
“You don't mean that your father is——” but neither could Larry
bring himself to voice the fatal, four-lettered little word.
“Yes,” said Courage, knowing well enough that he understood her,
“nearly three weeks ago. He had typhoid fever, and he tried very
hard to get well, and we all tried so hard, Larry—the Doctor and
Mary Duff and me—but the fever was the kind that wouldn't break.
And then one day papa just said, 'It isn't any use, darling. I'm going
to give up the fight and go to your blessed mother, but you need
have never a fear, Courage, while Larry Starr is in the world.'”
“Did he say that really?” asked Larry, tears of which he was not
ashamed rolling down his bronzed face.
“Yes,” said Courage solemnly; “but oh, Larry, I have been waiting
here for so many days that I began to think perhaps you would
never come, and if you hadn't come, Larry—” and then the
recollection of all these hours of watching proved quite too much for
her overwrought little frame, and burying her face in her hands on
Larry's knee, she cried very bitterly.
“It is best,” thought Larry, “to let her have her cry out.” Besides he
was not sure enough of his own voice to try to comfort her, so he
just stroked the auburn hair gently with his strong hand, and said
not a word. Meanwhile another old friend had come upon the scene,
and stood staring at Larry and Courage with a world of questioning
in his eyes. He seemed to have his doubts at first as to the
advisability of coming nearer. He discovered, it was evident, that
there was trouble in the air. That he was greatly interested, and fully
expected to be confided in sooner or later, was also evident from the
beseeching way in which he would put his head on one side and
then on the other, looking up to Larry, as much as to say, “When are
you going to tell me what it is all about?” But never a word from
Larry and never a glance from Courage, till at last such ignominious
treatment was no longer to be borne, and walking slowly up, he also
laid his head upon Larry's knee. Courage felt something cold against
her cheek and started up to find a pair of wonderfully expressive
eyes raised beseechingly to hers. “Oh, Bruce, old fellow,” she cried,
“I forgot all about you,” and then, flinging her arms about his neck,
she literally dried her tears on his beautiful silky coat. But Bruce
would not long be content with mere passive acceptance of
affection, and in another second rather rudely shook himself free
from her grasp, and began springing upon her, so that she had to
jump to her feet and cry, “Down, Bruce,” three or four times before
he would mind her; but Bruce was satisfied. Things could not have
come to such a terrible pass if it took no more than that to make
Courage seem her old self again, and finally, concluding that she
really said “Down, Bruce,” quite as though she meant it, he decided
to give his long legs a good run, and call on an old collie friend of his
who picked up a living on Pier 17. Never, however, had visit of
sympathetic friend proved as timely as this call of Bruce's. With what
infinite tact had he first sympathized with and then tried to cheer his
little friend! And he had succeeded, for both Larry and Courage now
found themselves able to talk calmly of all that had happened, and
of what had best be done.
“So you would like to come on the lighter with me for the
summer,” said Larry somewhat doubtfully, after they had been
conferring for some time together, and yet with his old face
brightening at the thought.
Courage simply nodded her head in the affirmative, but her eyes
said, “Oh, wouldn't I, Larry,” as plainly as words.
“And Mary Duff thinks it would be all right, too?”
“The very best thing for the summer, Larry.”
“Well then, bless your heart, you shall come; but how about next
winter? Why, then I suppose I shall have to send you away to a
school somewhere.”
Courage shrugged her shoulders rather ruefully.
“Perhaps,” she said; “but next winter's a long way off.”
 “That's so,” said Larry, every whit as glad of the fact as was
Courage herself. “And you said,” he continued, “that Mary Duff is
going to care for that little lame Joe of John Osborne's.”
“Yes,” Courage answered, “though Mr. Osborne can't afford to pay
her anything, as papa did for me; but she says she doesn't mind; if
she only has her home and her board she can manage, and that it's
just her life to care for motherless little children that need her.”
“Ah! but that Mary Duff's a good woman,” said Larry, and Courage
mutely shook her head from side to side, as though it were quite
hopeless to so much as attempt to tell how very good she was.
After awhile Larry went down to the boat to give some directions
to his cabin-boy, Dick, and Courage went with him. When that was
completed, a long shrill whistle brought Bruce bounding from some
mysterious quarter, and the three started up the dock. The
'longshoremen were just quitting work as they neared them, and
Larry paused to have a word with Big Bob and the other men whom
he knew, Courage keeping fast hold of his hand all the while.
“Now she's got him she don't mean to let him go,” said one of the
men as they passed on.
“I'd like to be in Larry's shoes, then,” muttered Big Bob, who led
rather a lonely life of it, and would have been only too glad to have
had such a little girl as Courage confided to his keeping.
 CHAPTER IV.—MISS JULIA.

I
t was “high noon” in New York, as our English cousins say, but
in a wider sense than our English cousins use it. Not only was it
twelve by the clock, with the sun high in the heavens, flooding
the streets with brilliant sunshine, but the whole city apparently was
in the highest spirits. The sidewalks were alive with gayly dressed
people, gayly liveried carriages rolled up and down the avenue,
violets and lilacs were for sale at the flower-stands, and the children
were out in crowds for an airing.
Here a little group of them, with unspeakable longing in their
hearts, surrounded a grimy man who had snow-white puppies for
sale; there another and larger group watched a wonderful ship in a
glass case, riding angular green waves which rose and fell with the
regularity of a pendulum, and some of them furtively glanced up
now and then, with eyes full of astonished admiration, to the gray-
bearded man who claims the honor of the invention.
But notwithstanding it was Saturday, with half the world bent on a
holiday, and schools as a rule at a discount, there was one school
over on the West side that threw open its doors to an eager
company of scholars. It was a school where the children came
because they loved to come, and no wonder. You had only to see the
teachers to understand it. They were lovely-looking girls, with their
bright, wide-awake faces and becoming, well-fitting dresses;
enthusiastic, earnest girls, thoroughly abreast of the times,
interested in everything, and fond of all that is high and ennobling—
working in the sewing school this afternoon, attractive matinées
notwithstanding, and talking it over in some bright circle this
evening; girls, the very sight of whom must somehow have done
good to the very dullest little maids upon their roll books. But queen
among even this peerless company reigned “Miss Julia,” the
superintendent, or whatever the proper name may be for the head
teacher. She was lovely to look at, and lovely in spirit, and beyond
that it is useless to attempt description, so impossible is it to put into
words the indefinable charm that won every one to her. But with the
bright May Saturday, about which we are writing, the afternoon for
closing the school had come, and there was a wistful expression on
the faces of many of the children. Not that they were exactly
anxious to stitch on and on through the spring-time, when every
healthy little body loves out-of-door life and lots of it, but no sewing
school meant no Miss Julia; so, with reason, they looked less glad
than sorry.
Miss Julia, as was her custom, had started in abundance of time
from her old-fashioned home in Washington Square, but not too
early, it seemed, to find at a corner near the chapel where the
school was held, half a dozen little girls already on the look-out. As
soon as they spied her they flocked down the street to meet her, and
then with her in their midst flocked back again. Presently, in twos
and threes, the young teachers began to arrive, and soon it was
time to open the school and to settle down to the last day's lesson.
Courage Masterson happened to be in Miss Julia's own class, and
was ordinarily a most apt little scholar; but on this particular
Saturday her thoughts seemed to be everywhere rather than on her
work; indeed, she had to rip out almost every stitch taken, until Miss
Julia wondered what could have happened. Afterward, when the
children had said their good-byes and gone home, and the teachers,
with the exception of Miss Julia, had all left the building, Courage,
who had been standing unnoticed in one corner, rushed up to her,
burying her red-brown curls in the folds of her dress and sobbing fit
to break her heart.
“Why, Courage, dear, what is the matter?” and Miss Julia, sitting
down on one of the benches, drew Courage into her lap. “I was
afraid all the lesson that something had gone wrong. Poor child!
have you some new sorrow to bear?”
“No, Miss Julia; I am going to do just what I want to do most; I
am going to live on a boat; but, oh! I can't bear to go away from
you and Mary Duff.”
 “Going away, and to live on a boat! why, how is that, Courage?”
and then as Courage explained all the plans, and how she was to
spend the whole summer out on the bay with “Larry, the goodest
man that ever was,” her sad little face gradually grew bright again.
“Look here,” said Miss Julia, after they had been talking a long
while together, “I am sure”—and then she paused and looked
Courage over quite carefully—- “yes, I am sure I have something
that will be just the thing for you now that you are to be so much on
the water; wait here for a moment,” and going into a little room that
opened from the chapel, she immediately returned with something
in her hands that made Courage open her eyes for wonder. It was a
beautiful astrachan-trimmed blue coat, with a wide-brimmed hat to
match. They had belonged to a little niece of Miss Julia's—a little
niece who no longer had need for any earth-made garment, and so
here they were in Miss Julia's hands awaiting some new child-
ownership.
She had already thought of Courage Masterson as one to whom
they would prove not only useful but becoming, and yet had feared
to excite the envy of the other children. But if Courage was going
away, that settled it; she should have them; for in that case her less
fortunate little sisters need never be the wiser. So Miss Julia gladly
held them up to view, for she dearly loved little Courage, while
Courage, incredulous, exclaimed: “For me? Oh, Miss Julia!” and
proceeded to don the coat and hat with the alacrity of a little maid
appreciative of their special prettiness. Then what did the little witch
do but run post-haste to the rear of the chapel, mount the high and
slippery organ-bench, and have a peep into the mirror above it. Miss
Julia could not keep from smiling, but said, as she came running
back: “It does look nicely on you, Courage, but you must not let it
make you vain, darling.”
“Was it vain to want to see how it looked?”
“No, Courage; I don't believe it was.”
“I'm glad I did see just once, though, because, Miss Julia, I guess
it will not do for me to have it,” and Courage reluctantly began to
unfasten the pretty buttons.
“Not do for you to have it! Why, Courage dear, what do you
mean?”
“It is so bright-looking, Miss Julia. Even this curly black stuff
doesn't darken it much (admiringly smoothing the astrachan
trimming with both little hands), and one of the girls said to-day in
the class that 'orphans as had any heart always wore black.' At any
rate, she said she shouldn't think if I had loved my father very much
I'd wear a gay ribbon like this in my hair,” whereupon Courage
produced a crumpled red bow from the recesses of a pocket to
which it had been summarily banished; “So, of course, Miss Julia, it
would be dreadful to wear a blue coat like this. It's queer Mary Duff
never told me about orphans wearing black always.”
“But they do not always wear it, Courage. It seems sad to me to
see a child in black, and I think Mary Duff did just right in not
putting you into mourning.”
“Into mourning?” queried Courage.
“Yes; into black dresses, I mean, because some one had died.”
Courage looked critically at Miss Julia, noticing for the first time
that her dress was black, and that even the little pin at her throat
was black, too.
“Why, Miss Julia,” she said, her voice fairly trembling with the
surprise of the discovery, “you are in mourning!”
“Yes, Courage.”
“And did somebody die, Miss Julia?”
“Some one I loved very much.”
“Long ago?” and Courage came close to the low bench, and
lovingly laid her hand upon Miss Julia's shoulder.
“Yes, very long ago.”
“Not your father or mother, was it?”
“No, darling.”
“And you mind still?” ruefully shaking her head from side to side.
 “Yes, Courage; I shall always mind, as you call it, but I am no
longer miserable and unhappy—that is, not very often, and one
reason is that all you little girls here in the school have grown so
dear to me. But about the coat; you must surely keep it. I scarcely
believe your father would like to have seen his little girl all in black;
and besides, black does not seem to belong with that brave little
name of yours.”
Courage stood gazing into Miss Julia's face with a puzzled look in
her eyes, as though facing the troublesome question. Then suddenly
diving again into her spacious pocket—a feature to be relied upon in
connection with Mary Duffs dressmaking—and evidently discovering
what she sought, she said, eagerly: “Miss Julia, will you wait here a
moment?”
“Certainly, dear; but what are you up to?” Courage, however, had
no time to explain, and with the blue coat flying out behind her,
darted from the chapel, across the street, into a little thread-and-
needle store, and was back again in a flash, carrying a thin flimsy
package. Hastily unwrapping it, she disclosed a yard of black ribbon,
which she thrust into Miss Julia's hands.
“What is this for, Courage?”
In her excitement Courage simply extended her left arm with a
“Tie it round, please,” indicating the place with her right hand. Miss
Julia wonderingly did as she was bid.
 “You tie a lovely bow,” said Courage, twisting her neck to get a
look at it. “You know why I have it, don't you?” Miss Julia looked
doubtful. “It's my mourning for papa. I have seen soldiers with
something black tied round their arms because some other soldier
had died, haven't you?”
“Oh, that is it,” said Miss Julia, very tenderly.
“Yes, that is it; and now you see I don't mind how bright the coat
is—the little bow tells how I miss him. Will you just take a stitch in it,
please, so that it will stay on all summer?”
So Miss Julia reopened her little sewing-bag, and the stitches were
taken, and a few moments later Courage was on her way home,
proud enough of the beautiful coat and hat, and eager to show them
to Mary Duff, and yet sad at heart, too, for she had said good-bye to
“Miss Julia.”
 CHAPTER V.—SYLVIA.

T
here had been a week of active preparation, and now
everything was ready, and Mary Duff and Courage, seated on
a new little rope-bound trunk, were waiting for Larry to come.
The house looked sadly forlorn and empty, for Mary had sold most of
the furniture, that the money it brought might be put in the bank for
Courage, and the only thing yet to be done was to hand over the
keys to the new tenant expecting to take possession on the morrow.
Mary had intentionally arranged matters in just this fashion. It was
not going to be an easy thing to say good-bye to the little girl she
had so lovingly cared for since her babyhood, and she knew well
enough that to come back alone to the old home would half break
her heart; therefore she had wisely planned that it should be “good-
bye” to Courage and “how do you do” to little lame Joe in as nearly
the same breath as possible.
At last there came a knock at the door, and Courage bounded to
open it. Bruce, unmannerly fellow, crowded in first, and after Bruce,
Larry, and after Larry—what? who? A most remarkable-looking
object, with tight curling hair braided fine as a rope into six funny
little pig-tails, with skin but a shade lighter than her coal-black eyes,
and with a stiffly starched pink calico skirt standing out at much the
same angle as the pig-tails. Mary Duff apparently was not in the
least surprised at this apparition, but Courage stared in wide-eyed
wonder. “Oh, isn't she funny?” were the words that sprang to her
lips, but too considerate to give them utterance, she simply asked,
“Who is she, Larry?”
“This is Sylvia,” said Larry; “Sylvia, this is Miss Courage,”
whereupon Sylvia gave a little backward kick with one foot, which
she meant to have rank as a bow.
“And who is Sylvia?” in a friendly voice that went straight to
Sylvia's heart.
 “She's to be company for you on the lighter, Courage, and a little
maid of all work besides.”
“Spesh'ly I'se to wash up,” Sylvia volunteered, beaming from ear
to ear.
“What do you mean?” asked Courage, with considerable dignity,
seeming to realize at a bound the relation of mistress and maid.
“Mean dat on boats dere's allers heaps an' heaps to wash up—
pots an' kittles an' dishes an' lan' knows what—an' dat me's de one
dat's gwine do it. A-washin' of demselves is all de washin' dat's
'spected of dose little lily white han's, Miss Courage, case de Cap'n
say so—didn't yer, Cap'n?” whereupon Sylvia gave a marvellous little
pirouette on one foot, that made pigtails and skirt describe a larger
circle than ever.
“Yes, that's what I said,” answered Larry, rather taken aback by
this performance, and wondering if he had gotten more than he had
bargained for in this sable little specimen, chosen somewhat at
random from the half dozen presented for his inspection at an
asylum the day before. But Courage had no fears, and saw in
anticipation delightful opportunities for no end of fun, and, when it
should be needed, for a little patronizing discipline. Meanwhile
Bruce, who seemed unquestionably worried as to what sort of a
move was pending, had made his way out of doors, and taken up his
stand near the boy who stood in waiting with a hand-cart, ready to
carry the trunk to the boat. When at last the trunk was in the cart,
with Sylvia's bundle atop of it, and it became evident that the little
party were actually on their way to the lighter, his delight knew no
bounds, and he flew round and round after his tail, as a relief to his
exuberant feelings.
Courage kept tight hold of Mary Duff's hand all the way. Of course
it was going to be lovely out on the water all summer, and with
Larry; but oh, how she wished Mary was to be there too! But that
always seemed to be the way somehow—something very nice and
something very sad along with it. Glancing ahead to Sylvia, who,
with a jolly little swing of her own, was trotting along at the side of
the cart, steadying her bundle with a very black hand, Courage
wondered if she had found it so too, and resolved some day to ask
her.
The good-byes were said rather hurriedly at the last. Mary Duff
first went down into the cabin with Courage and helped to unpack
her trunk. Then, when finally there was nothing more for her to do,
there was just a good hard hug and two or three very hard kisses,
and then you might have seen a familiar figure disappearing around
the nearest corner of the dock, and Mary Duff was gone. As soon as
she was out of sight she stopped a moment and wiped the tears
from her eyes with a corner of her shawl, for they were fairly
blinding her, and then hurried right on to the little cripple, to whom
her coming was to prove the very most blessed thing that had ever
happened. As for Courage, she went to her own little room and had
a good cry there, and though neither of them knew of the other's
tears, the skies soon looked clearer to them both. But there was one
pair of eyes in which tears were not for a moment to be thought of.
Tears! with the great orphan asylum left behind and all the delights
of life on that beautiful boat opening out before her? No indeed! Let
Miss Courage have her little cry out if she must, but for Sylvia, a face
wreathed in smiles so broad as to develop not unfrequently into an
audible chuckle. And so while Courage was trying to get herself in
hand, for she did not want Larry to know how badly she felt, Sylvia,
acting under orders, was as busy as could be, setting the table in
the cabin, and making supper ready in the tiny kitchen.
When Courage again came on deck, the lighter had cleared the
wharf and was well out upon the river. Larry was at the helm, and
she made her way straight to him and slipped her hand in his, as
much as to say, “I'm yours now, you know, Larry,” and Larry gave it
a tight little squeeze, as much as to say, “Yes, I know you are, dear,”
and they understood each other perfectly, though not a word was
spoken.
“Don't you think I had better call you uncle or something instead
of just Larry?” said Courage after she had stood silently at his side
for ever so many minutes.
 “Why?” asked Larry, amused at the suggestion.
“Oh, because it doesn't seem right for a child like me to call you
by your first name. I should have thought that they would have
taught me different.”
“Oh, bless your heart, Courage! nobody taught you what to call
me..You just took up 'Larry' of yourself in the cutest sort of a way,
and before you could say half-a-dozen words to your name, and now
to tack an uncle on to it after all these years would sound mighty
queer, and I shouldn't like it.”
“Well, then, we'll just let it be Larry always,” and indeed Courage
herself was more than willing to have things remain as they were. As
for Sylvia, she soon decided that her one form of address for Larry
should be “my Cap'n,” for was he not in very truth her captain by
grace of his choice of her from among all the other little colored
orphans whom he might have taken? Indeed, Sylvia fairly seemed to
revel in the two-lettered personal pronoun, for if there is a Saxon
word for which the average institution child has comparatively little
use it is that word my. Where children are cared for by the
hundreds, my and me and mine and all that savors of the individual
are almost perforce lost sight of. No wonder, then, when Sylvia said
“my Cap'n,” it was in a tone implying a most happy sense of
ownership, and as though it stood for the “my father” and “my
mother” and all the other “mys” of more fortunate little children.
At last Sylvia's supper was ready, and before announcing the fact,
she stood a moment, arms akimbo, taking a critical survey of her
labors. Then, convinced that nothing had been forgotten, she
cleared the cabin stairs at a bound, and beckoning to Larry and
Courage, called out excitedly, “Come 'long dis minute, please, 'fore it
all gets cold.”
Larry, who had many misgivings as to the result of his protegee's
first efforts, was greatly surprised on reaching the cabin to find a
most tempting little table spread out before them, but it was hard to
tell whether surprise or indignation gained the mastery In the eyes
of astonished Courage. That the table looked most attractive no one
could for a moment deny, but what most largely contributed thereto
was a glorious bunch of scarlet geraniums, to compass which Sylvia
had literally stripped a double row of plants standing in the cabin
window of every flower. These plants had been Mary Duff's special
pride for several seasons, and she herself had carefully
superintended their transportation in a wheelbarrow to the lighter
the day before.

Who could marvel, then, that the tears came unbidden, as

Courage at one glance took in the whole situation—the elaborate
decorations, the sadly despoiled plants.
“Oh, Sylvia, how could you?” was all she found words to say. Poor
Sylvia, never more surprised in her life, stood aghast for a moment,
looking most beseechingly to Larry. Then a possibility dawned upon
her.
“Am it dem posies, Miss Courage?” and the question let the light in
on Larry's bewildered mind.
“Of course I mean the flowers,” said Courage, laying one hand
caressingly on a poor little dismantled plant. “You have not left a
single one, and I wouldn't have had you pick them for all the world.”
“But I was 'bliged to, Miss Courage,” with all the aplomb of a
conscientious performance of duty.
“Obliged to?” and then it seemed to occur simultaneously to Larry
and Courage that they had possibly secured the services of a
veritable little lunatic.
“Yes, Miss Courage; hab you neber hearn tell of a kitchen
garden?”
“Never,” said Courage; and now she and Larry exchanged glances
as to the certainty of Sylvia's mental condition.
“Well, I'se a kitchen-garden grajate,” Sylvia announced with no
little pride.
“Bless my stars! if you're not a stark little idiot,” muttered Larry
under his breath, but fortunately Sylvia was too absorbed to hear.
“Well, dere ain't much you kin tell a kitchen-garden grajate,” she
continued complacently, “'bout setting tables and sich like. Dere's
questions and answers 'bout eberyting, you know, an' when Miss
Sylvester ses, 'What must yer hab in de middle ob de table?' the
answer is, 'Fruit or flowers so as there wasn't no fruit, why—” and
Sylvia, pausing abruptly, gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and
with a grandiloquent gesture, pointed to the geraniums, as though
further words were superfluous.
“Oh, I didn't understand,” said Courage, for both she and Larry
were beginning to comprehend the situation, and a little later on,
when they had had time to realize more fully the careful
arrangement of the table, to say nothing of the tempting dishes
themselves, they were ready to pronounce the little lunatic of a few
moments previous a veritable treasure. The ham was done “to a
turn;” the fried potatoes were deliciously crisp; dainty little biscuits
fairly melted in your mouth; the coffee was perfection, and Sylvia sat
beaming and radiant, for there was no lack of openly expressed
appreciation.
“What did you say you were, Sylvia?” asked Courage during the
progress of the meal.
“Oh, I didn't say I was nuffin 't all,” nervously fearing that in some
unconscious way she might again have offended her new little
mistress.
“Yes, you did, don't you know?” pretending not to notice the
nervousness. “It was something nice to be; it began with kitchen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sylvia, much relieved, “a kitchen-garden grajate.
Want to see my di-diplomer?” including both Larry and Courage in
one glance as she spoke. Wholly mystified as to what the article
might be, both of course nodded yes, whereupon Sylvia, plunging
one little black fist down the neck of her dress, vainly endeavored to
bring something to the surface.
“It kinder sticks,” she explained confidentially, but in another
second a shining medal attached to a blue ribbon came flying out
with appalling momentum. “Dere now,” she said, giving a backward
dive through the encircling ribbon, “dat's what I got for larning all
dere was to larn.”
Courage took the medal and examined it. It was made of some
bright metal, and was stamped with the figure of a girl with a broom
in her hand. Across the top were the words “Kitchen Garden,” and
on a little scroll at the bottom the name Sylvia Sylvester.
“Why do they call it a kitchen garden?” asked Courage, passing
the medal on for Larry's inspection; “it's an awful funny name.”
“Glory knows! ain't no sense in it, I reckon.”
“And that medal,” added Courage, “was a sort of a prize for doing
things better than the others, wasn't it?”
 “No, Miss Courage, dat's a reg'lar diplomer. All de chillens in de
school had 'em when, dey grajated.”
Courage looked appealingly toward Larry, to see if he knew what
she meant, and Larry looked just as appealingly to Courage. The
truth was, Sylvia had the best of them both. To be sure, she used a
pronunciation of her own, but it was near enough to the original to
have suggested graduate and diploma to minds in anywise familiar
with the articles.
“And did they teach you to cook in the kitchen garden?” Courage
asked, feeling that she must remain quite hopelessly in the dark
regarding the words in question.
“No, dat was an extry. One ob de lady man'gers, Miss Caxton,
teached us de cookin'. She was a lubly lady—sich a kind face, and
sich daisy gray haar, and allers so jolly. She came twic't a week, case
she was dat fond ob cookin' and liked chillens. She ses black skins
didn't make no difference. One ob dese days I'se gwine to write
down for yer all de dishes what she teached how to cook.”
And so the first meal aboard the lighter fared on, and before it
was over Larry made up his mind that as soon as he could afford it
he would send five dollars to the orphan asylum and a letter besides,
in which he would warmly express his approval of an institution that
sent its little waifs out into the world so well equipped for rendering
valuable service.
 CHAPTER VI.—ABOARD THE
LIGHTER.

I
t took such a very little while for Courage to feel perfectly
contented and at home on the boat, that she was more than
half inclined to take herself to task for a state of things which
would seem to imply disloyalty to Mary Duff. As for Sylvia, she felt at
home from the very first minute, and was constantly brimming over
with delight. Nor was Larry far below the general level of happiness,
for work seemed almost play with Courage ever at his side. As for
Larry's boy, Dick, of a naturally mournful turn of mind, he too
seemed carried along, quite in spite of himself, on the tide of
prevailing high spirits. On more than one occasion he was known to
laugh outright at some of Sylvia's remarkable performances, though
always, it must be confessed, in deprecatory fashion, as though
conscious of a perceptible loss of dignity. And who would not have
been happy in that free, independent life they were leading! To be
sure, there were discomforts. Sometimes, when the lighter was tied
to a steaming Wharf all day, the sun would beat mercilessly down
upon them, but then they could always look forward to the cool
evening-out upon the water; and so happily it seemed to be in
everything—a hundred delights to offset each discomfort. Even for
Larry and Dick, when work was hardest and weather warmest, there
was a sure prospect of the yellow pitcher of iced tea, which Courage
never failed to bring midway in the long morning, and then at the
end of the day the leisurely, comfortable dinner, for they were quite
aristocratic in their tastes, this little boat's company.
 No noon dinner for them, with Larry in workaday clothes and the
stove in the tiny kitchen piping its hottest at precisely the hour when
its services could best be dispensed with, but a leisurely seven-
o'clock dinner, with the lighter anchored off shore, and when, as a
rule, Dick also had had time to “tidy up,” and could share the meal
with them. And in this, you see, they were not aristocratic at all.
Even little black Sylvia had a seat at one side of the table, which she
occupied as continuously as her culinary duties would admit.
One night, when Larry stood talking to a friend on the wharf,
Courage and Sylvia overheard him say, “They're a darned competent
little pair, I can tell you.” Now, of course, this was rather
questionable English for a respectable old man like Larry, but he
intended it for the highest sort of praise, and the children could
hardly help being pleased.
“Larry oughtn't to use such words,” said Courage.
“But den I specs he only mean dat we jes' knows how to do
tings,” said Sylvia apologetically; and as that was exactly what Larry
did mean, we must forgive him the over-expressive word; besides
they were, in point of fact, the most competent pair imaginable.
Early every morning, when near the city, Dick would bring the
lighter alongside a wharf, and Courage and Sylvia would set off for
the nearest market, Sylvia carrying a basket, and always wearing a
square of bright plaid gingham knotted round her head. There was
no remembrance for her of father or of mother, or of much that
would have proved dear to her warm little heart, but tucked away in
a corner of her memory were faint recollections of a Southern fish
market, with the red snapper sparkling in the morning sunlight, and
the old mammies, in bandana turbans, busy about their master's
marketing; and as though to make the best of this shadowy
recollection, Sylvia insisted upon the turban accompaniment to the
basket.
 Then, after the marketing, came the early breakfast; and after
that, for Courage, the many nameless duties of every housekeeper,
whether big or little; and for Sylvia the homelier tasks of daily
recurrence; but fortunately she did not deem them homely. Why
should she, when pretty Miss Sylvester, as perfect a lady as could be,
herself had taught her how to do them, every one? Nor was this
work, so dignified by the manner and method of teaching,
performed in silence. Every household task had its appropriate little
song, and the occasions were rare on which Sylvia did not make use
of them.=
``"Washing dishes, washing dishes, suds are hot, suds are hot,
 ``Work away briskly, work away briskly, do not stop, do not
stop,"=
was the refrain that would greet the ear first thing after breakfast,
followed by=
```"First the glasses, rinse them well, rinse them well,
```If you do them nicely, all can tell, all can tell,"=
and so on ad infinitum.
Then, after everything had been gotten into “ship-shape”
condition, came the mending, of which there seemed to be an
unending supply. Tarry and Dick were certainly very hard on their
clothes, and when, once a week, Dick brought the heaping basketful
aboard from the washer-woman, who lived at the Battery, Courage
and Sylvia knew that needles and thimbles would need to be
brought into active requisition.
Then, in odd hours, there was studying and reading, and
whenever they could manage it, a little visit to be paid to Mary Duff.
In addition to all this, Courage had taken upon herself one other
duty, for big, fifteen-year-old Dick did not so much as know his
letters. He one day blushingly confessed the fact to Courage, who
indeed had long suspected it, with tears in his honest blue eyes.
Dick's mother—for that is what she was, though most unworthy of
the name—had shoved him out of the place he called home when he
was just a mere slip of a lad, and since then it had been all he could
manage simply to make a living for himself, with never a moment for
schooling. But a happier day had dawned. No sooner was Courage
assured of his benighted condition than she won his everlasting
gratitude by setting about to mend it. Their first need, of course,
was a primer, and they immediately found one ready to the hand, or
rather to the eye, for it could not be treated after the fashion of
ordinary primers.
There were only seven letters in it, five capitals and two small
ones, and the large letters were fully ten feet high. It did not even
commence with an A, but C came first, and then R; then another R,
followed by a little o and a a little f; and after that a large N and a
large J. Indeed, C. R. R. of N. J. was all there was to it, for the
letters were painted on a depot roof that happened to be in full sight
on the evening when Dick commenced his lessons. And so Dick
finally mastered the entire alphabet by the aid of the great signs in
the harbor, and do you think they ever rendered half such worthy
service?
This, then, was the story of the uneventful days as they dawned
one after the other, until at last May yielding place to June, and June
to July, Saturday, the first day of August, came in by the calendar,
ran through its midsummer hours, and then sank to rest in the
cradle of a wonderful sunset. It was such a sunset as sometimes
glorifies the bay and the river, and will not be overlooked. Long rays
of gold and crimson shot athwart even the narrowest and darkest
cross streets of the city, compelling every one who had eyes to see
and feet to walk upon to come out and enjoy its beauty; while a
blaze of light, falling full upon the myriad windows of Brooklyn
Heights, suggested the marvellous golden city of the Revelation. Full
in the wake of all this glory, and just to the southeast of Bedloe's
Island, Larry had moored the lighter. It was a favorite anchorage
with all the little boat's company.

“The Statue of Liberty”, standing out so grandly against the

western sky, and with the light of her torch shining down all night
upon them, seemed always a veritable friend and protector.
To-morrow, perhaps, they would touch at Staten Island, and
locking the cabin, “all hands” repair to a little church they loved well
at New Brighton; or, should it prove a very warm day, they might
have a little service of their own on board instead, sailing quite past
the church and as far down the bay as the Bell Buoy.
But for the present there was nothing to be done but watch the
sun set, so they sat together in the lee of the cabin, silently thinking
their own thoughts as the sun went down. Courage had on the blue
coat and hat, and from the wistful look in her eyes, might easily
have been thinking of Miss Julia. Larry sat looking at Courage more,
perhaps, than at the sunset, and his face was grave and sad.
Courage had noticed that it had often been so of late, and wondered
what could be the trouble. After awhile Larry slowly strolled off by
himself to the bow of the boat, and Courage gazed anxiously after
him; then, turning to Dick, she said with a sigh, “We had better have
a lesson now, Dick.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Dick, always glad of the chance.
“It's too dark for a book,” Courage added, “but there's a good
sign;” whereupon Dick set himself to master two large-lettered
words over on the Jersey shore, one of which looked rather
formidable.
“Begin with the last word, Dick. You've had it before.”
“D-o-c-k—dock, of course.”
“Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of
three syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. “National
Docks!” he exclaimed, with the delight of unaided discovery, feeling
as though the attainment had added a good square inch to his
height. Then came another sign with the one word Storage, but that
was easy, for “Prentice Stores” had been achieved the day before off
the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was only a step from one word to
the other. Finally, when there were no new signs to conquer,
Courage began a sort of review, from memory, of all they had been
over. In the midst of it Sylvia suddenly ran to the side of the boat,
arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the more
clearly, and then flew back again.
“Dat horrid statue boy is comin',” she cried excitedly; “I thought it
looked like him, an' if onct he gets a foot on dis boat he'll keep
comin', he will; I knowed him.”
“I don't see that you can help it, though,” laughed Courage; “you
can't tell him that we just don't want to have anything to do with
him.”
Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment; then, indulging in
one of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed
to announce the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to
the boat's edge.
Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable
boy nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to
speak quite honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable
acquaintance one evening when Larry had sent them to the island to
learn the right time. He was the son of one of the men employed to
care for the statue, and was, alas! every whit as disagreeable in
manners as in looks, which is not to put the case mildly.
“Hello, Miss Woolly-head!” he called, bringing his boat to the
lighter's side, and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woolly-head
was supposed to catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again.
“What's the name of your little missus?” called the boy, apparently
not in the least nonplussed by his rather chilling reception. The
knowledge that Sylvia had a little “missus” had been obtained by
means of several leading questions which had characterized the
young gentleman's first interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which
they had regarded as the very epitome of rudeness.
“Dis yere lighter is called for my missus,” said Sylvia, “so you kin
jes' read her name dere on de do' plate,” pointing to the lettering at
the bow of the boat, “an den again, mebbe you can't,” she chuckled.
It looked as though the statue boy “couldn't,” for he did not so
much as glance toward the bow, as he added, “Well, it's your missus
I want to see, and not you, you little black pickaninny.”
“Dat's all right, sah,” and Sylvia folded her arms aggressively, “but
you can't see her.”
“Ain't she in?”
“Yes, she's in, but she begs to be excuged.” This last in the most
impressive manner possible.
Dick and Courage, who were sitting just out of sight, looked at
each other and almost laughed outright. What remarkable phrases
Sylvia seemed always to have at her tongue's end! Indeed, Dick did
not know at all what was meant by the fine phrase, but fortunately
the statue boy did—that is after a moment or two of reflection.
“So she don't want to see me,” he said, sullenly adjusting his oars
with considerable more noise than was necessary; “well, no more
then do I want to see her. I ain't no mind to stay where I ain't
wanted, but I reckon it's the last time you'll be 'lowed to anchor your
old scow over the line without there being a row about it,” and with
this parting rejoinder their would-be caller beat a welcome retreat.
“Oh, Sylvia, how did you happen to think to say that?” laughed
Courage.
“Why, dat's what you must allers say when anybody calls. Dey
teached it in a game in de Kitchen Garden. We all stood up in a ring,
an' a girl came an' knocked on yer back and axed, 'Is Mis' Brown to
home?' Den you turn roun' an' say, 'Mis' Brown are to home, but
begs to be excuged,' and den it was yer turn to be de caller and
knock on some other girl's back.”
“But, Sylvia, if Mrs. Brown wanted to see the caller what would
you say?”
“I don' prezachly recommember. I mos'ly likes de excuged one de
bes'.”
Meantime Dick made his way to Larry.
“Did you know we were anchored inside the line?” he said. Larry
stood up to take his bearings. “Why, so we are,” with evident
annoyance, for Larry prided himself on his observance of harbor
rules.

“And I guess we've done it before,” added Dick; “the boy from the
island there said it would be the last time we'd be 'lowed to do it.”
“And it ought to be,” for Larry was thoroughly out of patience with
himself; “we'll show 'em we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go
her anchor, Dick,” and then in a moment the big sail, that had been
furled for the night, was spread to the wind once more, and the
Courage Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might
swing in again and anchor at the proper distance from the island.
“What's up, I wonder,” said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she
felt the lighter in motion. “Oh, I know; Dick's told Larry we were
anchored too near,” and she settled down again in the most
comfortable position imaginable, on the rug beside Courage.
“Tell me, Sylvia, what is your other name?” Courage asked after a
little pause; “I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think
it was on the medal, but I do not remember it.”
“Sylvester,” said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham
apron. “Sylvy Sylvester; dose two names hitch togedder putty tol'ble,
don't dey, Miss Courage?”
“Yes, they go beautifully together; that's why you're named Sylvia,
of course.”
Sylvia shook her head. “No, dat's why I'se named Sylvester.”
Courage looked puzzled. “I'se named arter Miss Sylvester, one ob de
Kitchen Garden ladies.”
“But, Sylvia, children can only have their first names given to
them; they're born to their last names.”
“Dis chile wa'nt, Miss Courage; leastways nobody didn't know at
de 'sylum what name I was bawn to, cep'n jes' Sylvy, so I picked
mine out mysel'. One day I went to Miss Sylvester an' sez, kind o'
mischievous, 'How do yer like yer namesake?' 'Ain't got none, Sylvy,'
sez she. 'Yes you hab,' I done told her. 'It's ten year old an' its black,
but I hope yer don't mind, 'case it's me.' An' she didn't mind a bit,
jes' as I knowed she wouldn't, and she sez some beautiful 'things
'bout as I mus' 'allers be a honor to the name, an' arter dat she
gimme two books, wid Sylvy Sylvester wrote into 'em, from her
everlastin' friend an' well-wisher, Mary Sylvester. Youse done seen
dose two books on my table, Miss Courage. One's called—” but the
sentence was not finished. Something happened just then that made
both children spring to their feet and hold their breath for fear of
what was coming. A few minutes before they had noticed that one
of the large Sandy Hook boats seemed to be bearing down upon
them, and that to all appearances they were directly in her track.
But their faith in Larry was supreme. He would surely manage to get
out of the way in time, but alas! they were mistaken, for the great
boat came looming up like a mountain beside them, and in another